Elvis on the Second Floor
Yes, Elvis lives.
He has not at all after all left the building.
He lives on the second floor of Graceland, the rooms they don't want you to see. Or you would see him.
Instead, you get to see all the people, the people like you, like me, Julie and me who line up and sweat and throng to see him whom they cannot see, so instead they get to see the mirrored walls, gilded mirrors, the white sofa, the table set for six, the kitchen waiting for the cook, shaggy armchair and bed, jungle room and the trophy room padded with gold records. All those people stream by and crane necks to glance at the staircase that we are not allowed to take, for where Elvis could possibly be if not upstairs, from where his presence is, we are told, felt throughout the house. Priscilla's soothing voice glides in from the headset, softly recounts how you would hear him coming down the stairs, his suit jangling, heard before seen, felt before met. You end up taking pictures of the stairs leading up to the second floor where you cannot go, the chandelier over the landing, the white wall, the mirrors expanding the size of what is really an average mansion, daring you to take a photo, as if taking the pictures could help you get past the young bored hot tired women who rush and usher you into the house and then have nothing else to say except not to use flash because it damages the artifacts.
They let the audio do the talking.
And it has nothing to say much though it does its best to say it.
In fact, you remember less of Elvis, and how could he, he is not coming down to see you, than you do of the bits of the past that he lived through on his way to now, this moment at which he shuns you because you have rudely agreed to clasp that headset over your head, learn the keypad and follow the people dutifully following the crumb trail of discrete but seemingly pointed detail left by the voice in our heads whose job is to distract us from hearing Elvis laughing at us.
Which he is, I am sure, as he lounges on the bed upstairs, waiting for it to cool down and the place empty for his kind of night.
Which Julie and I never get to see, Elvis After Dark, a tempting exhibit, the last green stub on my card of tickets, because the bus back into town and the other museum reception leaves at 5:30 and there is not even time to grab an ice cream.
In fact there was no time to light a candle or drop a teddy bear and barely to take a picture at the Elvis family grave because we were only ever getting closer to the place where you had to surrender your headset and keypad to the bored young women and be waved into the bus and out the premises, Elvis releasing a long sigh of relief if he were turning in his grave...
Which he wasn't of course because Elvis, Elvis....
Elvis lives.
He has not at all after all left the building.
He lives on the second floor of Graceland, the rooms they don't want you to see. Or you would see him.
Instead, you get to see all the people, the people like you, like me, Julie and me who line up and sweat and throng to see him whom they cannot see, so instead they get to see the mirrored walls, gilded mirrors, the white sofa, the table set for six, the kitchen waiting for the cook, shaggy armchair and bed, jungle room and the trophy room padded with gold records. All those people stream by and crane necks to glance at the staircase that we are not allowed to take, for where Elvis could possibly be if not upstairs, from where his presence is, we are told, felt throughout the house. Priscilla's soothing voice glides in from the headset, softly recounts how you would hear him coming down the stairs, his suit jangling, heard before seen, felt before met. You end up taking pictures of the stairs leading up to the second floor where you cannot go, the chandelier over the landing, the white wall, the mirrors expanding the size of what is really an average mansion, daring you to take a photo, as if taking the pictures could help you get past the young bored hot tired women who rush and usher you into the house and then have nothing else to say except not to use flash because it damages the artifacts.
They let the audio do the talking.
And it has nothing to say much though it does its best to say it.
In fact, you remember less of Elvis, and how could he, he is not coming down to see you, than you do of the bits of the past that he lived through on his way to now, this moment at which he shuns you because you have rudely agreed to clasp that headset over your head, learn the keypad and follow the people dutifully following the crumb trail of discrete but seemingly pointed detail left by the voice in our heads whose job is to distract us from hearing Elvis laughing at us.
Which he is, I am sure, as he lounges on the bed upstairs, waiting for it to cool down and the place empty for his kind of night.
Which Julie and I never get to see, Elvis After Dark, a tempting exhibit, the last green stub on my card of tickets, because the bus back into town and the other museum reception leaves at 5:30 and there is not even time to grab an ice cream.
In fact there was no time to light a candle or drop a teddy bear and barely to take a picture at the Elvis family grave because we were only ever getting closer to the place where you had to surrender your headset and keypad to the bored young women and be waved into the bus and out the premises, Elvis releasing a long sigh of relief if he were turning in his grave...
Which he wasn't of course because Elvis, Elvis....
Elvis lives.
posted by EvaB at 8:23 PM
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