Afternoon vs. Evening.
A perennial habitué of the afternoon, I am more used to the ebb and surge of background noise as lunch hour begins, then the second rush. Then, there is a lull, then it is 1:00PM. One o’clock is the new noon. That is when all the Air Bnbs in the neighborhood have to check out. A person has to eat.
Evening is different. It is a constant stream of chitter chatter.
I am thinking about a conversation I had this afternoon with this guy and his wife about Tupelo, Mississippi, the birthplace of Elvis. He wanted to talk. There are worse topics.
The wife was a big Elvis fan. She loved that everyone calls me Mr. King. I cannot help my name. She was disappointed that I didn't share her reverence for the King of Rock n Roll. They have been toTupelo more than once. The husband told me she always cries when they visit his boyhood home. They make sure, every time, to stand in the same spot Elvis got his first guitar.
"I cannot tell you how many times we have been to Graceland," the husband told me in an aside.
When I was in Tupelo with Mrs. King, a big motorcycle rally was in town. They had taken all the good hotel rooms that Mrs. King would have preferred. We stayed in a $39.99 Hindu motel off the main strip, which is where I would have stayed to begin with. Everything about the place mortified my better half.
The motel was down the street from a local steakhouse. We ate there. It was really good.
This is what I know of Tupelo. I have only seen it in the dark, passing through. I remember a lot of neon. It was nice. It was night.
After the paywall we will get to Part VIII of the Little Metairie saga. You really should become a paid subscriber. You don’t know what you are missing. Everything gets even better than this.