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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Graceland”
While standing in the grass looking at the sky, chiggers ate my ankles. The itching got progressively worse throughout the night, and by morning I had practically scratched my lower legs bloody. I tried hiding it from Mom. When it came to bumps and bruises, Dad took care of us because it pained Mom too much to see her precious children in agony, but if it was something Mom could apply some old family remedy to, she took control. She came out of her tent with a cigarette in her mouth and Lucky on her shoulder, like some four-legged, genetically-deformed parrot with a rat tail.
“Morning, Michael,” she said, blowing smoke.
“Morning, Mom,” I said. The itching was unbearable.
“Something wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You look uncomfortable,” she said.
I wanted to say, “I am uncomfortable. Bugs ate my legs!” but I knew better. “I’m fine.” My eyes were practically watering.
“If you say so.” She started walking away and I scratched my left leg with my right foot. Mom turned around.
“Ah-ha! I knew something was wrong with you.”
“Really, Mom. I’m fine,” I said, knowing some weird cure would follow if she had her way.
She looked at my ankles and said, “Are those chigger bites?” I was amazed she knew what they looked like, but I remembered hearing a story about how Dad took her camping once, before I was even born, and set up the tent smack dab in the middle of chigger central. The two were practically eaten alive, to hear Mom tell it.
“I think so.”
She pointed to a log near the firepit and told me, “Sit down.”
She wandered my way, digging through her purse. “Nail polish remover will stop the itching,” she said, pulling out a bottle.
“I think you mean nail polish,” I said.
“No, trust me, Michael. This will stop the itching.” She opened the bottle and poured the nail polish remover on my ankle. I can’t describe how badly it stung—she may as well have been pouring battery acid on me!
“OWW!!!” I yelled, getting Dad and Elvis’s attention. They were breaking down camp.
“Oh, maybe you were right,” Mom said. “Maybe it is nail polish—not remover—that helps.” I fought back tears as she used a free hand to find her nail polish. I hoped she had clear polish handy and not some strange greens, purples, or glittery metallics that would leave my ankles looking like sloppy graffiti. I lucked out; she had some clear polish. I held the bottle while she put the lid back on the remover. That’s when Lucky sprung into action. Mom later said it was all an accident, but I knew better; I knew he did it all on purpose.
As Mom started putting the lid on the nail polish remover, Lucky knocked the open bottle from Mom’s hands and into my lap, soaking my shorts. Then he pulled the cigarette from Mom’s mouth and dropped it on the remover! I was on fire!
“AAAAAAAAAAA!!!” I shouted. Elvis ran to the Inferno, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and came my way. He knew it was filled with gasoline, but he could pawn it off as a mistake; he could say he was trying to help me, when his goal of finally doing me in would be played out before my family’s eyes.
“NOOOOO!!!” I yelled.
Dad grabbed the extinguisher from Elvis and told him to get back; I stood up, panicking. Dad tossed the fire extinguisher to the side, tackled me, and rolled me over on my belly. He rolled me around in the dirt until the fire was out.
“See? I told you Lucky wants me dead!” I said to Dad.
“What?” Mom said when she saw I wasn’t hurt, just scared. “Michael, it was an accident.”
“That was no accident. That dog wants me dead!”
“You’re crazy. Lucky loves you—he loves all of you,” she said, as the little dog licked her cheek. Mom always saw it as a sign of affection when Lucky licked her, but she usually had something sticky and sweet on her face—Lucky was most likely mopping up after Mom’s last meal.
“Are you okay?” Dad said. He double-checked to make sure the flames were completed smothered.
“I guess so,” I said. He hugged me and didn’t let go.
After I cleaned up, changed, and we had all eaten breakfast, it was back on the road. Mom complained about the radio not working; she wanted to play Elvis tapes the whole way to Memphis. She let Dad know how disappointed she was.
“I finally get to go inside Graceland and the moment’s ruined because you couldn’t buy a car with a working radio, James.” Dad just ignored her.
“Marge, wouldn’t it be nice to be listening to the King about now?” she said.
“It sure would,” Aunt Margie said. Mom thought she’d be able to play her sister against Dad, too, until Aunt Margie said, “That’s all right, though. Jimmy didn’t know the radio was busted when he bought the car, I bet.”
Mom decided if she couldn’t listen to Elvis Presley sing, she’d force us to listen to her rendition of his tunes. She started with Blue Moon of Kentucky, in honor of the state rolling by, then she broke into Heartbreak Hotel; probably her way of letting Dad know how heartbroken she was that the radio didn’t work. We were forced to listen to her belt out Hound Dog, Viva Las Vegas, and All Shook Up. Her favorite tune was Love Me Tender; she would have sung it, too, but she felt it was blasphemy to sing a song no one could croon like the King. For hours, we were forced to listen to her sing everything from Elvis’s gold hits, to deep tracks only die-hard fans knew existed. It drove us all nuts—everyone but Mom and Elvis.
My little brother was a huge Elvis fan. He was convinced, since Mom named him after her idol and not me, that it was an obvious sign she loved him more. Whenever he heard an Elvis tune, he went nuts! I never understood it, but Rock-A-Hula-Baby was his favorite tune, and Mom loved watching him dance along to the song. She’d play it on her turntable and my little brother would dance a mix of the King’s first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show—swiveling his chunky little hips and quivering his lip like his namesake—and a hackneyed hula dance, like a clumsy Polynesian cherub.
About an hour outside Memphis, Mom told us all to be quiet (nevermind none of us had talked for hours while she sang). She said she needed time to meditate and prepare; she was, after all, going to Graceland.
* * *
Mom and Aunt Margie stood at the King’s grave, bawling like huge babies. Lucky licked tears from Mom’s face as she stared at Elvis’s grave and cried.
“It’s The King, Mary!” Aunt Margie said. “We’re standing before The King!”
“I know, Marge. I can’t believe it myself.”
They hugged, blubbering on like two upright sea lions.
“I wish he was alive! Oh, Mary…how I wish he was here, still!”
“So do I!”
Dad had to interrupt.
“Mary. Dear. I know this is traumatic for both of you, but you need to hide Lucky again. You can’t have him out in the open—the tour guide’s coming back this way.”
“I know,” she said, sliding Lucky down the front of her top, between her breasts. He didn’t fight it; he was used to riding like that. “I just wanted him to see the King. I just want more time.”
“The tour’s almost over,” Dad said.
“Let’s do it again, then!” she said.
Dad knew resisting her request would lead to more grief than good, so he gave in.
“Do you think you’ll be able to handle it one more time through?” he said.
“I think I can make it,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Just give me a moment.”
“Okay, we’ll do the tour one more time, but then we really have to leave.”
Dad wandered over toward me; I was standing back from it all, still thinking about Lucky trying to set me on fire. Dad looked back at Mom and Aunt Margie.
“Look at those two,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t knock it. I’ve got my alligator farms, they have their King.”
“Yeah.” I really didn’t want to talk about Mom, Aunt Margie, and some guy who died from complications on the toilet.
“What’s wrong, Buddy?”
I cut straight to the chase. “Lucky’s what’s wrong.”
“What about him?”
“Remember when I told you he was possessed?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not kidding. He really is possessed, Dad. That was no accident this morning—Lucky really tried killing me. Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe you believe he’s possessed,” Dad said. “But you know me, I have to see something to believe it.”
“You believe in God, though.” I thought I had him.
“Yes, I do. And you don’t. So how can you believe Lucky is possessed?”
“I don’t know. Forget it,” I said.
“We’ll talk about it later. I better get your mother and aunt if we’re going through one more time.”
Dad got up and went to get them while I waited. Elvis and Olivia were wandering around, eating marshmallows. I couldn’t believe Dad just blew me off. Thinking about it, maybe bringing God into the whole argument wasn’t a great tactical move on my part. And he was right: how could I believe Lucky was possessed when I didn’t believe in the very mechanics behind possession?
We lined up for the tour a second time, seeing the Living Room, Jungle Room, TV Room, and Trophy Room once more. Mom and Aunt Margie were in much better spirits, but something told me they were building up for the grave again. We all tagged along toward the back of the line, so Mom and Aunt Margie could take a little more time appreciating all the King’s things before being moved along by the guide. Lucky was riding shotgun between Mom’s breasts; he wasn’t as calm as the first time through. He started struggling. Mom patted her chest, hoping to calm him, but it made him fight even more. Mom was obviously bothering the woman in front of her. The woman turned around and said, “Shh!”
“You shhh!” Mom whispered, struggling with her blouse.
“Stop that! What’s the matter with you?” the woman said.
“I have a tumor and it’s acting up!” Mom said. “Excuse me for living.”
The woman turned back toward the group and walked a little faster. Mom struggled with Lucky, but lost the battle. He broke free from her chest’s mighty grasp and took off, up some nearby stairs. Mom chased after him and Dad just shook his head.
* * *
Now, this section of the story is taken from an interview with Mom. I can’t vouch for its legitimacy, but I will say this: I believe her. I don’t know why, but stranger things happened on that trip. No one believed me most of the way to the canyon, so it wouldn’t be fair for me to believe Mom was lying. Regardless of her story’s validity, whatever was upstairs in the King’s mansion, it changed her life.
When Mom reached the top of the stairs, a security guard held Lucky up by the throat. He caught sight of Mom.
“You cain’t come up here, Ma’am. It’s off limits,” he said.
“That’s my dog!”
“Pets ain’t allowed, here. All pets must be boarded.”
“Let go of him!”
“Ma’am, I cain’t do that.”
SMACK! Mom knocked him out cold with a right hook! Lucky fell to the floor, ran down the hallway, and entered a room through a partially opened door. Mom ran to the door, but stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a deep voice say, “Oh…hey there, little fella. Want some meatloaf?”
The King!
Mom pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The years hadn’t been kind to the King of Rock-n-Roll. He took up most of the bed; a large blanket was tossed over him like a tarp covering a beached whale. But Mom didn’t care—she was looking at Elvis Aron Presley in the flesh, seven yearsafter his “death.”
Lucky was on a TV tray beside the King, eating from a plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and tomatoes.
“Yer one hungry little cuss, aint’cha?” Elvis said. He still didn’t see Mom.
“Uhm. Excuse me,” she said, getting his attention.
“Hey, Cletus! Whatcha doin’ lettin’ people up here?!” he said. “I’ve told ya not to do that!”
“I’m so sorry,” Mom said. “My dog got loose and I had to get him. The security guard was hurting him and wouldn’t give him back, so I hit him.”
“Where is he?”
“Out cold on the floor.”
“You knocked out Cletus?” The King said.
“Yeah.”
He laughed. “You must be one strong woman.”
“I guess.”
“Can you do me a favor, then?”
“Anything for you,” Mom said.
“Can you roll me to my side?”
“Of course.”
Mom went to the far side of the bed and pushed. Between the two of them, they had Elvis on his side inside a minute.
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
Mom almost fainted. “I can’t believe you’re alive,” she said.
“Yeah, but don’t go tellin’ no one.”
“Oh, I won’t!”
“I just wanted time alone, ya know?” he said. “It’s hard being yourself when everyone wants to see you.”
“I understand.”
“Can ya do me one more favor?” the King said.
“Of course!”
He pointed to his dresser. “Over on my dresser there’s a backscratcher. Can ya get it and work my side over a good one?”
Mom’s big knees buckled. “Oh, I feel faint.”
“Yeah, I have that effect on women. Just breathe, honey.”
Mom got the backscratcher from the top of the dresser and went to work scratching the side of The King. She went back and forth with it, maneuvering through course hair on his side and back, sending Elvis into ecstasy. Mom always told Dad if Elvis were alive and wanting her, she’d leave him in a heartbeat for a night with the King. That afternoon with the backscratcher was as close as she’d ever come. She scratched him for a good five minutes. She brushed the dead skin from his bed sheets as she worked; she even reached out and touched his back with her bare hand at one point.
When Mom finished, the King said, “That was great! Is there anything I can do in return for the favor?”
“Can you still sing?” Mom said.
“Like a mockingbird,” Elvis said. “What’s your name, sugar?”
“Mary.”
“Well, Mary…I’m guessin’ you like this tune.”
He sang Love Me Tender, Mom’s favorite. Her knees finally gave out; she sat on the bed as he sang to her. It didn’t matter that he weighed half a ton—his voice was still gold. It didn’t crack, he didn’t miss a note…it was absolute perfection. Mom was reduced to tears.
When Elvis finished, he said, “How was that?”
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” Mom said, sobbing. “Prettier than angels singing.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
Mom stared into his eyes and swears to God they would have kissed had Cletus not rushed into the room.
“King?!” He caught sight of Mom. “Oh, there she is! I’m so sorry.”
“Cletus, leave us alone. I’m all right,” Elvis said. “She’s not gonna tell a soul, are ya, darlin’?”
“No.”
Cletus left.
“Well, I better get going,” Mom said, hoping The King would invite her to stay a bit longer.
“It’s been a pleasure,” he said.
“I can’t believe this. It’s like a dream.” She held up the backscratcher. “Where should I put this?”
“Keep it.”
“Really?!”
“Yep. It’s all yours,” he said. “I’m gonna get me some shuteye.”
“Would you like me to turn off the TV?”
“No need for that,” he said. He pulled a gun from under the blanket and shot the television. “Got my remote right here,” The King said, blowing smoke from the end of the barrel.
Mom grabbed Lucky from the TV tray and made her way to the door. “Goodbye,” she said.
“Bye,” Elvis said. “And remember, don’t go tellin’ anyone you saw me.”
“I won’t!”
* * *
“I’m serious—I saw him! He’s alive, Marge,” Mom said, keeping her promise to the King for almost half an hour. “He gave me this backscratcher and sang Love Me Tender to me.”
“Yer lyin’!”
“I’m not lying,” Mom said.
“Are too!”
“Are not!”
“Yes you are,” Aunt Margie said. “He’s dead! I know it’s hard to accept, especially after standing right there on his grave and all, but he’s gone Mary.”
Mom turned around, clutching Lucky to one breast and the backscratcher to the other. She locked eyes with Aunt Margie and I’ve never seen Mom look more sincere.
“I swear on Mama’s ashes he’s alive, Marge. I saw him with my own eyes. You know I can’t look you in the eyes and lie.”
Aunt Margie broke down in a deep sobbing fit.
“Oh, Lordy—yer serious! He’s alive! You hear that, kids? The King is alive!”
Aunt Margie chanted “he’s alive!” like a mantra for nearly an hour, until we finally found a campground for the night.
* * *
Surf music plays. A male voice says:
Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.
Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.
And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.
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