toward the Freedom.
After moving as stealthily as possible, Elvis made it to a house next door to the Freedom, hiding in the hedges in front of the home. He decided the best thing to do was to just walk into the gas station and not hesitate. The sooner he could get into the bathroom, the better. He just hoped that the old man wouldn't prevent him from going into the bathroom in some way. Would the cops be there waiting?
As Elvis walked up to the Freedom, he noticed that the lights inside were off, and the gas attendant was no longer outside in his uniform. It appeared the gas station was closed! He pulled on the doors and confirmed the Freedom was closed. The posted hours showed they closed on Fridays at 8pm. He knocked on the door, hoping maybe someone was still inside that would let him in. He didn't know what he would say, but it was worth a try. He had no other ideas.
Just then, he heard a car from behind him, then a second and a third. The lot was awash in bright headlights and police car lights!
“Freeze!” a loud authoritative voice cried out. “Get down on the ground, or I'll shoot!”
Elvis slowly turned around, hoping no one got trigger-happy. He made sure his hands were up high.
Just then, a shot rang out as he jerked back against the doors. A rookie cop thought he saw Elvis reach for a gun in the dim light. He was hit in the left shoulder. The pain was intense. Then another shot – and another. Elvis was now down on the asphalt in front of the Freedom; blood pouring from his wounds. Lying on his back, all the noise around him began to muffle as a feeling of peace swept over him. Elvis couldn't help but smile while his vision slowly dimmed, as one of the police squad cars was playing Hound Dog on the radio.
Across town at the Bloomington drive-in, his parents Odell and Daphne were on their fifth date and having sex in the back seat of Odell's Pontiac Chiefton. Little Elvis was being conceived as 24-year-old Elvis was bleeding out in the parking lot of the Freedom Oil gas station, a cool summer evening breeze soothing him as he passed on to the other side.
The Jesus Tree
1
I don’t think I will live to see another day. From the sound of it, they’ve got my house surrounded. If you could hear the creaking of the sturdy wood frame of this 60-year-old home, you just might understand my predicament. I don’t expect anyone to grasp the extreme peril that I am currently in. The candlelight I’m using is flickering now, and as the boards moan and groan under the tremendous pressure, I know time is short. I’ve taken to writing down the events that have led to this moment. There is a neat stack of papers I’ve got in the side table drawer next to my makeshift bed. I’m going to try and stay awake all night to finish what has taken me nearly a month to compile; however, at my advanced age and condition, that has become increasingly difficult. My breathing is shallow, and I can feel the beating of my heart weaken with every stroke of the pen.
They say that there are no atheists in fox holes. I believe that now more than ever. I never was much of a religious person (much to the distress of my mother), but after what started in July of 1925, I changed my mind. It didn’t take long for me to seek out the help of the clergy when things started to go wrong. With all their good intentions, even the men of the cloth weren’t able to do much more than prolong the agony a little.
I need to tell my story, as difficult as it may be, so that people know what happened to Franklin Phillip Manville. I believe that once they are done with me, there will be nothing left. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust will be the literal end for this miserable thing I’ve endured called life. I can’t blame anyone but myself for all of this.
After moving as stealthily as possible, Elvis made it to a house next door to the Freedom, hiding in the hedges in front of the home. He decided the best thing to do was to just walk into the gas station and not hesitate. The sooner he could get into the bathroom, the better. He just hoped that the old man wouldn't prevent him from going into the bathroom in some way. Would the cops be there waiting?
As Elvis walked up to the Freedom, he noticed that the lights inside were off, and the gas attendant was no longer outside in his uniform. It appeared the gas station was closed! He pulled on the doors and confirmed the Freedom was closed. The posted hours showed they closed on Fridays at 8pm. He knocked on the door, hoping maybe someone was still inside that would let him in. He didn't know what he would say, but it was worth a try. He had no other ideas.
Just then, he heard a car from behind him, then a second and a third. The lot was awash in bright headlights and police car lights!
“Freeze!” a loud authoritative voice cried out. “Get down on the ground, or I'll shoot!”
Elvis slowly turned around, hoping no one got trigger-happy. He made sure his hands were up high.
Just then, a shot rang out as he jerked back against the doors. A rookie cop thought he saw Elvis reach for a gun in the dim light. He was hit in the left shoulder. The pain was intense. Then another shot – and another. Elvis was now down on the asphalt in front of the Freedom; blood pouring from his wounds. Lying on his back, all the noise around him began to muffle as a feeling of peace swept over him. Elvis couldn't help but smile while his vision slowly dimmed, as one of the police squad cars was playing Hound Dog on the radio.
Across town at the Bloomington drive-in, his parents Odell and Daphne were on their fifth date and having sex in the back seat of Odell's Pontiac Chiefton. Little Elvis was being conceived as 24-year-old Elvis was bleeding out in the parking lot of the Freedom Oil gas station, a cool summer evening breeze soothing him as he passed on to the other side.
The Jesus Tree
1
I don’t think I will live to see another day. From the sound of it, they’ve got my house surrounded. If you could hear the creaking of the sturdy wood frame of this 60-year-old home, you just might understand my predicament. I don’t expect anyone to grasp the extreme peril that I am currently in. The candlelight I’m using is flickering now, and as the boards moan and groan under the tremendous pressure, I know time is short. I’ve taken to writing down the events that have led to this moment. There is a neat stack of papers I’ve got in the side table drawer next to my makeshift bed. I’m going to try and stay awake all night to finish what has taken me nearly a month to compile; however, at my advanced age and condition, that has become increasingly difficult. My breathing is shallow, and I can feel the beating of my heart weaken with every stroke of the pen.
They say that there are no atheists in fox holes. I believe that now more than ever. I never was much of a religious person (much to the distress of my mother), but after what started in July of 1925, I changed my mind. It didn’t take long for me to seek out the help of the clergy when things started to go wrong. With all their good intentions, even the men of the cloth weren’t able to do much more than prolong the agony a little.
I need to tell my story, as difficult as it may be, so that people know what happened to Franklin Phillip Manville. I believe that once they are done with me, there will be nothing left. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust will be the literal end for this miserable thing I’ve endured called life. I can’t blame anyone but myself for all of this.
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