One Night in Memphis

Some places steal your breath. Others don’t give it back.

Rob and I rarely had uninterrupted alone time, yet we managed to arrange something bordering on impossible: several weeks of freedom. We carved out real togetherness by driving Niki halfway to Arizona so he could spend part of the summer with my mom—a few sun-drenched days of being spoiled by Nona. All while we got to rejuvenate the spark in our marriage with dates, home projects, and long stretches without worrying whether that pool noodle we keep wedged behind the bed frame had slipped to the floor again.

Put simply, we could be as loud and comfortable as two happily married people wanted to be.

Beautifully quiet car rides—the hum of the air conditioner and uninterrupted conversation. Oh, the joy of not having to sidestep the small human who declared a sleepover between the bed and the bathroom like a landmine. Just… to exist as people again—not only parents. Older, significantly more tired, but censor-free jokes and rated R movies labeled Adult Supervision Required. Perhaps even a little late-night lakeside skinny dipping romance.

A summer bucket list for the unsupervised, because we had all the plans.

Somewhere between basking in the glow of this newfound liberation and making our way toward home after Operation-Nona-Drop, Rob thought it might be fun to visit Graceland. He booked us a hotel in Memphis. We were on a tight budget, but for the price, it looked beautiful online.

“Close enough to downtown,” he’d said.

It wasn’t a far stretch from our route back east. We’d lived in Tennessee for seven years prior to Georgia and had never been. This was our time, so why not risk it for the biscuit, fly like a jailbird, and go see Elvis?

We got to Memphis, and the first thing we noticed was how chaotic it felt. Car accidents happened at nearly every light. People loitering, glaring, joints dangling from their lips as cops drove by. An elastic band choking a girl’s arm as she stared at the sky, tripping over her own shoelaces as she walked.

It was a vibe. The kind that curls your instincts like a bad storm rolling through your bones.

Shortly after leaving Georgia, Rob realized our firearm was still sitting snugly inside the safe at home instead of on his side. My opinion errs on the side of optimism when these moments arise, but Rob’s is forever the better-to-be-prepared guy.

“We should buy a new one on our way to see your mom.”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary. We’re not going to need it. You worry too much—we’re going to be fine! No stress, remember?”

A big red sign screamed: BUY FIREARMS! He glanced at me, then passed the exit with a tight-lipped sigh.

“I’m proud of you!” I said, leaning over to pat his knee and kiss his cheek.

All I got in return was a side-eye and a clenched jaw, which I brushed off like a piece of lint on a sweater. You can take the soldier out of the Army, but you can’t take the Army out of the man. Or the farm life out of him—both of which I understood deeply and respected.

Yet I was eager to dive into our freedom. Our adventure together.

The streets in Memphis had me regretting arguments and passed exits, but I held onto my pride to make the most of it. Hotel rooms have doors. Doors have locks. And I was with my soldier. Concern put aside, a smile tacked to my face even though Memphis handed me a gut punch dressed up as a city skyline.

By the time we reached the parking area, my heart was trying to file a restraining order against my optimism. The hotel loomed over us like a bad dating profile.

Yellow and dingy, with blue stairs winding up to wrap-around outdoor balconies that served as entrances to the rooms. Clusters of people loitered outside, wearing things I wouldn’t be caught dead in.

Yep. We were doing this. We were staying here.

Hotels have doors. Doors have locks. One night in Memphis. In the morning, we’d be touring Graceland, laughing like teenagers over The King’s love trysts… ogling décor choices as if we were musicians seeking inspiration. High on delta blues, and if we were exceptionally lucky, it might even pour rain.

Ever so reluctantly, I gathered my things, held Rob’s hand, and climbed the steps to the floor with our room number listed. The building itself left my hopes for a clean room tanking by the minute. Key in the lock. Door pushed open… to a most pleasant surprise.

Wide sunny windows, laminate flooring that looked like wood (a huge step up from the nasty carpeting I figured was awaiting my bare feet). Pillows fluffed. The bedspread was clean and white, with fresh, unstained sheets. And one of the bigger TVs I’d seen even in more upscale hotels.

A fixer-upper? Sure. I’m all for second chances and up-class charm.

A smug nothing to worry about tossed in Rob’s worried direction.

“Shall we order in first or after?” My eyebrow lifted with a let’s-get-this-party-started attitude.

Rob tossed the room service menu on the bed and gave me a look that danced between trouble and tradition. “I vote we earn our carbs first.”

We settled in like people who hadn’t just walked past a possible drug addict in the stairwell. Comfort is relative, but pizza is dependable.

Some time later, a knock on the door came, the scent of bubbling cheese curling around the seal like a warm promise of safety.

I. Am. Starving! I announced, and Rob agreed.

“Let’s eat this whole thing and sleep until the sun rises again,” the love of my life quipped.

“Guilty pleasure TV shows?”

“Always. Plenty of time to watch something while we stuff our faces.”

Not more than a few bites in, a scream from the parking area turned my back rigid.

Sharp. Guttural.

Not wanting to be seen, we made our way to the windows we’d closed before the delivery guy arrived.

A parked, run-down sedan. A girl in a black dress, curls swirling around the face she was trying to protect as she was being hit by a man. His fist connected with bone. Her sobs lodged in my chest. I couldn’t look away—wouldn’t.

The passenger door was visibly wide open. A black stiletto lay scuffed, broken at the heel, and tossed across the pavement like trash. It offered barely a glimpse of the damage he’d already done. One side of her lip was redder than the lipstick she had probably carefully applied in a mirror. A cheek swelling, already turning shades of purple. The fear.

Save me. Help me.

It gripped my heart and refused to let go.

“We have to call the police. Right now.” My voice trembled as I watched the man pin her arm and strike—again, and again, and again. Not the first time I had seen violence. Not the first time I wanted to put an end to it.

Rob, voice low, tense: “She might be working for him. I don’t know for sure, but on our way up to the room, it felt like there was more going on—guys in the parking lot, money exchanging hands as she climbed into a car with him.”

I wasn’t listening. And I wasn’t watching anymore. Yet he heard me in a way only two people with many years of marriage between them can. I didn’t say anything—because I didn’t have to.

“I’ll do it. You stay out of it.” A compromise was made. Because his main concern was always me. He pressed the call button, eyes locked on the window.

A squad car arrived. Relief eased the tension in my muscles.

Her hair stuck to the sweat on her neck as she turned from my window. No screaming now. Just silence, arms wrapped around her own limbs, and a slow drift toward the police like someone who’d done this before.

The officers looked tired. Nodding. Gathering information. Then acting as if they were getting ready to leave.

They can’t actually be leaving though, right? No handcuffs?

They suddenly made the same walk we did—up the steps to find our room number.

“Were you the ones who called in? There’s nothing we can do right now. She won’t press charges. She denies everything.”

I was dumbfounded.

“Look, we’re stretched thin out here. We pick our battles. This, unfortunately, isn’t unusual.” His expression was grim.

They shook Rob’s hand. I followed them out to the balcony before Rob could pull me back inside, it felt like the fixer-upper was collapsing right on top of me.

Rob turned to me, jaw set. “We leave now and risk running into them… or we barricade and stay. But we don’t step outside until morning.”

We gave it the night.

Tried to nibble on pizza. Flipped through terrible T.V with the remote… until the sound of fists began again.

Not knocking—pounding. On every door. Voices yelling. Our hearts racing.

Rob peeked through the curtain while I froze—several men roaming the walkways. Hunting. Gathering reinforcements.

Rob didn’t hesitate.

“It’s done. We can’t stay here now, and the only exit is the entrance we took to get into our room. We’re unarmed, and there are more of them than us. We have to go. So here’s how we’re going to do this: They’re going to expect us to run, so we’re not going to do that. You’re going to get behind me, and I’m going to come right at them.”

“You’re… going to go right at them.”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“Trust me. It’s a good idea. Leave our stuff here. I’ll come back for it. You’re going to head straight for the car and lock yourself in while I toss the key at the front desk guy, ask for a refund, and snag our stuff.”

“A refund? Seriously?”

“Yep. I’m not paying for this.”

Which is without a doubt the most on-point thing I’ve ever heard him say. His whole personality wrapped up in a single moment:

I’ll save the day—but I’m not charging it to my debit card.

“Ready?” I wasn’t.

He threw the door open and, with me behind him, we barreled down the steps until someone who appeared to be a thug ran up and hit the wall that is my husband’s chest. The man froze, eyes dilating.

“There’s a big-ass motherf**er up here!” he yelled back to the others. “I’m not doing it!”

Like a rat, he scurried off in the direction he came. We kept moving forward, my stomach lurching with nausea.

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. This isn’t a movie scene. Why do the most bizarre things end up as footnotes in my life? Who is going to believe this if we even make it out of here? Is Nikolai going to end up an orphan?

I ran, ducking behind cars, holding my breath, and tried to catch pieces of what the men prowling the lot were saying.

Rob went to the lobby, tossed a key card at the owner’s face, and having secured our things—raced to the car with our belongings secured under his arm.

Meanwhile, I was in the front seat, head between my knees, frantically locking and relocking the doors for good measure. Praying they’d forget about me.

One guy circled vehicles. Pulled on door handles. And I felt I was done for—until someone called his name and pulled him in another direction.

Rob finally appeared, hurled the luggage in, and we tore out of there like extras who lived through a horror movie by accident.

We paid for our near-death experience in full. No refund necessary. And drove until we couldn’t keep our eyes open. Eventually, navigating our way to a roadside motel reeking of stale cigarettes and, most likely, black mold.

But we could sleep without worrying about gangs, human trafficking, or drug dealers.

We decided to skip Graceland.

Later, we told the story to a friend who used to be a trucker. He asked what road the hotel was on. Rob pulled up the receipt on his phone. The guy just shook his head.

“Everyone knows to avoid that street. You got lucky.”

He wasn’t at all surprised by the turn of events.

In an offhanded conversation with a coworker, Rob told the tale again. The employee’s wife accidentally ended up at a gas station near where we had booked a night, and she was almost carjacked—while still in the driver’s seat with the doors locked.

A little digging revealed what we didn’t know then—Reddit threads and police records marked it as one of the most dangerous hotels in Memphis. Hundreds of calls had been made to police. Multiple raids had taken place. Drugs and firearms had been confiscated. Charges had been pressed for human trafficking. There had even been reports of shootings in broad daylight.

In the aftershocks of that night, I downplayed the details. The truth, as I now know it to be, is this:

When you think you don’t need a firearm… that’s probably when you need it the most. Unfortunately, I had to learn this lesson more than once.

Even though Rob won the argument about exits for firearms and was annoyingly correct, my husband isn’t bulletproof—but that night, he was the kind of man who waltzed his woman out of hell like a badass.