Literary fiction (with Adventure; Family)
Date Published: 11-28-2022
Publisher: By The Pure Sea Books
“The journey of a 1000 miles begins with a single step.” ~ Lao
Tzu
Raiden, an emotionally troubled 40-something guy, is at a major turning
point in his life. Rather than choose to face it head on, he undertakes an
epic road trip adventure across North America, all with the aim of escaping
the single most transformative event of his life – imminent
fatherhood.
Searching for solutions in all the wrong places and faces, Raiden is forced
to turn the mirror back on himself and shine the harsh light of reality not
only on his quest, but into the very depths of his soul, in order to
discover what it is he truly seeks.
While he does his best to find the answer, the impactful events he
experiences along the way will reveal more about Raiden and his nature than
the strange assortment of characters he meets on his overland odyssey.
Ultimately, The Journey is a story that no matter how far you run, your
demons always follow.
“Mark T. Rasmussen rewards readers with a fascinating tale of
transformation. 5-stars!” – K.C. Finn (Readers’
Favorite)
EXCERPT
“Double crossing, lying sacks of shits,” Louie bellows when he finally squeezes back
inside the car. “So who’s ready for Graceland?” he beams at me through a yellow, teeth-
stained grin.
Is it too late to cancel the tour, I think?
When we’ve returned to a more comfortable speed for the car, I look over at Louie,
who reminds me of an older, balder, fatter, and if possible, surlier version of Paulie from
Rocky. Even his shirt is stained with God knows what. What the hell have I got myself in
for, I wonder?
“Beer?” Louie chirps.
Before I can answer no, he’s reached back around behind the seat, grabs two cans
from a cooler and hurls one at me.
“Let’s rock’n’roll,” he says as he cracks open his can and guzzles it down in almost a
complete, single gulp.
It’s an inauspicious way to start a tour to say the least. I can only hope it picks up
from here but when he immediately reaches for a second beer, my doubts just increase.
“A little hand,” he gestures.
I amble over with serious concerns about whether jumping over the fence to break
into Graceland to save a few dollars, is really worth the risk. I’m convinced we’ll either get
caught, cop a serious fine, or be thrown in jail. Maybe all the above?
“Lock your hands,” Louie orders.
I cup my hands and do my best to take most of his hefty weight, while he clambers
up the fence, slipping and sliding his feet against the wood with his Italian loafers that have
zero grip. Somehow, he manages to get to the top where he straddles one leg on either side
of the fence, but he’s huffing and puffing from the exertion. He gives me a smile from his
flushed, sweaty, red face as he does his best to stay atop the fence that buckles and wobbles
under his mass. But it doesn’t last because Louie loses his balance and crashes down onto
the other side.
Worried, I jump up and peer over the fence. He’s not moving. I immediately hurl
myself up and onto the fence with a lot more ease and dexterity than him, however, I notice
the wood is badly rotted and is barely able to hold my much lighter frame. I’m about to hop
off when one of the support posts snaps beneath me and before I know it, I’m sent over the
fence, face first, to join him.
Thanks to the plush grass I land on, it’s a relatively soft landing. I pick myself up and
dust off the leaves and dirt. I then attend to Louie, who’s just laughing that familiar
smoker’s cough laugh of his, only it’s much worse in person. In person he openly hocks up
the phlegm, spitting it out onto the neatly, manicured lawn.
I look back at the fence that now has a serious 45 degree lean to it, with its posts all
bent at odd angles.
“Geez, Dorothy’s going to be pissed when she notices that,” Louie says with a smirk.
“That’ll teach that old bird for not returning my calls,” he quips.
“Is there anyone you haven't pissed off?”
“Define pissed?” he says.
Perturbed by the answer I’ll get, I don’t press it.
We’re both back on our feet, though I don’t think it’s a good idea to stick around
much longer in case we run into Graceland’s ground security or worse, Dorothy. Louie,
however, is nonplussed as he trudges away from the sad looking fence and in through a
large, overgrown section of trees and shrubs.
“This is the Meditation garden,” Louie asserts. “Only thing is, Elvis never meditated
a day in his life,” he grumbles before snapping off some of the tree branches to clear us a
path.
We creep our way slowly through the garden, well I do. Louie just tramples over the
flowers or kicks and displaces the carefully laid out stones with little care for the tranquility
of the place. We near what appears to be the way out, when he crouches down and stops. He
raises a clenched hand in the air, military style, and gives a signal I assume is for me to
kneel and stay quiet, even though all the noise is his.
I look over his shoulder and there, just ahead of us, is the big, white mansion of
Graceland. Several people mill out front posing for photos, while a couple of attendants
check the wrist bands of others. There’s also a security guard patrolling the grounds, with
one mean looking German Shepherd ready to savage would be intruders.
Louie seems not to care, which offers little consolation given his tour approach so far.
He turns to face me.
“So this is how it’s gonna be,” Louie pants at me. “We’ll wait until a tour group
strolls the grounds. Then when no one’s looking, we walk out of here as casual as can be
and wait for them at the bottom of steps, like we’re leading the group. They’ll never suspect
a thing. Now do your best to act cool and fit in,” Louie lectures me.
I want to point out all the holes in this theory–the attendants checking wrist bands,
the security guard, the savage looking watchdog–but just as I am about to speak, sure
enough, a large group walks up the driveway nearing the steps to the entrance.
“Go!”
Without warning, Louie steps out from behind the covers of the trees and half jogs,
half clomps his way towards them. It’s now or never, I say to myself. The irony of that
being an Elvis song is not lost on me when I exit and follow him.
We get to the bottom of the steps and watch as a large group of Korean tourists
saunter up the drive.
“Right this way,” he calls out.
“What was that about fitting in?” I joke.
Louie ignores my dig and waits for his moment. When most of the group have
gathered around in a big congregation, some snapping photos excitedly, he grabs my sleeve
and drags me along. Before I know it, we’re in the middle of the group and rather than be
inconspicuous like I thought we would be, Louie then offers to take photos of four Korean
ladies nearby who are using one of those selfie sticks. Without a chance to say anything, he
proceeds to grab the stick, mangles at the phone attached until he somehow figures out the
right way to take their picture. Once they get over their confusion and hesitancy, the women
all giggle and pose for the camera.
He continues to take photos of the other group members, even though the four
original women want their phone and selfie stick back. The group begins to lurch forward
en masse, Louie holding the selfie stick aloft for them to follow. While one of the mansion’s
ticket attendants gives us a puzzled look, we amble past, until just like that, we’re inside
Graceland.
While he may not have the most conventional of methods, I’ve got to hand it to
Louie, what he lacks in careful planning and organisation of any kind, he more than makes
up for with spontaneity, determination, and desperation.
He leads us through into the main entrance hall and it’s every bit as opulent and
ostentatious as you can imagine, capturing the late seventies in all its vibrant glory. The
place has become both a shrine and a time capsule, representing everything from that period
when Elvis was still alive. In short, a place for people to never let go. It’s almost morbid. I
don’t get to dwell on those thoughts too long when a Graceland attendant and guide starts
the official tour for “our” group.
“Graceland was once part of a 500 acre farm that was owned by the S.E. Toof family.
The land had been part of the family for generations and was named after one of their
female relatives, Grace. According to Graceland history, in 1939, Grace's niece, Ruth
Brown Moore and her husband, Dr. Thomas Moore, built the mansion. The Moore's
daughter, Ruth Marie, was musically accomplished and became a harpist with the Memphis
Symphony Orchestra. Classical recitals in the front formal rooms were common, just as
rock 'n' roll and gospel jam sessions would be after the next owner moved in,” the guide
says, in that flat, monotone voice they speak. It’s enough to bore even the most avid fan.
“In the spring of 1957, at just 22, Elvis Presley purchased the home and grounds for
just over $100,000, after he reached super stardom the year prior,” the unanimated guide
drones on as my eyelids begin to feel heavy.
A team leader of the group then repeats what the guide just said, but in Korean. This
is when Louie seizes the moment to shuffle me through a side door, out of view and ear
shot, from the tour guide and group. For the first time since joining his unofficial tour, I’m
actually thankful.
“You can have that boring, lifeless tour or you can have the real tour,” he says with a
sly smirk.
Louie then turns his jacket inside out before putting it on again. It takes me a minute
to recognise what I’m looking at, but then it dawns on me. It’s a replica jacket. One that
looks exactly like the official Graceland tour guide’s, only Louie’s jacket is more stained
and frayed.
I long ago gave up on any “official” tour, so nothing surprises me anymore with
Louie and his antics. Rather than protest, though I doubt he’d listen anyway, I decide to go
with the flow, especially given the alternative, which would only bore the bloody pants off
me. I have to trust that I don’t come to rue my decision.
Once I decide to embrace it, however, I feel this rapid change almost violently grab
hold of me and sweep through my mind and body. That former, fun and carefree guy that I
used to be (long before life subdued and beat me down), appears to roar back to life. It
cajoles and goads me, telling me to let go, run wild, and enjoy myself for a change. So that’s
exactly what I plan to do.
With no time to catch my breath with this new assertion taking hold of me, Lou
whisks me off to the kitchen, which is not far from where we stand, and opens up the fridge
to help himself to whatever is inside it. I’m amazed at his careless attitude. He opens up one
of the drawers, grabs what I am sure is a genuine knife Elvis used in the 1970s, and
proceeds to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for himself.
“If it’s good enough for the King, it’s good enough for Uncle Louie,” he exclaims
between mouthfuls of sandwich which he spits out in globules while he talks.
Whatever Louie has in store for me, from here on out, I’m all in. One thing I can
almost be certain of after seeing his rudimentary actions and questionable behaviour
firsthand, it shapes to be an unpredictable ride, that’s for sure. I have to wonder whether I
haven’t unleashed my own former immature and irresponsible demons, long buried from
my past, to now run amok in the process. I grit my teeth knowing only time will tell.
Lou ushers me into another room, which is equally as garish as the last. It’s honestly
like a bad LSD nightmare, one where you never get to wake up from 1977! We keep
moving through the home, past another group dying of boredom, who all watch on in
amazement when we walk behind roped off sections, seemingly afforded privileges they
didn’t know existed or could pay for. If only they knew, I think to myself.
Louie leads me to the game room, which is stacked with classic 1970s memorabilia,
key among them, a couple of old-school pinball machines. Despite my hushed protests, and
the gasps of several onlookers, he reaches around the back and flicks the switch on one of
the machines. It takes a few moments to flicker to life, possibly because it’s been decades
since it was last played. But soon enough, that familiar sound of a classic pinball game
comes to life.
The ding and clink of the old metal ball bearing hitting the bumpers and other
zappers is music to my ears, while I watch as the score ticks over. But it soon fades when
Louie isn’t able to save the ball from disappearing back behind the flippers. In frustration,
he bangs the glass top before he gives the machine a kick.
“That game’s always had it in for me,” he bemoans.
I look at previous high scores and see the initials EAP. I assume they stand for Elvis
Aaron Presley.
“Elvis really was the king in more ways than one,” Lou confirms with a certain
fondness.
During the game, I spot the group from last night. A few of the faces recognise me
and look over in bewilderment and wonder why I am getting preferential treatment. I just
smile and wave at them as another tour guide enters the room behind them and notices
Louie by the pinball machine.
“Sir, no one is allowed up there,” he says, almost freaking out that someone dare
break house rules.
“It’s okay, I’m with the Elvis Aaron Presley estate service team,” Louie mumbles,
before he reaches into a pocket of his jacket and holds out what I can only presume is a fake
ID.
He doesn’t wait for a reply, instead, chaperones me away into another room, shoving
other patrons out of his way as he goes, before closing the door behind us.
“Such a stuffy bunch,” he groans.
But I don’t hear him. Instead, I stand incredulous before a floor to ceiling wall of all
the gold and platinum records Elvis secured during his reign at the top of the charts. To say
it’s immense in size, scope, and achievement, is an understatement. Presley had over 20
number one hits on both sides of the Atlantic. Even after he had ceased living, one or two
remixed versions of his songs, still managed to hit the coveted number one spot! A
remarkable feat for a man long dead for over 30 years.
As I stand here in awe, it dawns on me that regardless of the bad taste in furniture
and carpet, he was a phenomenon the likes of which we may never ever see again. It’s
impossible to argue his success, even when his career and health declined. It’s fair to say,
Elvis truly was the King!
I don’t get to savour the moment too long because before I know it, Louie is trying to
wrench one of the hit records from the wall with a screwdriver he’s concealed on him. There
really is no shame to this man. He isn’t able to get very far though, because the gold records
are screwed into the wall with a different screw head than the type he brought with him.
Frustrated, he pockets a nearby ashtray instead and whisks me away before I can say
anything.
I am amazed at this man’s audacity, even more amazed security hasn’t been alerted to
his antics. They’re not short of CCTV cameras that’s for sure. I am certain it is just a matter
of time before they notice him and his reckless abandon in the home of none other than
Elvis Presley. A man during his peak, some think was more powerful than God, and is still
alive.
I can only hazard that maybe the security cameras are more for show than being fully
functional. Either that or perhaps the monitor guard slipped out to get a coffee so the
cameras aren’t being monitored. I don’t concern myself with it as we tag onto the tail end of
another group, who follow one another into a room off to the side like sheep.
We now stand right at the bottom of the big marble staircase, with its steps that lead
upstairs. A sign in front of them reads in big, bold letters, ‘No Entry’. Louie brushes the
sign aside like it’s not even there, and the next thing I know, he heads upstairs without a
care in the world. I furtively follow behind but rather than risk any wrath, I play my part and
turn the sign around. Little do I know though, that on the other side it says, ‘Open’.
I scamper up the stairs to catch up to Louie, who now stands on the top of the landing
and waves down for me to join him.
“Hurry up, I’ve got to take a dump,” he says as he rushes off towards a room out of
view.
With some caution and much trepidation, I follow behind. Is he really about to take a
shit on the King’s throne? Now there’s a vision I could have done without. I can only pray
I’ll be spared that indignity.
“Oh crap, no toilet paper,” I hear from the nearby bathroom.
Please tell me he hasn’t, I mumble to myself.
When I walk in to what is a truly gargantuan bathroom fit for a king, Louie’s in the
middle of zipping up his fly. There’s no flush and I’m not game to peer into the toilet bowl,
but the smell. Holy mother of God! It’s so pungent, my legs buckle momentarily and I’m
forced to grab a nearby towel rail to keep from keeling over. Overcome by the strong,
obnoxious odour, I beat a hasty retreat from the room, all the while questioning Lou’s level
of morality and sanity. I mean, how low one man can go?
When I make my way back out into some much needed fresh air, I just shake my
head at this man’s impudent conduct. Not even during my wildest, impetuous worst, was I
ever this disrespectful, especially in a place as revered as this. Yet as much I am shocked
and disgusted by his behaviour, I am also completely captivated by it. I have to profess; I
actually admire his nonchalance. While it won’t win him many friends, if any, Lou is a man
who plays by nobody’s rules. You have to give kudos to a man who lives like that in this
day and age.
“You just exited the bathroom Elvis died in,” Louie says to me on my way out.
If Louie was anywhere near the vicinity when he passed away, I’d wager the toxic
fumes emanating from the bathroom were what did the King in, not all those deep fried
sandwiches Elvis was rumoured to love.
“Want to see where the King slept and conquered his women?” Louie asks me, before
hastily adding, “After Priscilla left him of course. Have to admire a man who on any given
night could have had his pick from an endless stream of adoring, beautiful female fans who
would throw themselves at him. Of course, that’s not to say a handful of us boys didn’t take
advantage of all those hyper horny women flinging themselves about the place. I mean, how
could we resist? Ah, the fun we had.”
When I look over at him, he’s wearing a smug grin that would put a Cheshire cat to
shame. I want to quiz what Lou did or was to Elvis, but because I don’t want to interrupt his
tale, I hold off on asking him until later.
“But not Elvis, he really loved his wife, and was always faithful. He was devastated
when she asked for a divorce. It was the reason he recorded ‘Always On My Mind’ so soon
after the separation. He was crushed. He needed an outlet, that song was it. Its lyrics spoke
to him on a deep, personal level. Elvis once told me in private, that despite that song going
on to become a worldwide hit, he’d have given it all up if he’d been able to convince
Priscilla from leaving him.”
The reflective thought from Lou hits its own resonant note with me. Despite his
questionable antics and disgraceful behaviour, I am impressed by Louie’s knowledge of the
layout of the house. For someone who was no doubt banned from here many years ago, he
still knows his way around. But it is his personal anecdotes, that make me wonder whether
Louie had indeed been much closer to Elvis than I ever gave him credit for.
“Lou? How did you come to know Elvis?”
“You got your question wrong way round, kiddo. The better question is, how did
Elvis come to know me?”
Before I can rephrase it, he’s already answering for me.
“He was the loner kid at school, a real mollycoddled momma’s boy. No joke! I was
the popular up and coming guitar wiz. Everybody loved me. Somehow, we both ended up at
this country fair music contest. Neither of us won. They awarded it to some Mary-Sue type
with curls like Shirley Temple, who sang Good Ship Lollipop. She only won because she
was the mayor’s daughter. But one thing led to another, and we became good friends,
exchanging records, guitar chords, and song ideas as we grew up. Then Elvis got a lucky
break when I was laid up in hospital with rickets. While performing at another contest, some
bloke who called himself a Colonel despite never fighting in a war, offered to manage him. I
thought Elvis was crazy for agreeing to a deal that gave this guy fifty percent of earnings
from his first recordings. I offered to shepherd his recording with plans to impress people
with my much better talent and secure my own record deal, because let’s be honest, I was
the better muso, Elvis even said so, you know?”
I give Lou a dubious sideways glance.
“Truth to god, he did. Anyway, Sam ‘Shyster’ Phillips, the owner of Sun Studios,
took one look at me and my bow legs, and locked me out of the session, thinking I was
some juvenile delinquent out to steal something. Elvis didn’t realise until it was over. Next
thing you know, he’s an overnight sensation on the back of those recordings, and I’m treated
like some no good bozo busking in the street. Elvis felt bad after that, he told me that. So he
kept me on as his personal roadie to haul his guitars and bags about the place. I taught him
his signature ‘rubber legs’ dance move, on account of my bowed legs, but when no one
would take me seriously, I sank into depression and alcoholism. I was no good to anyone,
but Elvis kept me on his team. He used to get a lot of flack for that, but we were buddies. He
confided in me so many times when everyone else was out to take, take, take from him
because he trusted me. It’s crazy to think I was propping him up while I was at my lowest,”
Lou laments.
As we walk into the lavish bedroom, I can’t help but feel a little remorse, both for
Elvis who had surrounded himself with so many vacuous people, most who no doubt
leeched off his fame and success, but also for Louie. Despite all his obvious flaws, he really
did know plenty about Elvis, which most people seemed to have discredited him for. If
things had turned out very different, who knows where both might have ended up.
There’s no time to reflect, however, because just when I thought this tour couldn’t get
any crazier, Louie is now jumping up and down on the bed like a child.
“Come on,” he said. “The King wouldn’t mind. This is how he used to get ladies to
loosen up before he had sex with ‘em.”
I hesitate a minute, more out of respect for Elvis than anything, before further
embracing my inner child. I then let go and join Louie on the bed and bounce right
alongside him.
“Elvis would have liked you,” Louie says in a moment of sincerity. “You’re a risk
taker, rabble-rouser, and fun-seeker.”
Whether true or not, I am touched by the genuine sentiment. Here I am, jumping on
Elvis’s bed, in his home, with a guy who clearly knew him, and regardless of a sour deal or
not with Sun Studios and Sam Phillips that may never have been, you can’t help but like the
guy.
We’re soon interrupted by a small group of people who’ve also wandered upstairs. I
stop what I’m doing but Louie doesn’t, nor does he even apologise.
“The King wanted everyone who came here to have fun,” he broadcasts to the
dumbstruck onlookers.
Somehow the “official” guide jacket seems to empower a few of the visitors, one or
two of who now join us up on the bed and jump alongside us, squealing with delight.
“You!” an angry voice says that stops us cold.
When I turn around, standing there in the bedroom doorway and blocking our only
way out, is a male authority figure who looks like the head of security, and boy is he furious.
“How many times must you be told that not only are you banned for life from here,
but prohibited from being within ten miles?” he shouts, his face blowing up like an enraged
baboon.
“You’ve some nerve after the last time,” he continues.
Louie knows the jig is up and true to form, rather than take the wrap, he just points at
me.
“This is the asshole you want. He’s the one who forced me back here,” he says before
he rips off his fake jacket and tosses it back in the face of the guard, temporarily impairing
his vision, before he makes a mad dash past him and back down the flight of stairs.
The guard runs after him, which allows me to escape and make my way to the top of
the landing. Down below, I can’t help but laugh as I watch this old, fat man, run around
Elvis’s grand piano making sure to glide his fingers across all the untouched, dusty keys,
while the guard gives chase around it.
I’m not sure whether to make a bolt for the mansion’s exit or stay, because despite
the trouble I might end up in, I’m having a blast watching Lou get chased round and round
the piano, much to the delight and amusement of other onlookers, with some cheering him
on. While I haven’t laughed this hard in ages, in the end I decide the punishment is not
worth the risk, so I leg it out of Graceland. I almost run head first into the side of a taxi
that’s waiting for someone. Rather than face the prospect of being caught, I take Louie’s
courage with me and dive into the backseat.
“Mississippi River Front Motel and fast,” I yell at the driver who stares back in a
state of shock at my hurried entrance.
Hesitant, the taxi driver starts to pull away as he eyes me with suspicion in his
rearview mirror. I turn around just as Louie exits the building, somehow evading two
security guards on the steps. Eventually, he’s encircled by five other security guards who
now surround him. I watch on as most of the tourists out front hold up their phones to
record the event. He may not be Elvis, but he’s about to have more hits than the King ever
did, thanks to videos that go viral on social media, I chuckle to myself.
I catch the taxi driver avert his stare beyond me.
“Friend of yours?”
I take a minute to think about it, then reply, “Nah, he’s just some silly old bugger
who thinks he taught Elvis a trick or two.”
About the Author
MARK T. RASMUSSEN is an Australian author born by the sea, cultivated in
the city, formed via the world. Previously a professional journalist and
editor, Mark now writes evocative, thought provoking subject matter for his
adult novels and screenplays, and fun, captivating, thoughtful books for
children. An avid adventurer, he currently lives in a remote Mexican
seaside-jungle village with his beautiful & brilliant, author wife, and
youngest son, finding it an idyllic piece of paradise to read, write, and
love. For more info visit: MarkTRasmussen.com
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