The elvis people are busy checking in as early as they can. Confused aliens and sneery-lipped touristas are checking out. By mid-afternoon the newcomers will be assimilated into the Village. They'll customize, chop and channel until the Ordinary Thing is transformed, by handiwork and guile, into a personalized Hot Rod Vision. That's the way it goes at the lost, last outpost of American folk culture.
Strange debris is washed up and the natives make of it what they can.
At the Village the pool is like a town square and on three sides of it are the three floors of the Days Inn. Windows and doors are decorated with photographs, artwork, mementoes and handmade tributes. Most of the ground floor rooms are trading dens in the day with doors opened, furniture pushed aside, and beds covered over with Elvis records, books, collectables, and photographs. The older men of the Village, sometimes bodyguards, employees or musicians who knew Elvis, also writers, hold court. They pass the time over cans of Coke.