Into Memphis



Think of sudden 1960s pawnshop afternoon, like James Earl Ray driving into Memphis on the highway from Nashville, on the highway from Birmingham, on the highway from Little Rock or Jackson and New Orleans on the highway into Memphis. Afternoon of nicotine and steel, think of cigarette burning in the ashtray and snubnose revolver in the glove compartment; think of seatcovers, think of windows rolled down; think of radio dial, tuned to negro station singing sweet blues to Memphis. Driving, pocketfull of cash for spending think of the arrival - think of pulling in off the highway to a plate of barbecue and slaw and a tall, cold glass of iced tea; think of Saturday night, think of bourbon and blues on Beale and then think of Sunday morning whorehouse motel waking up on the edge of a razor blade. Streets, think of streets in Memphis: think of Union Ave. sidewalking in Lansky Bros. sharkskin and pointy-toed shoes; think of Presley Blvd., to stand praying at Graceland Gates of Elvis and think of getting there - think of bright sunlight in the windshield as you appear on the highway into Memphis.



Previously published in Paris/Atlantic, Vol. XXII, No. 1, Spring 2000 (American University of Paris: Elise J. Manley et al, Editors); and in Talus & Scree, No. 5, 1998, p. 36 (Newport, OR: Carla Perry, Ed.)


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