Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis Has Left the Terminal
Taking the Greyhound to Graceland

There were 50 people on the Greyhound bus the night I went to see Elvis. I had never been on a Greyhound bus and I had never seen the King. Bus travel has a crappy reputation. It is not chosen by the frequent flyer crowd. I had read wild stories of young girls being pressed into prostitution rings at bus terminals, cons and scams abounding at every junction and primitive toilets at exotic rest stops. Ratzo Rizzo and Holden Caulfield came to my overworked mind.

It was a grand gesture to pack a small suitcase with a change of clothes and a toothbrush and to put 400 dollars cash in a small bag slung around my neck, bandolero style, and expect to arrive alive and intact 500 miles away on the Greyhound bus. I was thumbing my nose at the cable-ready, hand-held age. I felt like Elvis, leaving Tupelo and the old folks at home.

"Why are we taking the bus to Graceland? Why don’t we fly or rent a minivan?  my son asked. For 300 dollars we got four round-trip fares. Leave between Monday and Thursday and it’s companion fare. Buy one, get one free. Such a deal. "It’s plain and simple,  I explained to him. "Taking the bus is cheap. 

I prepared for our trip. I was taking my 15-year-old daughter Tina, her friend Jackie and my 13-year-old son, Peter. I ordered bus tickets, called Graceland to get four platinum packages and booked a room at the Heartbreak Hotel. I bought flushable moist wipes, toothpaste and snack food. My neighbor would bring in the mail and feed the birds. I was all set.

My friends laughed nervously when I told them my plans. The bus? How quaint, how rustic, they seemed to imply. And Graceland? They travel to London regularly to see plays and pop off to Belize for bird watching when they’re in the mood for adventure. They don’t have kids and they didn’t they buy in one year an oboe, an electric guitar, a bass amp, an Irish harp from Ebay and a skateboard, like I did. To them our Southern expedition must have seemed cute.

On the day of the trip, I packed, laid in bed and watched Magnum, P.I. and part of the The Searchers. I figured if John Wayne could make it through an Indian raid, we could probably make it to Memphis. I allowed myself half a Buspar and one glass of Pinot Grigio at 5 p.m. and ate several slices pepperoni pizza. At 6 I called for a taxi.

The bus station in Chicago is west of the Loop, near Greek town and the University of Illinois. It appears to be in a world of its own, surrounded by a bus yard, warehouses and a couple of joints selling Maxwell Street-style hot dogs and Polish sausage. As I paid the driver my kids scampered ahead with their bags. I watched them being panhandled on their way up the steps into the terminal. Could we even get on the bus in one piece? Would we be sold off one by one to the Gypsies? Did we look too affluent or worse yet, so stupid so that we would be hit on by every street person between home and our golden destination? Noel Coward said more than one rhetorical question at a time is confusing. I was also nervous. There is a grim reality to a bus station. It is dim neon and tired faces. It’s Nikes and nachos. No Gucci bags, no laptops. We were on our own. A grizzled, white-haired man lay sleeping in front of the storage lockers. Another man, silent and lean, wandered up and down the lines selling CDs for 3 bucks a piece. Clutching pillows, blankets and boxes of chicken passengers began to form silent lines. I clutched a shopping bag full of food. Gatorade, granola bars and fruit roll ups. Lifesavers, Vitamin C cough drops and Tums. In my personal bag, Advil, Buspar, and sinus meds. I was going to bring a flask of Crown Royal but my Father had given his old Notre Dame special away and I decided at the last minute not to fill a 99-cent plastic travel bottle with booze. I would go pure and unsullied by alcohol. I was starting feel absolutely clean and noble.

My 13-year-old son was not allowed to go to the bathroom in Chicago. I felt he might vanish into the hole of dirty plumbing and humanity and not return. I used the women’s john and found no wandering footpads with daggers. The toilets flushed and there was toilet paper. There were brown paper towels but no soap. A woman changed a baby’s diaper on a cracked changing table that hung out of the wall. I allowed a couple of drops of Lake Michigan water to fall on my fingers and then went to get in the line for the 8:30 p.m. to Memphis.

A woman standing in front of us became our guide. She was going to Memphis for a funeral. Her name was Magnolia, but "everyone calls me Maggie,  she said. I wanted to break into a Jerome Kern tune but I restrained myself. She wore a beautiful paisley shawl tied around her shoulders and Nikes.

Maggie sent me to get luggage tags for our check-ons and named the stops we would be making during the night. "Sure, there is a bathroom on the bus,  she told my jiggling son. We would get a 30-minute layover at a McDonalds in Effingham, Illinois, and another short rest stop in Missouri. Or Missoura, as it’s called down South.

After standing in a very quiet and patient line for an hour, we were allowed to board. Traveling on the Greyhound bus was a clandestine affair. I had boarded a vessel bound for the Valhalla of Memphis but there were no Rhine maidens for attendants. Instead one lone driver asked for a ticket to take me cross the wide Mississippi. He didn’t ask my name or for my credit card and there were absolutely no reserved seats. It was first come, first served. Bill, the driver of our bus, looked like a cross between Conway Twitty and Wayne Newton. He had a soft, southern accent and his teased hair hovered inches over a broad, white forehead. My daughter said, "He has bloodshot eyes.  "So do I,  I told her. "I just want to get on and sit down. I’ve got a cramp in my leg. 

Bill took our tickets and there was one employee putting bags in storage under the bus. We checked three bags and carried on five. The passengers waited patiently. There were no airport-style shenanigans in the Greyhound terminal. Nobody, passenger or employee had to be bear hugged in order to be subdued. No one got drunk and rowdy. No one seemed anxious.

We got on the bus and arranged our belongings over and under the seat. Our food bag was enormous wedged between our feet but it was comforting to my son and me. Although I only allowed myself a tiny sip of liquid every half hour so as not to over stimulate my bladder I was heartened by the fact we would not dehydrate, Sahara-style, between Chicago and the state line.

The demographics of our bus were as follows. Ten men, thirty three women, seven children. Eleven seniors, thirty adults, five children 3-18 and two infants under 3. Forty-five African Americans and five Caucasian, non-Hispanic. The Caucasians consisted of me, my teenage daughter Tina and son Peter, my daughter’s friend Jackie and a young man wearing gold earrings, who was not in our party and who emerged from the back of the bus during the night between Kankakee and Effingham, Illinois, much to my surprise.

I thought of making some grand statement evoking the days of Selma, Alabama and Rosa Parks to psychologically alert my children to this great multicultural and significant journey we were making, but then I could see that being teenagers reared in a liberal and loving home, they really didn’t give a damn. Tina and Jackie read the Beatles Anthology book by flashlight and Peter played Tony Hawk’s Pro Skateboarding on his Gameboy. I shut my eyes and hummed "Mr. Sandman. 

The minute the bus left the terminal the overhead lights went out and a silence descended among the passengers. It was eerie but peaceful. Not even the little babies aboard made a peep. Everyone appeared well-adjusted and mellow.

Fifteen minutes later at the 95th Dan Ryan Expressway stop we encountered excitement. There were passengers trying to board with their luggage and there were no employees in sight. I gathered from the remarks of Bill the driver that protocol and union contract decreed that he not put any bags on the bus. One elderly gentleman expressed his concerns that his bags "was going to run down the street.  A stout lady stood in the doorway of the bus and called plaintively for "Peaches  to come on and get on. I held my breath wondering if the old man would get his bags stolen by a wandering urban highwayman and where the hell had Peaches gotten to? There is no place to hang out or hide at 95th street.

After a 15-minute delay, we hit the road. Immediately the lights went out and again the peace of the dark and the murmur of the highway under our wheels acted as a narcotic. I closed my eyes and tried to arrange my size 11 feet in a harmonious position. My neck wouldn’t cooperate. It seemed to get in the way of any attempt of sleep or decent rest. Another time, I vowed, I would bring a pillow like many of the passengers had done. At first I had thought that was cute, now I saw it was survival.

Next stop was Kankakee, 60 miles south of Chicago. Actually it wasn’t a stop at all but a 30 second drive through a closed gas station, where two young people stood at a pay phone and looked us over as if we were their connection. Romeo and Juliet waiting for Friar Laurence? So much for Kankakee.

I tried to sleep, but I have to admit, I was too uptight. What happened is that I drifted for a while and kept trying to arrange my body in some yoga posture that might offer temporary relief on the way to enlightenment. My satori revolved around getting to Memphis in one piece and getting to see Elvis.

We rolled into Effingham, 150 miles south of Chicago. Trooping off obediently into a pouring rainstorm, we filed into the McDonalds. While some passengers, like me, waited in line for the three stall leaky bathroom with no paper, others stood in line for coffee and Big Macs.

The fluorescent lights and midnight hour gave us all a strange look, like vampires or angels, depending on the face you were looking at. My usual Italian olive complexion was washed out to a pale urine yellow, others appeared ocherous and sallow. My children looked much younger and vulnerable as they ate fries and grumbled about not sleeping. I, who rarely eat French fries, was shoveling long tan sticks of greased and heavily salted potatoes down my throat. Magnolia waved as she took a bag of food back on the bus.

We left Effingham and again quiet descended among the passengers. I was aware of Bill passing trucks as we drove through the pitch black darkness at probably 80+ mph. I knew he wasn’t dawdling. The Greyhound drivers do not fool around. I was sure we would be late as we had another stop scheduled in Missoura, but as Graceland did not open until 9 a.m. it didn’t matter. We were not late. Our driver blew past the stop in Missouri and at 6:15 we rolled into Memphis. We walked off the bus into the terminal, got our bags, used the amazingly clean bathrooms which smelled of Lysol and went out to look for a cab to take us to the Heartbreak Hotel.

I was here in Memphis, alive and crumpled, with a stiff neck and a bad leg but I was going to see my man. We tentatively walked outside into the cool morning. The sun was starting to gleam over our heads. I could feel a frisson of excitement. The curtain was going up. I was almost there. A thousand Gibsons were about to play the greatest hits of the King for me. Bull. The downtown area was deserted. Not a car or soul in sight. I felt we had stumbled upon an urban ghost town. There were no taxis in Memphis. No phantom Doc Holliday or Buddy Holly drove by. No human activity except for the slow-moving passengers behind us in the bus terminal.

One man appeared out of the ether and asked me for money. My daughter told me to call for a cab. My cell phone wouldn’t work. We walked half a block to a hotel and my son went in to ask the man at the desk if we could call a taxi. He came out, smiling and cheerful and said, "You could call for a cab, but they won’t come.  Indeed. "Just wait and one will show up sooner or later,  he told me.

Another five minutes and a taxi appeared. We piled in and our driver Mohammed took the road 70 miles an hour. It seemed some things were consistent even south of the Mason Dixon line. We passed by the huge, brown muddy waters of the Mississippi. It did not sparkle or glisten in the morning sun like Lake Michigan, it just lay there, like a giant boa, swollen and passive. The floods would start the day we left.

After passing many car dealerships and truck stops at breakneck speed along Elvis Presley Boulevard, we abruptly pulled into a parking lot and up to the door of the Heartbreak Hotel. Sunlight gleamed across the driveway. The voice of the King sang "Jailhouse Rock  as I pulled myself out of the cab. I gingerly walked into the lobby of the hotel. I was all shook up and thrilled to be on firm ground again. The lobby décor was part Pee-Wee’s Playhouse and part Viva Las Vegas. Gold lame and leopard skin chairs sat on cabernet red rugs. An I Love Lucy size TV played a film from the greatest oeuvres of the King. Silver stars hung over the head of the desk clerk and in shining frames, the deus ex machina of my journey appeared in a myriad of profiles over our humble heads.

We had a 9 a.m. ticket to Graceland. It was 7:02. I asked the clerk at the desk if we could check in early. We could. I was saved. We ate a lavish continental breakfast consisting of muffins, toast, Corn Pops and juice. I clutched two styrofoam cups of decaf to my bosom and went and had a nice lie down. I could possibly survive a night on a bus without sleep and endure a cramp in my left calf if I could just rest.

The Heartbreak Hotel has one station devoted to Elvis, 24 hours of Elvis, non-stop, thank you very much. I turned on Blue Hawaii and sipped my coffee, while lying prone with pillows under my leg. Another framed face of Elvis beamed beatifically over my shoulder. I had found peace. The kids insisted on going outside to photograph the heart-shaped pool. For some reason they found the pool truly amazing, they who had been to Disney World and the Statue of Liberty and the top of the Sears Tower, the pool was an attraction.

I was glad they were easily amused. After an appropriate interval they pulled me out the door and we went to visit the King. I had no laurel wreath to greet him, just two disposable Fuji cameras with telescopic lens capability and a pocket full of Kleenex to catch stray tears. We walked to the main ticket office across a footbridge and through a parking lot and got in line for the shuttle bus. On one side of the boulevard are the hotel, Elvis  airplanes, cars and gift shops; on the other side lies the Graceland mansion, standing alone, high above the road. By nine o’clock we seemed to be ensconced in the middle of a senior citizen tour of Elvis fans. Tina and Jackie waited expectantly to see at least one Elvis impersonator with a white bejeweled jumpsuit but none appeared. After declining the audio tour I got on the bus and we rode along the highway.

My first impression was of a pretty brick house with lavish azaleas and rhododendrons along the path. The coral and magenta blooms were soothing to my Northern-winter-dulled eyes. We walked up to a doorway surrounded by Corinthian columns. I heard the faint crashing of snare drums as I crossed the threshold. Inside the house I felt a moment of disappointment. No Titans had lived here. The house had low ceilings and small rooms. It was a nice example of 50’s architecture, Southern style, solid, sturdy and functional.

We were part of a patient line of devotees. Everyone spoke in quiet tones, as befitting a basilica. The staff constantly reminded us, no flash cameras. We were not allowed upstairs, the masses were not allowed to see where the King had laid his head or combed the dyed Black Velvet hair over an expressive, ivory brow. The formal living room contained a grand piano and pictures of the family. The dining room seemed heavy and claustrophobic, with curio cabinets filled with crystal glasses, high backed gold chairs and a chandelier that loomed over the glass dining room table. One small, sad room on the first floor, decorated in shades of deep purple and white, was the bedroom of his mother and father. It was immaculate and pristine, a shrine to filial devotion. "If only Gladys had lived beyond 1958,  I said to my children, "Elvis would not have come to a tragic end. A good mother can save you.  They shook their heads without comment; they had heard my rap on motherhood before.

The kitchen was paneled in oak. The dishes of many late night meals lay neatly stacked neatly in cabinets. Shades of avocado and burgundy were prominent throughout the mansion. Fur and shag was integral to the décor. Tables were hunks of tree trunks or slabs of marble. Closed circuit TVs, now permanently turned off, reminded us Elvis had left the building. Graceland was a psychedelic kaleidoscope of shag carpeting, velvet cushions and cut glass chandeliers. The jungle room, home to many Elvis recordings, was like a Kubrick-Fellini set. I could imagine Elvis snuggling up to Priscilla in the faux leopard and polar bear covered lounge chairs. Green shag covered the ceiling. A waterfall cut a swath across one avocado wall.

The lower floor defined kitsch with wholesome and naive simplicity. Warhol, Dali and Betty Crocker must have decorated. The den with the 8 TVs, the pool table and pinball machines, the 50 electric yellow pillows sitting on a rectangular white couch, as long as a Cadillac, was not designed for a Great Books discussion group. A ceramic monkey with cold, beady eyes peered at us. We snapped pictures swiftly and wildly at the monkey when the guard left the room. No money had been spared to decorate but it was not Chippendale or Art Deco. It was Memphis Provincial with a good strong dash of bitters. It was Early Bordello with mint leaves floating on the top. As Elvis said, he was not interested in antiques, "he had grown up with them. 

After a while my eyes adjusted to the dark shag colors and smoked glass and I was in a groove with the past. I was transported back into a time when I had worn a panty girdle and white gloves to church, had an immense collection of Ricky Nelson and Fabian records and had watched my parent’s friends smoke Lucky Strikes and drink crème de menthe. I remember watching Ed Sullivan, Wagon Train and Have Gun, Will Travel. I breathed in the incense of my Catholic past while wearing a white tulle dress and choking on my first communion host. In my mind I compared the brightness of my gold glitter accordion that my parents bought me in l959 with the famed lame suit Elvis wore and which I stood before awed and humbled.

We moved on through Graceland. I saw his gun collection, his red velvet sofas and footstools, his round bed with an ivory fur spread. I saw a hall with hundreds of gold and platinum records framed along the walls. Every song and every hit were amply notated and placed in correct chronological order in the Elvis discology.

Displays of movie posters and stills were placed among costumes and props. No pictures of his leading ladies were in sight. This notable absence of jiggling and smiling Ann-Margrets, Shellys and Juliets I assumed was the responsibility of his daughter Lisa-Marie and the board of directors of Elvis Presley Enterprises. They did not want to divert our attention to his colossal dalliances. We were not to be reminded of Elvis  sex life, only that Elvis was sex.

One separate building housed a room with 15 sequined jumpsuits and TVs continuously playing songs from The Aloha from Hawaii live satellite show. While the crowd gazed up in awe at the King singing "Suspicious Minds  I walked up to the glass gate keeping us peons back from the jewels. I studied the garments, the ripe excess of color and faux jewels and intricate sewing. Huge eagle buckles, ornate beaded Native American patterns and the shine of polyester dazzled my sleep-deprived eyes. The lights, the glitter and the crowd started a pulse throbbing in my head. I leaned against the wall and rested close to his clothes to steady my nerves. I was as close to the aura of Elvis as I had ever been and was ever going to be. Even though I was now standing next to an empty suit of clothes the feeling of excitement was as intense as a Crusader observing the Shroud of Turin.

I could feel his aura, I could sense the memory of muscle through the polyester. Elvis was slim. Even after he got into his peanut butter and fried everything period he was not a huge man. He was compact, sinuous, a sex cadet for the all too willing masses who were willing to enlist. I, who had been dragged to every Elvis movie in the 50’s and 60’s by my Father, some at the now defunct drive-in movies, was experiencing a moment of my past as real as eating lunch with Soupy Sales and carrying a Maverick lunchbox. I was up to the eyeballs in memories and I lamented that we Americans had traded all this richness during the last two decades. We had become stock savvy, health-conscious and tasteful to the point of boredom. We made more money and lived longer but we were clean and bland. I vowed to reclaim all the lavish excess of the Eisenhower era, the days of my babyhood, as I walked through his home. Emotionally and physically, I needed the lift. I was quite undone.

Elvis is the high priest of American culture. His violent grief over the death of his mother as he attempted to jump into her grave is American grand opera. No one can dispute his patriotism when he served in the military. He was as courteous as Robert E. Lee, and as Southern. His all-American love of food, women and pills makes him the King of American music and American neuroses. Mom, Uncle Sam and apple pie. Elvis covered all the bases.

We left the hall of clothes. I walked through his weight room and saw the stables where his horses slept. I heard the quiet that must have prevailed over a warm southern night and smelled the magnolias he planted for his mother. All that was missing was Elvis. At the end of the tour we walked out into a garden. A fountain gently splashed and gurgled amid the flowers and budding bushes. A stone angel with the name of Presley presided over the peace. There we found him. In a semicircle were the graves. First the grave of his twin brother, Jesse, who died at birth. Then the graves of his father Vernon and his mother Gladys. Then the King. Requiem in pacem aeterna. Alpha and Omega. A large bronze monument, six feet long, marked his grave. Elvis Aaron Presley, 1935-1977.

Fresh flowers were strewn in tidy bouquets along the gravestone. The sun shone, the water rippled, we spoke in hushed whispers. People passed by, quietly, reverently, taking pictures politely. We were a somber group bowing in front of the grave of the King of Rock ‘n Roll. Elvis was the King, the King is buried at his shrine, we who admired him pass by quietly and reflect on our own impermanence. vv"When I die,  I said to my children, not to let this golden moment pass, "make sure you bury me next to Grandma and Grandpa. I don’t have anyone else either.  Call it my sense of drama from my Mediterranean background or because I’ve sat through La Boheme too many times but I meant it. We all shed a tear, an emotional and high-strung family, our usual slick urban patina disturbed by the presence of his grave, the lack of sleep and the carbo-sugar blitz from numerous bowls of Corn Pops. I was drained. I had seen the mansion, I had breathed in the aura of his famous gold jumpsuit, I had imagined him standing in the burgundy kitchen watching Mama fry up some chicken for him. I had felt the presence. I had heard the voice.

After seeing his car collection with the pink Cadillac and white Mustang, I went and lay down. My kids went off to see the two airplanes, the Lisa Marie and the Hounddog II Jetstar. They saw more plush velvet and leather and round fur beds. I went and put a cold rag on the back of my neck. I had seen the King, I had breathed the aura, I had visited the shrine. I, who had been to Holy Hill in Wisconsin, Our Lady of Knock in Knock, Ireland, and had seen crying icons in Salonika, Greece, was overwhelmed. I had seen the crutches on the wall at Holy Hill and had received holy water from a blessed spigot at Knock, but good golly, Miss Molly I hadn’t been prepared for this.

I had run away with my kids for a short trip to see the King and had instead found my childhood and a new religion. We did not go back to Graceland again during our stay. We did go to the Sun Studios, where vintage pictures of Sam Phillips presided over the vinyl voices of Jerry Lee, Fats, Elvis and Chuck. We went to the Museum of Rock and Soul and took a boat ride with a hundred other tourists on the brown Mississippi. My kids fondled Elvis  pool table at the Elvis Presley Memphis restaurant and tried on fringed pink leather jackets. We ate barbeque on Beale Street and heard an elderly African-American trombone player playing "St. Louis Blues  in front of a club a few hours before we left town.

One hour before we left Memphis we went to the Peabody Hotel, the showplace of the city. A fountain splashed in the lobby while a woman played the "Maple Leaf Rag  and "Over the Rainbow.  We walked through the clubby, luxurious lobby and sat in the Mallards Bar. I ordered a chardonnay to fortify my nerves for the ride home. My kids had kiddie cocktails, still amused by grenadine and maraschino cherries. An elderly gentleman came up to us and asked us if we were tourists. I was wearing a black glitter t-shirt with the face of the King shining at the world, my son wore a Sun Studio shirt and my daughter and her friend had on "Jailhouse Rock  shirts. I told him we were tourists.

His name was Wilbur Brach and he talked "to Elvis the week before he died.  Wilbur was invited to go play at Rosa’s in Chicago by the owner. His heart was bad, however, and he was afraid to make the trip. He played for us and two other businessmen at the bar. At 86, his rolling piano style and boogie woogie riffs made sweet, soulful sounds. My kids asked for an Elvis tune. He played "Love Me Tender and "That’s All Right, Mama,  and they snapped his picture beaming over the ebony Steinway baby grand.

"Did you go next door and see Elvis  tailor?  he asked us. We had. My daughter wanted to buy a dress as Lansky’s. It had the face of Elvis and gold discs imprinted on the pink rayon fabric. It was 75 bucks and we didn’t buy it. We were on a budget. We ordered another kiddie cocktail and watched the clock.

At 6:30 I paid the bartender and we stood up to leave.

"Come back and see us!  he called. "Y’all come back now. 

We walked the block to the Greyhound station. Memphis is clean and peaceful. The notorious bus station is one block from the fanciest hotel in town. We were early. There was an immense line already in place for the 8 p.m. to Chicago. I was in shock. We found out that the line was the carryover for the 5:45 p.m.

I scanned the line and out of the lineup of faces was Maggie, smiling sweetly at us.

"They’re getting another bus,  she said. "We’ll all get to leave on time. How was your stay? 

"How was your funeral? 

"If you’re ever in the Rogers Park Osco on Morse stop in and see me,  she said.

My leg hurt. We got our luggage that we had checked earlier in storage lockers. I was afraid that our quarters would be eaten up by the Greyhound spirits and we would never see our souvenirs or our underwear again. My daughter wrestled the tickets out of my hand and effortlessly opened the lockers. An avalanche of goods fell out into our outstretched arms. We had collected a mountain of kitschy momentos, piles of gilt and holographic treasures to decorate our sedate home.

Tina and Jackie had bought Beatles lunchboxes and a poster that said Little Richard with the Beatles at the Tower Ballroom, October 12, 1962. Pete had bought guitars picks and sticks and a shot glass that said Graceland. I had bought nine t-shirts, keychains, a mousepad and numerous postcards. I had stood on top of the Acropolis, kissed the Blarney Stone and seen the Crown Jewels and the Golden Gate bridge. I had watched the Rockettes at Radio City, gotten splashed by Niagara Falls and had heard jazz in New Orleans while eating a muffaletta. Why then this fascination, this attraction, this burning desire to adorn myself with the gilden trappings of the King?

I needed a boost. I wanted to be fun again. I wanted to cut my hair short and dye it black, take out my accordion more and worry less. If I wasn’t careful I would buy into every neurosis the living dead, the unfun, were capable of imposing upon us believers. I had to be careful not to be sucked into the sea of papers I had at home. They were a whirlpool of middle-age reality and I didn’t want to go under again and again only to resurface an old woman counting the days to my retirement and filing for Medicare. I needed to sustain the joy of living, whatever my mistakes. Graceland was one big reminder that more is more and don’t worry, we’re all gonna die sooner than later, so why not be happy, generous and buoyantly alive, thank you very much?

We got on the bus and left for home. The ride was pleasant, the passengers polite. This time there was a lot of late night whisperings and chatter and the faint buzz of Walkman music permeated the night. We stopped in Sykeston, Missoura, at 11:30 p.m. We all piled off and went into a truck stop. Two ladies with rubber gloves shaved ham off a bone and made sandwiches, neatly and tightly wrapped in foil. Their barbeque was already gone and some passengers lamented this occurrence. I, too, was ready to take a hot and heavy pungent meal back on the bus and see what I could do with it in the bumpy darkness, but as they were sold out, I bought a diet pop and a bag of chips.

The toilets were underwater so we waded in. One woman wielded a plunger while she coaxed her four-year-old granddaugher to "use it.  I rolled up my pants, did the outhouse crouch and used a moist wipe from my pocket. Spartan bathrooms for urban warriors. Few complaints, some laughs of sympathy circulated among the women in line.

We stopped in Effingham at 3:00 a.m. I thought my kids would want to sleep but we all got out, used the bathroom and bought French fries, the glue, the very support of our nervous and skeletal systems. Without some layering of hydrogenized fat in my guts I knew I would slowly inflate like a helium balloon in the Macy’s parade and drift bloatedly away.

At last we arrived in Chicago. I was tired and wanted to go home but I really didn’t want to be home. I wanted the deluxe, super-sized fantasy to continue. It was raining in Chicago, a 6 a.m. kind of rain, cool blue and fizzy. It sprayed up from the tires of the trucks on the Dan Ryan Expressway and covered the windows with drops. I picked one and counted the seconds it took to fall.

We pulled into the terminal and got off the bus. We waited for our bags to be heaved out of the cavity. My son wanted to use the toilet. I told him to wait until we got home. The driver wouldn’t let him get back on to use the pot on the bus, but he was nice about it. My son’s kidneys have always been a constant reminder of our mortal limitations and frailities.

We plowed on. The terminal was full up at 6:15 a.m. I couldn’t believe it. I had expected the sleepy hollow peace of Memphis and here we were back again in the swarm, the beehive of Northern-urban-mow-you-down humanity.

We needed a taxi. A young man said, "Taxi?  and grabbed my daughter’s suitcase and mine. The minute he turned around and I saw his baggy blue shorts hanging down over a white Jockey waistband, I knew I had been had.

He moved out to the street with me close behind him. I was determined not to lose our t-shirts and keychains and my good pair of Ralph Lauren jeans. The gent was honest, however and did not run off. He boldly walked up to the solitary cab driver and spoke up in our behalf. The driver told him he was waiting for a fare. I knew we were on the horns of a dilemma but to preserve peace and continue the goodwill of our Elvis Platinum package I gave the guy a buck and he disappeared with a thank you.

One dollar still means a lot on the street. So do quiet, patient lines, tinfoil wrapped home-made sandwiches and the gentle drone of a vehicle crossing the Mississippi River at 6 a.m. in the morning. I had seen the King, I had been to Memphis, I had left the building. I got home, made coffee, opened the Tribune and looked at the mail. I fed the birds, checked the number of Ensure Lights and Miller Lites in my fridge, made sure we had peanut butter in the pantry and lay down on my couch, thank you very much.