Jesus said, "Bring me that a.s.s."

To ERR is human. To ARRRRR is Pirate.

Face powder may get a man, but it takes baking powder to keep him.

G.o.d does not believe in Atheists.

Therefore Atheists do not exist.

Midnight Ma.s.s and Toga Party. B.Y.O.B.J.

(Bring your own Baby Jesus)

7 pm Hymn singing. Come prepared to sin.

Keep using my name in vain.

I'll make rush hour longer.-G.o.d

Before noon I pa.s.sed through Marion, a town with a sizable population, then changed roads to Interstate 55 leading to Memphis.

The road into Memphis wouldn't have been easy even if I had been at my physical peak. I had a long and difficult day walking, more than twenty-six city miles. Despite my exhaustion, I kept on because I didn't feel safe enough to camp anywhere. The outskirts of Memphis are a blighted landscape of gutted buildings and stockyards.

When I finally reached the city, I booked a room at the first hotel I came to, the Super 7 Inn Graceland on Brooks Road. I could tell that it was a rough area from the inch-thick, bulletproof part.i.tion between me and the angry-looking Indian man working at the reception counter.

Once I was in my room, I found Paige's phone number and called, but my cell went straight to voicemail. I wondered if her grandmother had died. I left my phone number for when she was ready to talk. I wondered if I would ever hear from her again.

I was too exhausted to leave my room, so I ate an entire box of Pop-Tarts and fell asleep.

CHAPTER Twenty-seven

Elvis may have left the building, but some of the audience have kept their seats.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

The next morning both my head and body ached, which I attributed to pushing myself too hard the day before. Still, I got up earlier than usual, as I planned to put in a normal day of walking but also wanted to take the time to see Graceland, Elvis Presley's mansion, which had been turned into a museum.

I took a quick shower, dressed, then fled the dumpy little hotel.

It wasn't hard to find Graceland. In Memphis, all roads lead to Elvis. At the first block I made a right on Elvis Presley Boulevard, then, following the abundant signage, walked a little more than a mile to Elvis's mecca.

I have a confession to make, one that I fully realize may lessen me in your eyes. I don't really like Elvis's music. Before you abandon me on the side of Elvis Presley Boulevard, let me clarify my position. I'm not saying that I don't like Elvis. I do. Actually, I like the idea of Elvis. And I think that if more people were completely honest, they'd admit the same thing. Elvis is much more than his music, he's the image, the flash, the iridescent sparkle of rhinestones, the entire American dream wrapped up in a lip-curling, pelvis-gyrating, hunk-a-burnin'-love. Elvis succeeded because we wanted him to succeed-a G.o.d-fearing young man from a sharecroppers' shack speaking out for a generation of American youth with an ingratiating "yes, sir," and "yes, ma'am." Of course the fact that women, young and old, found him insanely good-looking didn't hurt any.

Only in walking through Memphis can one truly realize the extent of the adulation bestowed on the young man from Tupelo who sold a billion records and inspired ten thousand impersonators. Elvis was more than an entertainer-he was divinity in rhinestones. It would not surprise me in the least if someday, perhaps a century from now, a religion springs forth from his legacy. The Church of Elvis. Its followers would wear pompadours, dress in holy white leather rhinestone-studded robes, and resolve to "love each other tender." The theological possibilities are endless. h.e.l.l would be referred to as the Heartbreak Hotel, and at funerals the Elvisian minister would say, "Brother Jones has left the building," "He's joined the choir," or "He's off to the Graceland in the sky."

Graceland wasn't open yet, so I ate breakfast at the adjacent Rock & Roll Cafe, then waited outside the park in a growing line of Elvis fans. When I got inside the visitor center, I bought a ticket for the whole tour, which included Graceland, Elvis's auto museum, and his two airplanes.

Graceland is marvelously kitsch, preserved in full seventies splendor, with a black baby grand piano on white carpet, red fur, leopard skin, a jungle room with an indoor waterfall, and stained-gla.s.s peac.o.c.ks. Words like "gaudy," "garish," "tacky" and "tasteless" come to mind.

McKale would have laughed herself silly. She would have said something like, "It looks like a Liberace nightmare." I just thought it was cool. The experience was worth the admission. Heck, it was worth the walk to Memphis.

After the Graceland tour, I took the shuttle over to the auto museum and planes. The Elvis Presley Car Museum houses more than thirty of Elvis's vehicles, including his famous pink Cadillac, Stutz Blackhawks, a 1975 Dino Ferrari, two Rolls-Royce (one black, one white), a six-door Mercedes limousine, Harley-Davidson motorcycles and the John Deere tractor Elvis drove at Graceland.

Elvis also had two airplanes. His largest, the Lisa Marie (named after his daughter), was a 1958 Corvair 880. Elvis spent nearly a million dollars remodeling the plane with a living room, conference room, sitting room and a private bedroom.

Not to be outdone by Graceland's kitsch, the airplane has leather-topped tables and suede chairs, a television and telephone, gold-specked bathroom sinks and 24-karat gold-plated safety belts.

His second plane was a smaller Lockheed JetStar, less impressive, but also customized by Elvis with a yellow and green interior.

Finally, succ.u.mbing to the commercial allure of the shrine, I broke down and purchased a Graceland T-shirt, then set off, walking south down the bustling boulevard back to Highway 51 South. An hour later I crossed the state border into Mississippi.

CHAPTER Twenty-eight

Some towns, like people, seem to attract history. I suppose this is as much a curse as it is a blessing.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

Over the next six days I followed Highway 51 south to Batesville, then walked east on Highway 278. Tolkien wrote that easy times do not make good stories, which is why I have little to write about that part of my journey. The pleasant exception was my stop in Oxford, a historic town between Batesville and Tupelo.

Oxford is a picturesque college town, home of the University of Mississippi (aka "Ole Miss") and laden with history.

During the Civil War, Oxford was invaded by Generals Sherman, Grant, and Andrew Jackson Smith, the latter of which left his mark by burning the buildings in the town square. Oxford is also the hometown of American writer and n.o.bel Prize Laureate William Faulkner, who based several of his novels on the small town.

In 1962, Oxford gained national attention twice, first when Faulkner died, then, later that fall, when Mississippi state officials attempted to prevent James Meredith, a black man, from entering the university.

U.S. Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy ordered federal marshals to escort Meredith to school. In response, thousands of protestors rioted, damaging property and killing two men, one of whom was a French journalist sent to cover the affair.

President Kennedy responded by mobilizing the National Guard, which restored order to the small town. Meredith enrolled without further incident and eventually completed his degree, though he was constantly hara.s.sed and spent the rest of his time at the university with U.S. marshal bodyguards who escorted him from cla.s.s to cla.s.s.

Today, Oxford is a vibrant, charming town patterned after its British namesake, with a bustling town square complete with London-inspired double-decker tourist buses and red telephone booths.

Encouraged by the temperate weather, I spent a leisurely day in the town. I rode the double-decker bus, ate lunch in the town square at the Ajax Diner, browsed books at the famous Square Books bookstore, then spent the rest of the afternoon at Rowan Oak, Faulkner's home turned museum. I thought it might be interesting to camp somewhere on the twenty-nine-acre estate, but discovered that the site was as well guarded as it was maintained. I spent the night closer to the highway.I suppose it was destiny that my road south led through Elvis's hometown of Tupelo, a route I traveled in reverse of the path the King took to global stardom. Five days from Memphis I exited the Appalachian Highway into Tupelo.

Tupelo is a sleepy, brittle town, little more than a memorial to Elvis's life. Not surprisingly, its downtown was decorated with vinyl banners silk-screened with heroic-sized images of Elvis's face.

Less heralded than the King's birthplace is the site of the Civil War Battle of Tupelo, a standoff between Union General Andrew Jackson Smith and confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest. At that point in the conflict, the tide had already turned on the South and it was the last time Forrest's troops would see war.

It was dark when I reached the city center, so I ate dinner at Romie's Barbeque and booked a room at the Hilton Garden Inn.

CHAPTER Twenty-nine