In the end, Memphis was
a trip of luxury, Elvis style

Robyn’s Hood
By Robyn McCloskey

A few years back, my mom inherited some money. She called the day she received the windfall.
"Honey, I got the check . . . we’re going to Graceland!"
"Gee, mom, do you think maybe you should pay some bills or invest in some slow but steady stocks or something?"
"Oh honey, carpe diem."
Right, mom, seize the moment.
And that is how, three summers ago, my mom, my daughter Mallory (who was 16 at the time), my daughter Samantha (who was 14 at the time) and me (no need to know my age at the time) ended up in Tennessee, headed to the Mecca of Memphis.
We decided to stay at the famous Peabody Hotel. My mom originally wanted us girls to stay together in one grand suite. I told her they started at $1,500 a night, a rather staggering price to seize the moment. She acquiesced and we got two regular rooms.
Our trip started out uneventful enough. Well, we did spend the night before in the emergency room. Mallory had sliced open the bottom of her foot while swimming at a friend’s pool. It required 15 stitches, two crutches and lots and lots of Tylenol with codeine.
When we boarded the plane, we were granted preferential treatment because of Mallory’s injury. Keep in mind that Mal is 5-feet-8, all legs and long blonde hair. Her sister is not much shorter, but she’s all legs and long brunette hair.
About halfway through the flight the attendant approached us, looked at Mallory and Samantha, and in her sweetest Paula Deen voice said, "I have to tell y’all somethin’. There is a gentleman here who would like your autograph. He keeps insistin’ y’all are Paris and Nicky Hilton and I can’t seem to convince him uth-uh-wise."
Mallory politely assured the attendant that they weren’t Paris and Nicky. I’m not sure if it was Mallory’s blonde hair or her spaced-out look from the codeine, but there seemed to be no changing this guy’s mind that she was Paris.
"Try asking him why the notoriously spoiled Hilton sisters would be flying coach," I asked the attendant.
Happily, the guy apparently lost interest in an autograph.
After check-in at the Peabody, we decided to take a walk on Beale Street. It was a hot afternoon and we were thirsty. We ducked into a little place for a quick drink. I left my mom alone with the girls as I went to use the facilities. When I came out of the restroom I noticed they all resembled the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.
"Mom, what’s going on?"
"Nothing honey, come on, let’s get out of here."
Mal and Sam no longer could suppress their giggles . . . or their secret.
"When you were in the bathroom, Nanny accidentally ordered us drinks with alcohol!"
"What? Mom, I leave you alone for a minute and a half and you ply my children with alcohol?"
"It was an honest mistake, honey."
Nighttime approached and my mom and Samantha settled into their room, where Sam fell sound asleep (I’m guessing from the alcohol), while Mal and I settled into our room down the hall, where Mal fell sound asleep (I’m guessing from the alcohol and the codeine).
As I crawled into bed and cracked open a book, I heard . . . hammering. Very loud hammering. I called down to the front desk and asked why construction was going on at this time of night. The polite Opie-esque desk clerk asked what room I was in.
"Oh, that explains it ma’am, you see we’re remodelin’ and that noise you hear is comin’ from the room just below yers."
"Well how long is it going to go on?"
"All night, ma’am, we’re in a hurry to finish."
"Can you possibly explain to me why I was given this room?"
"No ma’am I can’t, it was just a mistake I guess."
"Well how do you plan to rectify this mistake?"
"We could give you a different room if you’d like."
"Well I can’t switch rooms now, my daughter is passed out."
"Well then, we’ll take care of it in the mornin’, ma’am, now y’all have a good night’s sleep."
But take care of it they did. When we came back from sightseeing and our day at the King’s, we were given a new room, and it truly was fit for a king.
They moved us into the $1,500-a-night suite. For free.
So thank you, Peabody Hotel, thank you very much. ••
Robyn McCloskey’s column appears each week in the Northeast Times. She can be reached at crmccloskey@verizon.net