The day we arrive, Elvis’s grandmother is sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch. She is gracious, her eyes squinting from the pull of a warm smile. An old hound sprawls beside her, and a white kitten plays beneath the rocker. We stand in the yard under the shade of two large oaks that have somehow been necklaced with white tractor tires. The porch and various items on it seem archly colored in toyish hues. There is the not unpleasant sensation that we have stumbled upon a putt-putt golf course sized for giants.

“They just love each other so much,” Elvis’s grandmother explains of the hound and the kitten. “Sometimes that little dawg’ll just reach out one of his little paws and hug the little kitten.” The hound cocks an eye but does not hug the kitten. It would be interesting to see as much since the hound’s legs are only a few inches long. We watch for awhile, but then Elvis’s grandmother rises and fingers her bee-hive doo. “Y’all go on around. I’ll tell Elvis yer coming.”

When we walk around the front door opens, but we see nothing. After a few anxious seconds a tall, pale figure clothed in black emerges. We hear a voice, and then the figure vanishes. It was Elvis, we surmise, come and gone in an instant, elusive as a vampire. We stare uncertainly at the house. But his directions were clear: we were to wait a minute, if we didn’t mind, while he got things prepared. We wait.

Suddenly he returns, ready to give us a tour and to pose for photographs. To tell the truth, he looks younger than expected, but with the camera lens upon him, his mien is strictly business. He achieves a memorable pout seemingly without effort. Then, as suddenly, he is friendly again, just like the other Elvis. Of course, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod knows a lot about Elvis Aaron Presley, as one might imagine.

“Welcome to GracelandToo,” Elvis says, his voice staged dramatically. “The house was built in 1853, and now it is the world’s largest Elvis archive and shrine. And we’re always open. The sign out front says noon to eight, but we listed those hours just to please city officials. We’re actually open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, rain or shine.”

“You mean you never close? Someone can take a tour at four in the morning?”

Elvis looks at me as if he already knew I would ask him such questions. “That’s right, Scott, just last night I gave a tour at three in the morning, perhaps they were friends of yours, because they were from Oxford.” Elvis rattles off three names I don’t recognize.

“You remember their names?” our intrepid editor ventures.

“That’s right, Marc, I’m pretty good with names.”

We are walking into the house, still watching Elvis. He stands six feet and five inches and is twenty years old. At just over two hundred and forty pounds, his build is that of an offensive lineman, but he’s pale and possessed of jet black hair teased into a reckless pompadour. And there is this: he moves with the presence of an entertainer. Getting from point A to point B is a stylized event. Football is the last thing a person would think of.

He wears black ankle-high boots with zippers, I notice, maybe because of the song. I cannot tell what brand they are though. Only a quick glance is possible because, simply put, it is hard to keep one’s eyes grounded for very long. From every wall and corner, every shelf space, crowding every table and chair, and even on the ceilings—Elvis, Elvis, Elvis! Can 10,000,000 Presley artifacts be wrong? Well, they can at least be overwhelming. There is the persistent feeling that something could happen at any moment, that one should keep one’s eyes peeled, so to speak. One is riveted by the entire production, one is captivated; one is, quite frankly, a little spooked.

Consider the view from the street: the white wooden boards of the manse are slightly bowed. Green indoor/outdoor carpeting blankets the front porch. Links of black chain hang from metal stakes to protect the grass. Miniature cement lions face the street while lacking even rudimentary pedestals from which to inspire awe—they must instead content themselves with whatever skewed nobility they might find out on the lawn where any neighborhood dog can harass them. Maybe I should mention the windows.

The second floor windows of the antebellum two-story are covered with pink and yellow drapes. I don’t know why Elvis didn’t use tinfoil and don’t much feel like asking him. Maybe tinfoil reminds him of those sad old days at the Baptist Memorial Hospital in Memphis, maybe the windows are his daddy’s idea, I can’t say for sure. Elvis’s daddy, Paul B. MacLeod, a man described as “The World’s Number One Elvis Fan,” is busy giving another group a tour. We hear him barking Elvis data down the hall. He is a very intense man who would surely suggest that 10,000,000 Elvis artifacts are simply not enough Elvis artifacts. And he would want it to read ELVIS artifacts.

Anyway, the windows are not a problem because the colors lend the place a decadent charm, and since there are two hot pink signs in the front yard, I suppose there are the inevitable constraints of taste to contend with. One cannot be too careful about these things. Tinfoil probably wouldn’t look right, not with the shutters and their generous coat of black, glossy paint that sparkles in the sunlight. As it stands, the house looks something like New Orleans camp, a quality I never thought possible until the day I drove to Holly Springs, Mississippi, and met Elvis and saw where he lives. GracelandToo is clearly what David Lynch has always had on his mind, yet if he ever saw GracelandToo he’d realize his movies never really come close.

Naturally, the first room of the tour is the foyer—waste not want not. In the foyer we are confronted by the “Stairway to Elvis,” a stairway that doubles as a showcase for various Elvis dolls and license plates, and leads to a free-standing cardboard Elvis. The ceiling and walls are papered with posters, and on the floor are boxes loaded with over a thousand brightly colored vinyl notebooks amounting to an Elvis archive: in these notebooks the mere mention of Elvis Presley’s name on a television or radio show will be duly recorded. “That’s right, there are notebooks for magazine articles about Elvis, newspaper clippings, special events, radio shows, and, of course, a catalogue of the times he has been mentioned on television. For instance”—Elvis MacLeod stoops and retrieves a notebook—“on September ninth, at six forty-three Central time, on Entertainment Tonight, CBS, the actor Christian Slater talked about how he became a big Elvis fan while filming the movie True Romance. In the movie Val Kilmer plays Elvis’s ghost and gives Slater advice.”

“You say there are over a thousand?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s right, Scott, over a thousand, I guess you could say they love us at Wal-Mart. We’re pretty much in there all the time buying these notebooks because the documentation just keeps going."

He must be right. The collection of documentation and memorabilia is terribly dense, and yet the tour has only begun.

Suddenly Elvis is talking at breakneck speed: “Okay, ifeveryone ’sready,wecanbeginourtour.” And right he is to ask if we are ready, because once the tour starts, it seems there’s no stopping it. The feeling is of being on a roller-coaster. Having slowly crept to the top of the first drop, the car nips over the edge. It is too late to turn back, the plunge has begun.

If the tour must be dated to a period in Elvis Presley’s life, it would clearly belong to the Vegas Years. The tour is grand, and Elvis MacLeod is a showman with a lilting voice. It is indeed possible for rapid-fire locutions to be characterized as lilting. So long as the delivery is pitched at such velocity that the time which elapses between words is minimal, a remarkable continuity is achieved. Elvis has that kind of voice, that kind of speed. His manner does not irritate, however; it lures and seduces, serving as a necessary relaxant in the madcap world of GracelandToo. Given GracelandToo, it is entirely appropriate that a young man named Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod should issue Elvis data as fast as an auctioneer and that, furthermore, it should be relaxing. There is about MacLeod the mocking stride of a lounge lizard, the flair of a big tent announcer at the circus, though again, the speed separates him from the rest of the pack. No doubt about it, he has charm, and more, he’s got his tour down to a dizzying science.

There comes a question from Elvis: “Look closely at the poster over there, now, can anyone tell me what is wrong with that poster?” The poster says, Las Vegas, but, Elvis M. informs us, the photograph is actually from Elvis P.’s Aloha From Hawaii concert, the first satellite broadcast in history and the most watched television broadcast in history with over a billion viewers. “More people watched Elvis than watched the first man on the moon.” And why not? Elvis looks better in costume than Neil Armstrong.

One wonders how often the marketing folks get it wrong; how many incorrectly titled posters are there? It is a reasonable question. A recording of Mozart’s unfinished Requiem in D minor that I purchased in Vienna, the very capital of classical music, which featured the sublime voices of the Vienna Choir Boys, no less, lists Agnus Dei as Angus Dei, not once but twice. Is one to infer a radical new interpretation that focuses on a certain breed of cattle and God? Well, Mozart, poor soul, would not have to suffer such indignities if Paul and Elvis MacLeod were looking out for him. But Paul and Elvis are looking out for Number One, the King. This is yet another aspect of what GracelandToo is all about—stopping disinformation concerning the King.

And their efforts have teeth. These two are as diligent as they come. F. Lee Bailey and Alan Dershowitz combined could not do a better job. All over the house are the vinyl notebooks, and in addition to the notebooks there are boxes of TV Guides with colored plastic paper clips marking Elvis movies, television specials, movies that refer to Elvis, et cetera, et cetera. Yes, hundreds of TV Guides, each one swollen with paper clips.

“If it’s about Elvis, chances are you’ll find it right here. We’ve had people from Switzerland come over to film us for a documentary they were doing on Elvis. It was for Swiss TV, a cable company over there. In addition to being in the documentary, our segments opened and closed the documentary. And we always get calls from people and organizations wanting to get their facts straight. Of course, some don’t bother to consult us,” Elvis hams up a tremendous grin and arch of eyebrow, “and they get their facts wrong a lot of the time too.”

Elvis M. leads us into a room designated as the library. In addition to all of the vinyl notebooks, it houses some extraordinary Elvis P. rarities. Here we find the first Elvis trading cards from 1956, three unused admission tickets from his last concert dated 27 August 1977, and, according to the MacLeods, the most valuable record in the world—a 45 recording of a 1956 interview conducted by TV Guide. There is no music on the 45, and a mere four questions are asked, one of them about Elvis’s pelvis. The flip side contains nothing at all, not so much as a solitary groove. Just fifteen were produced. The one Elvis and his father have is number fifteen. It has been played only once.

From the library we enter a room of television sets and Elvis P. photographs. This must be control central, I’m thinking; Elvis Monitoring Headquarters right in the heart of GracelandToo. And as GracelandToo is near the heart of Holly Springs, and Holly Springs is half way between Tupelo, Mississippi, Elvis P.’s birthplace, and Memphis, Tennessee, where he lived and died, in an Elvis world, I might be as centered as possible Elvis-wise.

At one end of the room there is a brick fireplace which has been painted gold, and inside the fireplace sit bright red logs. A rhinestone studded concert belt made by Elvis’s belt-maker, Mike MacGregor, who lives about fifty miles down the road in Water Valley, hangs from the mantle; there are a few family photographs of Elvis M., father Paul, and grandmother. Paul MacLeod and Elvis’s mother are no longer married, and there are no photo- graphs of her.

An entire side of the room is afflicted with televisions and VCR’s. I walk over to examine them but again hear father Paul, still working his tour, blasting out Elvis facts and figures. Paul MacLeod is a powerfully built man whose zeal for Elvis P. is intimidating. He progresses down a hallway sounding fairly animated about something, but I can’t make out the conversation. I later learn he claims to have been locked in Elvis P.’s mausoleum, for one thing, and in the hallway he usually talks about this. It turns out that the day of the funeral—this is before Elvis’s body was removed from Forrest Hills Cemetery to the original Graceland because there had been several attempted grave robberies—Paul and a reporter were accidently locked inside the mausoleum, where they remained for several hours until a security guard released them. I suppose that would elicit emotion in just about anybody.

Of course, his other hallway story is as good. Seems Paul had a Bell and Howell Super 8 mm. camera on him a few hours before Elvis died and filmed him riding his Harley Davidson at approximately two-thirty in the morning. Elvis, who was suffering from insomnia, followed his motorcycle ride with a trip to the exercise room where he played racketball, and then sat at the piano to play the last songs of his life: “Unchained Melody” and “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” After this he died. It is reasonable to assume, as Paul MacLeod does, that this footage is the last taken of Elvis.

Above the mantle I spot various press photographs of Elvis P., but then I see that photographs of Elvis M. and Paul have been cunningly mixed into the layout.

“Scott,” I hear. It’s Elvis calling. I’ve been drugged by the visuals and have drifted off, and good fellow that he is, Elvis comes to my rescue. “When the people from CNN were here and I was talking this fast, giving out all this information, they called me ‘the Rainman’,” he remarks. CNN calling Elvis MacLeod Rainman is decidedly humorless, condescending and typical; Elvis MacLeod referring to the remark as a footnote to the torrid flow of Elvis data is humorous, and more, it shows a self-awareness that has unfortunately escaped too many chroniclers of the South and her unusual progeny. Flannery O’Connor knew a freak when she saw one—CNN and much of the national media show no talent for making this distinction. The point is considerable, because the truth is, what is one to expect of a person named Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod who lives in GracelandToo? As foolish as it is to relegate the entire venture to freak status is to pretend there is nothing very unusual about there being a GracelandToo. Putting the relativists’ slide rule—an instrument long as Pinnochio’s nose—aside for a sober moment, most people know better. Yet listening to Elvis talking, it is clear that there is more going on than meets the eye, that things are perhaps not out of control. The situation is curious, and it brings to mind nagging questions.

“I have a normal life, Scott, just like anyone else. This happens to be what I do, and I’m lucky enough to be able to do something I enjoy very much. This is a better job than any other I can think of.”

“But what was it like growing up with your father? I mean, he’s a pretty big fan of Elvis.”

Here are the questions I really want to ask: Were you forced to like Elvis Presley? Did you have a normal childhood? Could you, say, have played professional football instead of giving these tours? Did you ever rebel against Elvis? And what of being named Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod—do you like that?

Elvis musters a sad smile and looks off. Then he meets my eyes again. “My childhood was pretty normal, I guess. I was able to do whatever I wanted. I’m not weird, Scott. I’d rather do this than be an attorney. I don’t have to do this—I like doing it. The fact is I like Elvis. Even if my Dad had not been such a big fan I would have eventually heard Elvis on my own and become a fan myself. He’s simply the greatest entertainer that ever lived. There’s never been anyone like him so far in the history of the world, and there probably never will be again. They did a marketing survey once, and the three most recognizable names in the world were Jesus Christ, Coca-Cola, and Elvis Presley.”

It is uncanny how Elvis knows what it is a person wants to really ask. As we talked over the course of the afternoon, he anticipated questions, or saw through false questions, ascertaining the true ones again and again. He is keenly aware that what he is doing might incite strange looks in some quarters, but he couldn’t care less.

“I’m not weird, Scott,” he repeats, and I begin to feel ignorant and judgemental and wish we could just talk about Elvis Presley, the Sun Years, the Vegas Years, any of the years.

“It’s just that some people would think this was unusual,” I say defensively.

“It is unusual. I wouldn’t be giving tours if it wasn’t, I’ll tell you that.”

True enough. So why can’t I leave it alone? It is the eye that is abused into misperception I think. Elvis M. wears his Elvis P. costume—has the jet black hair, the boots. He will pout for the camera, patiently, without irony. Yet here and there he says the most remarkable things, and one begins to really warm to him, to like him, and most of all, one is driven to call him over and say, “Hey, come-on, what do you really think about all this?”

“See this?” Elvis shows me his knuckles. Scars are in evidence. “There’s always somebody who wants to say something about my name or about GracelandToo. I’m not a fighter but sometimes people will just start a fight with me. Growing up with the name Elvis, I had to learn to defend myself, you better believe that. But most people like what we’re doing. There are a lot of Elvis fans out there, and we have piles of letters from all over the world from people who have visited us and who enjoyed the tour. They come to learn a little more about Elvis, or they come just because they want to remember him.” He pauses and then sighs. “But, yes, I have a normal life. I go to Memphis or Oxford. I play a little rhythm guitar. I date. Anything else, Scott?”

The kitchen doubles as a mail room. On the dining table are stacks of letters. Just as Elvis said, the letters have arrived from all over the world. Next we walk into a hallway, the walls of which are covered with photographs of others who have taken the tour. Elvis points to one of the photographs and begins calling out names. “They’re from Oxford, do you know any of them?” I do not, so he goes to another photograph and as easily identifies several more people I do not know. Could he have simply memorized a few photographs to impress his guests?

I spy a shot of some people I do know. “Ah, yes,” Elvis says with deep satisfaction, going on to name the entire cast in the photo, explaining that it was taken during a party given for a literature class on Elvis and Melville.

“Do you always remember everything you hear?” asks Billy. Billy has come to take photographs for the magazine but stands awestruck, the camera limp by his side.

“I always try to remember the nice people who take the tour, yes, Billy.”

But, of course, it is much more than that. Elvis M. remembers more than Elvis P. facts and the names of guests. If he hears something or reads something of interest, it is at his beck and call from then on. When I mention that the Elvis song “Summer Kisses, Winter Tears,” had been used in a recent—

“Yes, Scott, the movie was Until the End of the World,” Elvis interrupts gently. As quickly, he recites the names of the director, the stars, the number of countries that the film had been shot in, and then adds, “I particularly like the U2 theme song in that one.”

The last room of the tour happens to be Elvis’s grandmother’s bedroom. The other bedrooms are upstairs. At night, after she has gone to bed, visitors may watch a video of the bedroom if they like, but the room itself is off limits.

There is a fireplace here too, but the bricks are painted white. A large stereo and turntable with built-in speakers, circa late ’60s, sits under the front window. The poster bed is enormous, and on the nightstand I see a Bible and a Bible study book alongside a small plastic loaf of bread, inside which rest cards with verses of Scripture printed on them.

While Elvis has been talking faster and faster, he now begins to settle down as the tour draws to a close. He relays the last bits of information and takes questions, and the others wander from the room, but I linger for a moment and so does Elvis. We begin to talk about the Hollywood Years, about how Elvis P. had been offered the lead in the original West Side Story and A Star Is Born, about Colonel Tom and his unfortunate antics. Elvis wants to know my favorite Elvis movie. I explain that there are many, but one of them is Viva Las Vegas. “Listen to this,” Elvis tells me. He plays a duet by Elvis and Ann-Margaret from the movie. Elvis P.’s voice is excruciatingly sensual. The inimitable resonance, the playfulness that suddenly turns into desperate passion, the timing—we stand still and shake our heads and smile. Yes, Elvis is King, and I am happy to be sharing the song with Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. “Can’t take too much of that,” he says with a laugh, lifting the needle. His tone is kind and wise, and I suddenly want to shake his hand. He makes me feel like an old friend.

“No, it’s pretty intense,” I say.

Before I leave the room I am transfixed by the eery translucent blue Moody Blue album on the mantle. Elvis M. has already explained that there are only a thousand such copies, and being Elvis’s last album, the blue editions are very valuable. In late July of 1977 Elvis boarded the Presley jet called Lisa Marie, and flew to Indianapolis where RCA had manufactured the blue Moody Blue albums. He took the first one off the press and headed back to Memphis.

The album is like an artifact from another world. It almost glows. I reach my hand behind it and think I can barely see the outline of my fingers but nothing more. It is impossible not to think of the words to the title track: “Moody Blue, can you tell me am I getting through?”

On the front porch Elvis taps my shoulder. “Come back some time if you want when it’s not too busy. We’ll drink some beers and watch Viva Las Vegas.” I tell him I’d like to and shake his hand. He nods his head pensively, and for some reason I am saddened. Is he wondering, perhaps, whether I have judged him harshly, whether I consider him to be a fool, whether I understand him—whether he has gotten through to the place where he can give his tour and have fun with it and then enjoy a beer and a movie like anybody else?

I shake his hand again. He smiles at a pang of recollection and reminds me to bring a girl I had told him about over an hour ago, a friend of mine who wanted to come for a tour but had to postpone the trip. He uses her full name, and draws a curl of black hair from his eyes. “And just remember—two more tours and you’re a lifetime member. After that you can come any time you want for free.”

Any time, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, rain or shine. Elvis is waiting.