Based on a true story as relayed by Wiley, who served a brief stint as a limousine driver. Only the facts have been changed to fit the remembrances.

I first saw 'Jerry Lee' as he lumbered off a chartered plane at Charlotte's Douglas Municipal airport. He came from the sky one Saturday afternoon to save us all from the grand ennui. As he stepped from the plane, the prop still blowing, he held high his right hand and pushed back those blonde curls with his left. From a distance he seemed younger than the photos, the gold afternoon sunlight kind to his features.  

Mine was the only limousine on the tarmac and he approached with the stride of a Pharaoh. "Are you my driver?" he asked, bludgeoning each syllable with emphasis.  

"Yes sir," I answered proudly, "and I would be honored to motor you to your destination."  

His right hand rose again and he used his left to push back the flowing blonde hair. "For affording me that respect you may call me Jerry Lee. Now grab the luggage, kid and let's get going."  

He settled in the back seat in a regal slouch. "My manager has appropriated me a room in hell, commonly referred to as the Holiday Inn on Independence Boulevard. Apparently there are no suites or so I've been told," then sarcastically muttered to himself, "any room in hell will do." 

He pulled from his pocket a silver flask, the liquid within dark red and took a long draw. His bleary blue eyes briefly met mine in the rearview mirror.  "Lead me on, precious lord," he said, and disappeared, lying prone on the back seat to avoid being seen. It would soon be dark and 'Jerry Lee' wanted no contact with the media, fans or law enforcement officials. I waited in the parking lot as he checked into the hotel and could see arms flailing in the reception area before he stormed off stage left in a huff.  

He reappeared forty-five minutes later wearing a turquoise green dinner jacket, Romeo shirt and black pants with matching green stripe down the side of each leg. As he got in the car, I gave a nod of appreciation for his attire. He cracked a smile, raised an eyebrow and with an unexpected seriousness explained the pants. "Elvis gave me these motherfuckers."  

I was impressed. Those were some fine looking motherfuckers. 

"Jerry Lee, where would you like to go?" I asked.  

He looked at me like I was on drugs and replied, "A little nightclub on Wilkerson Boulevard, the Merry Go Round. I trust you are familiar with the establishment."  

"Yes sir, I am. But are you aware all those places on Wilkerson Boulevard are strip clubs?"  

"That's what I'm counting on, son. Those joints remind me of something my old friend Redd Foxx used to say, ''a girl's legs are her best friends, but even the best of friends must part'. Now drive!" 

As we pulled off the road into the club parking lot, there was not a single open space. It was Saturday night and the joint was full of pick up trucks, Ramblers, Cadillacs and other Detroit 'ner do wells. We rolled up to the Palm Sunday entrance as over-muscled bouncers knocked people to the ground to make way for the Killer.  

Before exiting he took a last draw from his flask---the dark red liquid had a look eerily similar to the color and consistency of blood---and with it washed down a couple pills. "Vitamins," he growled. "Beet juice," he added with a grin as he gathered himself. I wasn't so sure. His lips and teeth tinged red, the jewels and binoculars hung from the head of the mule. I put on my cap and hurried around to his side of the car as the crowd drew close; then held open the door for His Excellency as his fans pressed in to greet him. 

"I'll wait for you in the limo," I said, feeling completely out of my element. 

He turned and for the first time looked me straight in the eye. 

"The hell you will, kid. You shouldn't miss this for the world. Come on in!"