Iranian girl. But here there was no other interpretation. ‘You are so New York,’ one of Robin’s friends said, though I couldn’t bring myself to get her to elaborate. I took it as a compliment.
One place they seemed determined to take me was Graceland Too. At first I thought this was because I told them I’d been to Graceland – perhaps they thought I was an Elvis fanatic – but then it became clear to me: it was a major destination. Thirty miles north of Oxford, in Holly Springs, there was apparently a private home that was its own informal Elvis museum, a sort of shrine to the man by an eccentric guy named Paul McLeod who stayed up 24 hours a day they said to give these ‘tours.’
It was apparently also something students in town did after drinking. That entire evening at a local bar, beers would appear in front of me, with someone, usually her friend Josh, shaking his head and saying, ‘Trust me, you’re gonna need it.’
We made it there well into the early hours of the morning. Indeed the rumors of the owner having altered his face surgically to resemble Elvis seemed true – at least, a very Elvis-looking man greeted us at the door of this ramshackle home, collected $5 from each of us, and then spent what felt like many, many hours talking at us nonstop, as he took us from room to room filled floor to ceiling with Elvis memorabilia, from stamps to books to albums to dolls to seemingly anything imaginable that was Elvis-themed. I remember at one point it felt like we’d never get out, but then somehow eventually we did. (The story had a strange end far beyond our imagination: In July 2014, McLeod was found dead on the Graceland Too porch, two days after fatally shooting a visitor who appeared to be a burglar.)
On the car ride back, I remember being in the backseat withJosh, an Alabama grad student who seemed impossibly foreign to me, and resting my head on his shoulder as I fell asleep. ‘Welcome to the South,’ I remember him laughing. I must have snapped into consciousness and said something because I remember him telling me, ‘And your adventure is just about to begin.’
I came to the adventure in the name of William Faulkner, but soon it was clear to me that Jimmy Faulkner was the real adventure. For the next 10 days, this man became a daily part of my life.
‘Good morning, Pia,’ he’d say at 7am, which felt late to him because he always got up at 5. ( Farmer’s hours , Bill explained to me, even though he was not a farmer and never had been.)
I became this Italian New York girl Pia who had a fancy job in publishing – he kept forgetting I was a student and instead focused on my magazine internship. As much as I’d tell him I was an intern and had no power, he’d insist it was an important job. At times, I worried he thought I was a key to him getting a potential book by John Faulkner published; I started to think that was why he was interested in driving me for hours all around the county, showing me ‘secret Faulkner spots,’ but Bill told me he’d occasionally take a liking to a visitor and give them the extended tour. Hearing that, I felt somehow relieved that I was not special, or less likely to be special.
We’d go to all sorts of places. One afternoon he drove us to the banks of the Tallahatchie River. Some of his friends were there and they looked like they were pacing, looking for something. ‘Confederate gold,’ Jimmy explained, and soon I saw several had metal detectors. ‘They say there’s something,’ Jimmy went on, half-heartedly, like someone who maybe knew better or maybe not.
Another day we’d be in the cemetery, where he’d be telling me stories about obscure relatives. Or in his home, where he’d show me Confederate currency in a sock drawer and then make me an afternoon omelet. Or we’d be at a truck stop diner – a thing in the South, I realized! – where I’d listen to his endless stories while discovering the joys of collards and candied yams
One place they seemed determined to take me was Graceland Too. At first I thought this was because I told them I’d been to Graceland – perhaps they thought I was an Elvis fanatic – but then it became clear to me: it was a major destination. Thirty miles north of Oxford, in Holly Springs, there was apparently a private home that was its own informal Elvis museum, a sort of shrine to the man by an eccentric guy named Paul McLeod who stayed up 24 hours a day they said to give these ‘tours.’
It was apparently also something students in town did after drinking. That entire evening at a local bar, beers would appear in front of me, with someone, usually her friend Josh, shaking his head and saying, ‘Trust me, you’re gonna need it.’
We made it there well into the early hours of the morning. Indeed the rumors of the owner having altered his face surgically to resemble Elvis seemed true – at least, a very Elvis-looking man greeted us at the door of this ramshackle home, collected $5 from each of us, and then spent what felt like many, many hours talking at us nonstop, as he took us from room to room filled floor to ceiling with Elvis memorabilia, from stamps to books to albums to dolls to seemingly anything imaginable that was Elvis-themed. I remember at one point it felt like we’d never get out, but then somehow eventually we did. (The story had a strange end far beyond our imagination: In July 2014, McLeod was found dead on the Graceland Too porch, two days after fatally shooting a visitor who appeared to be a burglar.)
On the car ride back, I remember being in the backseat withJosh, an Alabama grad student who seemed impossibly foreign to me, and resting my head on his shoulder as I fell asleep. ‘Welcome to the South,’ I remember him laughing. I must have snapped into consciousness and said something because I remember him telling me, ‘And your adventure is just about to begin.’
I came to the adventure in the name of William Faulkner, but soon it was clear to me that Jimmy Faulkner was the real adventure. For the next 10 days, this man became a daily part of my life.
‘Good morning, Pia,’ he’d say at 7am, which felt late to him because he always got up at 5. ( Farmer’s hours , Bill explained to me, even though he was not a farmer and never had been.)
I became this Italian New York girl Pia who had a fancy job in publishing – he kept forgetting I was a student and instead focused on my magazine internship. As much as I’d tell him I was an intern and had no power, he’d insist it was an important job. At times, I worried he thought I was a key to him getting a potential book by John Faulkner published; I started to think that was why he was interested in driving me for hours all around the county, showing me ‘secret Faulkner spots,’ but Bill told me he’d occasionally take a liking to a visitor and give them the extended tour. Hearing that, I felt somehow relieved that I was not special, or less likely to be special.
We’d go to all sorts of places. One afternoon he drove us to the banks of the Tallahatchie River. Some of his friends were there and they looked like they were pacing, looking for something. ‘Confederate gold,’ Jimmy explained, and soon I saw several had metal detectors. ‘They say there’s something,’ Jimmy went on, half-heartedly, like someone who maybe knew better or maybe not.
Another day we’d be in the cemetery, where he’d be telling me stories about obscure relatives. Or in his home, where he’d show me Confederate currency in a sock drawer and then make me an afternoon omelet. Or we’d be at a truck stop diner – a thing in the South, I realized! – where I’d listen to his endless stories while discovering the joys of collards and candied yams
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