Warning: Harsh and uncomfortable language in places.

Elwood spread the new map out on the hood of the Bluesmobile. California was two days away. It was almost two thousand miles from Memphis to San Diego, if he made a straight path for it.

San Diego. Why the hell did he say he was going to San Diego? Of all the places in the world. And how was he going to explain to Jake why it took him so long? He'd know something was up. Just a letter postmarked from San Diego, and the web of lies would stay intact. But if he took too long, it could fall apart.

The first few letters that he wrote to Jake were filled with white lies. They were well intentioned, only meant to give him hope. Jake needed something to keep him going in the joint. Anyway, how could he tell him that his little brother just couldn't keep the band together? He'd let Jake down.

He wondered if Curtis or the Penguin ever wrote to Jake. He knew Jake wouldn't write back, even if they did. It would take a whole lot of love to write those letters, with nothing in return. That's why Elwood knew he had to keep writing.

He frowned a little at the map, then decided that, like everything else in his life, it would just have to work its way out, somehow.

And San Diego could wait.

But before he left Memphis, Elwood had one last stop to make.

"They'll probably turn this place into a stupid museum, someday."

Elwood stood motionless in front of the beat up 1968 black Fleetwood Cadillac he affectionately called The Bluesmobile. Behind dark sunglasses, he watched the tourists gather around the gates of the white mansion, leaving notes, flowers, and tokens of their affection. Like him, they were on their own journeys. They were making their own pilgrimages.

The traffic did not let up for a moment. Cars slowed down as they passed by. The city even had extra traffic police on duty, to keep the cars in motion.

Was this what it was all about? Pale tourists in Bermuda shorts driving by the houses of the dead?

Many criticized Elvis Presley. After all, if he had been black, no one would have called him The King. Certainly, there were lots of other musicians in Memphis, Tennessee who deserved the honor even more. But here it was. Graceland. The home of The King of Rock and Roll.

Even if Elvis wasn't the grand master of music, he was still a vessel which brought the blues to America. Some even said he brought colored music into the homes of every white person in the country.

But then again, the blues that Elvis brought home to mainstream America was far removed from the ghettos. It was far enough removed that it could be repackaged and served out on a platter to the heartland of America.

Elwood wondered whether Beale Street, the heart and soul of Memphis, would soon be sanitized, repackaged, and served out to the tourists, too. Soon, the National Historic Landmark would be just another tourist attraction on a map. Instead of the living, breathing lifeline to the music and culture of Memphis, would Beale Street turn into a cold museum exhibit?

It didn't seem right. Why him? Why was Elvis the one to make popular the music that poured out of the ghettos of America? Why was Elvis the one bringing black culture into people's homes?

At the orphanage where Elwood and his big brother Jake grew up, the nuns frowned upon most music. If it wasn't a hymn, or classical music written by a dead guy in a frilly shirt, they tried to keep it out of the building. But on the streets when a car passed by, or through the doors of the corner store, you could always hear The King. Elvis was everywhere.

But Curtis, the janitor, took Jake and Elwood under his wing. He was the closest to a father they would ever have. And Curtis taught them about the real musical giants. Down in his tiny boiler room apartment, Curtis would play the old recordings of blues legends like Elmore James, or W. C. Handy. That was real music. That was the blues.

Maybe America loved Elvis because he was the American Dream. Poor kid makes it big. Poor kid grows up to be the King. Maybe not the President, but the King. Poor kid makes it big, but still finds no hope. The King kills himself while on the throne...

Elwood shook that image out of his mind. Instead, he looked around nervously at the tourists and crying women kneeling at the gates.

Was this America? Pale and plump, and mourning their king not even one year gone?

Then the thought struck him. He wondered where it came from, and why it never occurred to him before.

"Is this what we're doing? Jake and me?" he thought, a bit worried. "Are we just repackaging the blues?"

"No. We are different." he tried to convince himself. "We're not like Elvis. We've been exploited, all our lives. Will be till the day we die. Jake's wasting away in the slammer. I've got no mansion."

"Anyway, we're not really white, Jake and me." He sighed, in relief.

But then he realized something. Elvis wasn't white either. At least, not at first.

"All right boys. Tell me what happened," Curtis asked the two children seated in front of him.

Jake and Elwood slumped in their seats, visibly uncomfortable. Elwood, in particular, seemed to be in pain. Judging from the open wound on his lip and the bandage on his temple, it wasn't surprising. His sunglasses, smashed to pieces earlier that morning, were noticeably absent.

"Now, you wouldn't tell Sister Mary what happened," Curtis reasoned with the two. "But you can tell me, now."

Jake and Elwood looked at each other and they exchanged uncomfortable looks. Neither spoke up.

Curtis got up and found a bottle of soda pop, then poured it into two separate glasses for the two boys. Even though they were getting older, and had their own means of getting their hands on an increasing number of things, a glass of Coca-Cola was still a treat.

"Was it over a girl?"

In unison, the two boys responded.

"Yes!" Jake said. Elwood protested with a soft "no."

"It seems we have a little bit of a disagreement here. One of you want to change your story?"

The two brothers turned and faced each other. Nervous, Jake drank quickly, as a way to delay the inevitable. Elwood, after watching Jake drink, handed his brother his own share of the beverage.

"Come on, now! This is the fourth time, Jake, and the second time, Elwood, that you two got into a fight with those boys from Denton Academy!"

Curtis was concerned, for many reasons. There was an age difference between his two boys and the boys from the private High School. Elwood, thin and gangly, and barely 12 years old, was probably lucky to still be walking.

But that wasn't his real concern. Curtis was worried that fighting would be a way of life for his two boys.

"Did they try to take something from you."

"NO!" Jake insisted, as Elwood nodded his head up and down in agreement.

"Boys... something is going on here. And I don't like it one bit. Now you can hide it from the sisters, but not from me. There're no secrets down here. It's just you, and me, and the boiler."

The two boys remained slouched, and increasingly more uncomfortable.

"Elwood." Curtis turned his attention to the younger one, guessing he would be the first to yield under pressure. "Did they say something bad about Jake?"

Elwood looked up at Jake, as if wanting confirmation.

"No, son. Look at me. Not him. Did they say something bad about Jake?"

"No." Elwood said, quietly, biting his wounded lip, then sucking on the wound to stop the bleeding of the newly opened flesh.

"About you?"

The sucking continued, until it was visibly hurting him to continue.

"About the sisters? One of the other boys here?"

Elwood shook his head, almost violently, as if he was going to either explode in anger, or break down in tears. Jake put one hand on his shoulder, which Elwood roughly shrugged off.

"About your parents?"

"Curtis!" Jake finally yelled, out of pure desperation. "They called you a worthless old nigger!"

As Elwood's face wrinkled up, in anger and anguish, Jake cut himself off. The room grew deathly silent, broken only by Curtis' sigh as he leaned back into his chair.

Finally, he simply said "I see."

"We couldn't let them say those things about you, Curtis!" Jake added, his voice almost cracking.

"Why not? They're right, you know."

Jake and Elwood looked at each other, their mouths open in shock. Then they looked at Curtis.

"To those rich kids, to all rich folk, that's all I am, you know?"

"But, but, it's not true! It ain't right!" Elwood argued, a bead of blood growing on his lip.

"Sure thing, but that's how it is. You know, they want to see you fail, and go bad, and get violent. All of us. Makes them feel better about themselves. So, it's you boys' job not to fail! Right?"

"Turn the other cheek, Curtis?" Jake asked, sarcastically.

Curtis pointed to the wall behind where the boys were seated. The wall was covered by photographs of great men.

"You see those men, behind you, Jake? The Reverend? JFK? Bobby?"

"Malcolm?" Jake added. Curtis silenced him with a stare.

"Those men. They're out there, working and fighting... for people like you and me. They're trying to convince folks out there that we're all the same. Fighting for our rights. Some even lost their lives doin' it! So show a little respect."

Jake looked down at the floor, a bit ashamed.

"Don't look down at the ground, Jake. Look up at those photos. You see, they fight with their words. With their actions. Not with their fists. You best learn something from that."

"Fighting for people, like us?" Elwood asked, confused, still processing Curtis' earlier words of social commentary.

"That's right. Like all of us. The ones on the bottom, Elwood! Cause, you know, that's what it means to be black. Shoot. It ain't about the color of your skin, son! You know that! That's just something easy for rich folks to pick on."

In the orphanage, you weren't a color. You were just another orphan. You were a lousy cot assignment. Even in church, you were only one of His flock. Out there? You were one of the have-nots, in a world full of haves. But it was all the same.

"Now," Curtis continued. "You figure out a way to spread that word, and then..! Then you'll be doing me a favor. All of us."

"But Curtis. I ain't no JFK..." Elwood said, apologetically.

"Son, you can always spread the word, one person at a time. Shoot. Spread the word one song at a time."

Elwood got back into the Bluesmobile, and opened up his map of Memphis. He wasn't exactly sure where his next stop was, but he wasn't leaving Memphis without finding it.

He drove through Memphis, asking for directions as best he could. He took in the sights, and watched people as he drove by. He shuffled through the AM radio stations, looking for some decent music.

Finally he saw it up ahead. The Lorraine Motel.

The hotel was just like he remembered it, except now it was in color. The hotel sign. The box architecture. The balconies. He remembered the balcony.

There were no crowds. There were no traffic cops camped out in the parking lot. There were no pale white tourists in shorts with cameras. The remains of a single wreath hung from one of the guard rails on a corner balcony. It looked like it had been there for about a week.

It was all painfully obvious. The waddling tourists in Memphis had made their pilgrimages. But they were all paying their respects to the wrong King.

They cried at the gates of The King who took his own life. Why didn't they cry underneath the balcony of the King who fell to a bullet, fired in hate? They flocked to the one who found the American Dream and let it slip away. Had they forgotten the one who had a dream, and a dream that really could have made a difference?

"This would make a great museum, someday," Elwood thought.

Elwood pulled into the parking lot, got out and stood in front of the caddy. He removed his hat, and bowed his head. He wanted to sing a song in tribute to the Reverend, but he was at a lost for words.

Instead, he pulled his harmonica out of his pocket, and began to play a slow version of Amazing Grace.

When he finished, he noticed a few others had gathered with him in silent remembrance. Perhaps his music made a difference, at least for that one single moment.

He surveyed the hotel, once again. The scene was almost like he remembered it, depicted on the news, on that little black and white tv. He remembered how he and a few other boys snuck down into Curtis' room that night, back in 1968. Elwood was a maturing teen by then - tall, with a deepening voice. Still, he sat silently at Curtis' feet as they all watched the news of the Reverend's assassination.

Jake wasn't there. He was already sent away to a correctional facility for teens. And Elwood was always convinced that Jake was the lucky one.

Jake never had to sit and watch Curtis break down and cry.

Just as he approached the city limits, Elwood stopped at a corner mailbox, and dropped a single postcard in the slot.

August 12, 1978

Dear Curtis,

I found myself in Memphis, and I paid my respects at The Lorraine.

I played "Amazing Grace" for the Reverend.

And I played it for you.

Elwood