Haunted by the King

His name crops up no matter where I am, even on a lonely beach in Alaska. It was 2003, a crisp sunny fall morning, and I was taking my friends' dogs for a walk on Sandy Beach, one of their favorite spots.

Sandy Beach borders the Gastineau Channel near the south end of Douglas Island, which is perched across the channel from Juneau, Alaska. I was glad to be far from home, dog sitting two fine big dogs for six blissful weeks. It was the best job I ever had.

As there was always treasure to be found on Sandy Beach, I had brought my bulky 35 mm Olympus film camera. This beach is near the ruins of the defunct Treadwell Gold Mine. Mining artifacts, not gold, still litter the beach and nearby woods. After an unfortunate incident on my first day on the job, when I let the dogs off-leash and lost them for a time, I’d learned not to let the dogs off leash ever, in spite of the owners’ proclamation that they wouldn’t stray. So whenever I paused to take a picture, I’d shorten their leashes and stand on both - leashes, not the dogs.

Engrossed in photographing a curious relic, while trying to maintain my footing on the leashes in the squishy sand, I was startled when a nearby voice said, “What’s so interesting there?” The voice came from one of two men strolling close by. “Just a rusty piece of mining debris,” I replied. His quick response: “And what part of the south are you from?” “Memphis,” I replied – disconcerted, because my Memphis friends say I don’t have a southern accent. “Ah,” said the voice, I’m President of the local Elvis Fan Club. I like to think that there’s a little bit of Elvis in every day.”

Indeed.

In 1990, when I was employed at the Children’s Museum of Memphis, I was sent to Vancouver, BC, to investigate an exhibit we were going to rent. When I told the older worker who was assisting me that I was from Memphis, he gave me a mixed tape of Elvis songs, his favorite singer.

What are the odds?

I had relinquished my theater set design job in the wilds of Lincoln, Nebraska – hotbed of theater that it was – and returned home to Memphis on December 1, 1985 to help care for my dad, my most beloved person in the universe, who was dying of cancer. He’d been given six weeks to live, as if that were a gift. We ended up having him with us a little while longer - for just over four precious months.

After Dad’s death in April, 1986, I felt alone and bereft. Regardless, I had to find work, so that I could move out of my parents’ home, rather than live out my days as my mom’s old-maid daughter, who was “so good to come home and take care of her dad,” since my sister and brother lived out of state and were married. I might as well die myself, I thought.

The first job I got back in Memphis was designing the set for Purlie at Playhouse on the Square. Playhouse didn’t pay much then (and still doesn’t, in case you’re going to apply there). I was being driven around town in his truck by one Michael J., a Playhouse handyman, to scavenge items for the set for Purlie. We had already picked up the free lumber from the fence my aunt and uncle had torn down, and were hunting for cheap appliances and furniture. We headed down Central Avenue, past Immaculate Conception High School, my alma mater. I remarked idly on the fact. “Ah,” said Michael J., “Priscilla’s school. I went to Humes, you know, Elvis’ school, then got drafted and went to ‘Nam. Came home and worked at Central Hardware, then Elvis died, so I went into theater. Of course he did. Michael J. went on to become a hometown Elvis Impersonator– sorry , Tribute Artist – of renown.

When I was 13, back in 1963, my mom had taken my older sister and her freshman friends to

Priscilla’s graduation. In the parking lot, Mom met Elvis and got two autographs. Lost for years, they eventually turned up in my box of high school memorabilia. I was looking through it in 2008, preparing for my fortieth high school reunion. By the time I found them, Elvis was long dead. A high school friend, who was a Memphis cop when Elvis died on August 15, 1977, described Elvis’ bloated dead body when he was brought to Baptist Memorial Hospital (where I had briefly worked). Dead Elvis week, when the faithful gather to mourn The King, culminates with an annual vigil on that anniversary. I sold the two autographs on eBay for $500 each during Dead Elvis week of 2008. Soon after, my dentist, sensing my newfound wealth I suppose, declared I’d need a root canal and a crown to the tune of $1,000. I always thought of it as The King’s crown. Sadly, this year, I lost Elvis’ crown and had to spring for a new one, one not nearly so memorable.

My fleeting brush with royalty.

Why does Elvis hound me, his persona appearing indiscriminately in my life? I do like his music, but am not a rabid fan that stands outside the gates of Graceland, collects memorabilia, or attends the annual mourning vigil.

I learned recently that it was Elvis’ 1956 appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show that inspired Bruce Springsteen to take up the guitar. Since graduating high school, I too, like Bruce, have tried to escape my hometown, along with Elvis’ clutches. I’ve fled to Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Nebraska and Alaska. Bruce sings about fleeing in “Born to Run”– he fled all over the world until he ended up living 10 minutes from where he was born. Is it the ghost of Elvis that pulls me back? I think not. I think he is just the crown on the deeper pull of home.