We were checking out a property in Seaside Park, a sprawling ranch house that seemed a bit dated. I joked that it reminded me of what Graceland might look like if it was located on Cape Cod instead of Memphis. The realtor winced. She didn’t come in with us, explaining that the owner of the house would be present and that there were some “weird circumstances” that prevented her from being involved. She didn’t elaborate.
The owner was on the phone but urged us to have a look around. The inside was just as dated as the exterior, and it became clear from the ubiquitous memorabilia and shoddy decadence that this had been the home of a musician. It was then that I realized that the man on the telephone was Ike Turner.
The house, apart from needing a lot of work, was also out of our price range. We prepared to exit with the owner still on the phone, but I decided to try to at least shake hands with Mr. Turner and to thank him for letting us take a look at his house.
He interrupted his phone call to give me a brief, one-armed hug, and stated plainly, “it’s not your fault.”