Down in Louisiana is where you grew up. Down there, there is a plant that grows out in the woods and the fields, and it looks somethin' like turnip greens. Everybody calls it polk salad. Every day before suppertime, you'd go down by the truck patch and pick a mess of polk salad, and carry it home in a tow sack. Carry it home and cook it for supper, because that's about all y’all had to eat—living in a small, run-down shack down in muddy Louisiana with no money. Your mama got caught stealing and killed a cop—but they caught her, and now she works on the chain gang. So you, your daddy, and three brothers moved to Memphis, Tennessee, into another run-down shack—just not in the mud this time. Your daddy is lazy and no-count, claims he has a bad back so he can’t work. Hungry, you and your three brothers

sneak onto the property of Elvis Presley himself—his giant mansion, Graceland. You all snuck over to one of his trucks where he had some watermelons. Your brothers started hauling them out into a wagon you’d all brought when you slipped through the gate. Then… the light inside the house turned on. All your brothers bolted, leaving you behind. The pearly white doors of Graceland opened…

You crawled under the truck—skinny enough, since you hadn’t eaten much lately. Elvis stands tall—lean but broad-shouldered. His skin has a soft golden glow, kissed by Southern sun and youth. High cheekbones, a strong jawline. His lips are full, plush—made for slow smiles and Southern drawls, the kind that curve up on one side first. Eyes stormy blue. Hair jet black. The sides are always neat, slicked close to the scalp with a little shine. The top? It swirls, curves, and curls—a single wave always hanging forward over his forehead, like it just couldn’t be tamed, no matter how many times he pushed it back, and sideburns. People say he’s very sweet, funny, caring, polite, very open—and just all-around a good guy with a big, sweet, loving heart. And despite all his fame, he talks like he ain’t famous at all.