Read Online Last Ride to Graceland by Kim Wright - Free Book Online

in a tow truck, and this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve disappointed Bradley and Gerry and they always seem to get over it. And at the rate the Blackhawk is guzzling gas, I’ve probably got just enough money to . . .
    Just as I’m thinking all this, and half envying this guy who’s setting up for a gig he probably hates, my eye falls on a chalkboard sign advertising Elvis Presley milkshakes. It’s got to be some sort of sign. A sign that’s on a sign. That’s the best kind. Apparently, the milkshakes are made from banana ice cream and peanut butter with a straw made out of candied bacon. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, unless you count the beer, and the thought of an Elvis Presley milkshake sounds so good my stomach rumbles.
    Seven dollars.
    What the hell. I’m starving and there’s no point in going either backward or forward tonight and besides, several people at the sidewalk tables have dogs with them. Of course, they have little well-groomed, well-trained city dogs, not some wild-eyed stray coonhound kind of creature who is straining so hard he’s about to break his cheap Walmart leash.
    â€œYou’re going to have to be good,” I say to the dog, who has no response, and I sit down at the table nearest the singer. He glances over at me.
    â€œHow long have you worked here?” I ask him.
    He has to stop and think, poor bastard. “Six years.”
    â€œYou ever hear of a place called the Juicy Lucy? I think it’s probably some kind of diner. And it’s been around a real long time. Maybe forty years.”
    He shakes his head. “I’m not a local. Dave here is a local.”
    Dave, who must be my server, is approaching with water and menu in hand. I wave him back before he can get close enough for the dog to bite him and we go through the wholeJuicy Lucy’s bit again even though it’s beginning to dawn on me that what I need to find is not just a local, but an old local, or at least someone older than me and these guys. Someone who’d remember the seventies.
    Dave’s never heard of the Juicy Lucy either, but he says one of the cooks has been around forever and he might know. Then he asks, all sticky sweet like a good server, “But why are you looking for some greasy diner? We have the best food in town.”
    The trouble is, I don’t know exactly why I’m looking for the place, aside from the fact my mother once ate food from there. I don’t know what I’m looking for at all, or what questions I’ll ask when I find it. It seems that I must not merely return the car to Graceland, but retrace the steps of Mama’s whole trip, that the explanation for why she ran away is somehow buried beneath the question of how she ran and I’m going to have to dig through the trash of one to get to the truth of the other. The server and the musician are still looking at me, so I stall.
    â€œIs that Elvis Presley milkshake really worth seven dollars?” I ask.
    The musician answers. “It’d be worth $107,” he says. “It’s scary good.”
    â€œThen bring me one,” I say, and as the dog jumps up against the table in a doomed attempt to eat the salt shaker, inspiration strikes. “My mother used to work at the Juicy Lucy back in the day,” I say. “And she talked about the place all the time. I even named my dog Lucy, so I just thought it’d be funny to take a picture of the dog standing in front of the restaurant.”
    The server and the musician seem to more or less accept this explanation, even though all this leaping has provided evidence beyond dispute that the dog in question is male. But I guess no matter how much stuff he’s got flopping around in the breeze, he’s Lucy for life now, and someday this will be a funny story, if I ever find the right person to tell it to. The singer goes back to setting up his equipment. The server goes to