Escaping Celebrity

“Man, I was down in Paraguay visiting my relation, and I got off my beaten path due to a problem with my vehicle. I caught a lift from a guy who looked strangely like Bernie Taupin. Remember the guy who used to write music with Elton John? He was going to take me back to a public phone where I could make a call, but then his car broke down. We must have been close to his place, because we began walking in a direction that I would not have predicted. He pulled a cell phone out of his left breast pocket and punched a speed-dial button. I did not hear much more than what appeared to be slightly disguised discussion, but I could have sworn I heard him say the name “Elvis.” I dismissed it, thinking even if he did say Elvis; it was probably somebody’s nickname.

The Bernie look-a-like must have been drunk or stoned or something like that because he led me to a place back in the sticks that nobody else could have found, no way.
The man who looked like Bernie Taupin turned out to be really him, and he introduced me to a woman named Gana. She was old, and spoke no English. I am not sure she spoke much of anything. Apparently she was just the maid at this boarding house for “dead” celebrities, only she doesn’t know who they are. They collectively found her and hired her to run the show because she has no idea who they are due to her lack of conveniences like television and newspaper. I eventually met Elvis, JFK, Jim Morrison, Jimmy Hoffa, Adolph Hitler, Princess Diana, and Abe Vigoda.”

“I suppose they tell jokes too, about Elvis leaving the building, or eating fried banana and peanut butter and Quaalude sandwiches.”

If you are from Nebraska, you will recognize the name, Tommy Frazier. In fact, if you consider yourself a football fan at all, his name will instantly conjure up Big Red highlight reels. Human nature makes us think of people we know when we are exposed to a matching last name. In many cases, we ask straight out, “Hey, are you related to…,” only to hear a negative response. I was informed before I even met Melvin Frazier that he was the older brother of Tommy. Melvin was a short-term resident at the receiving facility, and would parole after a 90-day evaluation. The minor mix-up he was arrested for did not subtract from his pseudo-celebrity status. Being the brother of the President might not get you much attention, but being the brother of a Big Red God sure did.
Back in the day, at the D & E, I was assigned as a utility (gopher) one particular Saturday morning. A utility is a multi-purpose employee who gets tasked with a multitude of things ranging from relieving other staff and delivering cleaning supplies to supervising the transfer of units to the yard and escorting inmates to various locations throughout the facility. Melvin was putting on his Sunday-best, which meant his best pressed khaki inmate uniform, and making sure his shave was just right. The attention to detail made me think he was expecting a visit from family. It donned on me that his brother, Tommy, could be coming. I wanted to make sure I was assigned to be his escort to the visiting room, just so I could see Tommy Frazier. I asked Melvin who was coming, but he acted like he did not know. When the call came for a 10-14 (inmate escort) from Melvin’s housing unit, I bolted. I could hear the speedy shuffle of other footgear making their way down the hall from multiple directions. Apparently I was not the only utility who had intentions of meeting Tommy Frazier that day.

I was the fortunate first to arrive, and Melvin was ready. It was unprofessional of me, but I was prepared with my pen and notebook, hoping for an autograph. Later, I would ask for a copy of the visiting room tape, just to see if you could spot me shaking hands with Tommy. My head was on a swivel when we arrived in the visiting room, but not for long. When Melvin was spotted by his joyous, and rather immense white girlfriend, I knew my efforts went for nothing. Melvin knew it all along, and just grinned.
“Better luck next time Batiste.”

A year later, I was working in the housing unit 6, C-bay area, when a call came for a visiting pass. It was once again, a pass for inmate Frazier.
“Who is coming today, Melvin?”

“I don’t know,” he said with that same patented Frazier grin.
“Dude, you remember the last time I was involved with one of your visits? We were both at the DEC, and I bolted to your house so I could escort you? I was hoping it was your little brother, Tommy. You said you didn’t know, and it turned out it was this giant white woman.”
“Yah, that’s my wife; (awkward silence) It’s probably her again.” Melvin left smiling, so removing the foot from my mouth was performed out of his sight.

“Though they had little to do with each other, and the time frames do not match, I was Catholic for about as long as JFK was President.”