| The King Swam Here | ||
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Elvis'
pool is not all that. It's small, like Graceland, and it's a little
bit grotty too. That concrete could do with sprucing up with a lick
of blue paint, for example, and the once-edgy freeform shape is
repeated at every cheap motel in the land. An automatic pool cleaner
slurps its way up and down the pool. Wrought iron furniture, years
out of date, sits forgotten and unused nearby. It's a long time
since Elvis' rear plopped itself down on one of those sun-faded
cushions.
People don't notice the pool, but it's there, as you leave the main house and walk down a small flight of canopied steps. The reason they don't notice it is because Elvis lies in his grave on the other side of the pool. Elvis is there, over there. But close your eyes and imagine how it might have been one hot as hell Memphis summer: Lisa Marie performs back flips off the side, into the arms of one of her uncle good ol' boys. Beer cans litter the poolside. Priscilla sucks in her tummy in a too-tight bikini and reapplies her lipstick. Maybe in a while Elvis can be persuaded to shrug off his robe, step up to the springboard and execute a dadly belly flop. His splash would displace the water significantly, and if you listen hard you can hear the tinkling of his chunky gold jewellery in the silence before he hits the surface. 
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