Me and a Guy Named Elvis

by Jerry Schilling

  Priscilla Presley is one of my dearest friends today, but in the early days at Graceland our relationship was a distant one. It had to be, because Elvis didn’t really want the guys to be close friends with Priscilla, especially not a younger, single guy like me. He didn’t want her to be considered one of the guys—she was to be respected as lady of the house. So even though I lived in the same house, I was a friend of Elvis’s and knew Priscilla only as his girlfriend. As Priscilla has said, she and I were growing up together at Graceland. But at first, there wasn’t supposed to be much of a direct friendship between us.

  This was fine by me—after the Paula Tyden incident I had no desire to test Elvis’s jealous streak again. But I know the general situation was hard for Priscilla. In early 1963 she’d left her family in Germany and come to Memphis to finish high school and to gradually become a full-time Graceland resident. Priscilla was shy, quiet, stunningly beautiful, and it was apparent that she and Elvis were deeply in love. But I know it wasn’t easy for her to step into what had been essentially a bachelor’s world. She was with the man she loved, in a house she could only have dreamed of, but I don’t think her dreams would have ever included Jerry Schilling in the basement, Marty Lacker in the annex, and a football squad of strange guys coming and going at all hours of the day and night. Priscilla didn’t fall in love with us—she fell in love with Elvis and wanted a life with him. On the guys’ side—we had been used to Elvis’s having girlfriends who had very little impact on the way things worked around him. But Priscilla was someone on a much different level, and it took some adjusting to on all sides.

  The delicacy of the situation became clear to Priscilla and me one night after an encounter in the Graceland kitchen. I was pouring myself a glass of milk when Priscilla walked in, and it was the first time I saw her not looking great. She looked like maybe she had the flu—eyes red and watery and face flushed.

  “Are you feeling OK, Priscilla?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said weakly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m just tired.”

  She went back upstairs, and I went out to the back room of the house. It seemed like that was that. Except that now I became aware of some very loud voices upstairs.

  Priscilla did not have the flu. What I hadn’t known in the kitchen was that Elvis and Priscilla were in the middle of a hellacious argument. They were both furious with each other over something, and Priscilla, after bursting into tears, had come downstairs just to take a breather. When she went back upstairs the fight started all over again, and one of the first things she said to Elvis was “At least Jerry Schilling cares about how I feel.” This was not a good thing to say to an already angry Elvis.

  I took a seat in the back room of the house, joining a couple of the other guys there. The noises continued upstairs, but I became more focused on the football game the guys were watching on TV.

  All of a sudden Elvis stormed into the room, so agitated he couldn’t quite stand still. He stared down at the floor and announced to the group of us, “Goddamn it—I don’t need anybody else taking care of Priscilla and checking how she is. Is that goddamn clear?”

  The other guys nodded, though they weren’t quite sure what Elvis was talking about. But I knew exactly what he was talking about and who he was talking to. He didn’t wait for any answer from anyone, and just stormed back out of the room and up the stairs.

  No, I hadn’t done anything wrong. But I didn’t need to see Elvis that worked up again on my account. It was almost a full year before I had another conversation with Priscilla.

  6

  PARADISE FOUND

  In March of 1965, Elvis and us guys were back out in L.A., where he went to work making three films almost back-to-back (Harum Scarum, Frankie and Johnny, and Paradise, Hawaiian Style). The days on the lot and the nights at the Perugia house were similar to what I’d experienced during the Tickle Me shoot, but there was one significant roster change for us. Returning to the group, and serving as a co-foreman with Marty, was Joe Esposito. Joe was an army buddy who had begun working for Elvis almost as soon as they were both back from Germany, and whatever disagreement had caused them to part ways for a while seemed to be completely forgotten once Joe was back with Elvis and the guys.

  It quickly became apparent to me that Joe was a great asset to the group. He wasn’t a Southern boy, but he fit right in with his mix of Chicago street smarts and an easygoing sense of humor. More importantly, Joe had a great knack for projecting calm while handling all the organizational tasks always swirling around Elvis and the group. And he had a very natural way of delegating responsibilities that left a minimum of ruffled feathers. Joe dependably took care of things, and almost made it look easy. I could also see that, as different as he and I were in background and temperament, Joe too shared a special, devoted friendship with Elvis.

  A few weeks into this L.A. trip, I met for the first time another long-running member of the inner circle. It was a quiet Saturday evening at the Perugia house, and I happened to be in the main den when I heard a loud knock at the door. It wasn’t too often that a knock at that door was unexpected—we usually knew who was coming by and when. So this knock immediately put me into security mode. I opened the door, ready to turn away any overeager fan or unwanted visitor.

  “Who is it?” I asked the small, intense-looking figure before me.

  “Charlie Hodge!” he answered, obviously a little upset that I didn’t know him by sight.

  “Hang on, I’ll check with Elvis.”

  I’d heard the name, and I knew Elvis and Charlie were close, but given Elvis’s shifting moods and aversion to surprise guests, I was going to make sure Elvis was feeling up for a visitor. But as I turned to go find Elvis, Charlie shot right past me into the house—and obviously knew his way around well enough to dart around the corner into the little den where Elvis usually hung out. I was stunned, wondering what the security protocol was for a situation like this—but a second after the alleged Charlie Hodge disappeared I heard Elvis call out in a happy voice, “Hey, Charlie!”

  That was my introduction to Mr. Hodge, an army buddy of Elvis’s who also became a well-traveled member of the inner circle. Charlie was also deeply devoted to Elvis, and, as I soon learned, functioned a bit like the court jester of the Memphis Mafia—quick with a gag and always a steady source of laughter. Through the years he was also a key figure in supporting and encouraging Elvis’s musical development.

  Not all Saturday evenings were quiet for the group—but more often than not the L.A. house operated much in the manner of a Graceland West, with Elvis and the rest of us living in the same self-contained, self-reliant manner we did back East. We didn’t mix with the neighbors, who included Dean Martin, Alfred Hitchcock, Jerry Lewis, and Howard Hughes (a future employer of mine, Brian Wilson, lived two blocks away on Bellagio). And there were very few Hollywood celebrities who were welcomed in—Bing’s son Gary Crosby hung out with us a few times, and Ricky Nelson participated in some football games, but that was about it. But aside from the basic courtesy meetings, Elvis hardly spent any time with power players from the studios.

  It might seem strange that a star like Elvis would not become a toast of the town in L.A., but for all his success, and the steady, profitable film work he was engaged in, Elvis always had a curious relationship with Hollywood. He was still “Elvis” out there, but I think he knew that he was “Elvis” based on what he’d done in the past, not what he was doing now. His movies weren’t automatic hits anymore, and his years of hit records seemed farther away than ever. He was treated like royalty at every movie lot and recording studio, but it had to be agonizing for him that though he was potentially at the peak of his powers, he couldn’t find a way to really flex his creative muscles. At thirty, he sometimes felt he was being looked at more as a quaint bit of pop history than as a vital talent. He was given all due respect for past glories, but what had he done lately? “Harem Holiday” was no “Heartbreak Hotel.” H
e knew that as well as anyone.

  One thing that was true about Elvis throughout his life—he wasn’t going to walk himself into any situation where he’d feel uncomfortable. And most of the Hollywood social scene made him uncomfortable. So he didn’t go out on the town much, and didn’t make any attempt to crack into Hollywood social circles. This aspect of Elvis’s life has earned him the reputation as a recluse, and living with Elvis there were certainly times when it felt like he was acting a bit like our neighbor Mr. Hughes. But Elvis was a guy who had been dealing with uncomfortable situations since he was nineteen—putting up with authorities that denounced him, a huge segment of the public that despised him, and adoring crowds that wanted to lovingly rip him to pieces. I don’t think his wanting to stay in was crazy. Given how much time he spent living his life in public, his desire for privacy was one of the most “normal” things about him.

  Throughout this time at the Perugia house, I could see that for all the fine trappings of the luxurious lifestyle Elvis had earned, there were pressures, burdens, and doubts that wore on him heavily. His success had given him a great life, but it was an extremely complicated one. He’d started out as a kid who wanted to sing, and had turned into an industry. On one of the quiet days, he and I were in that little den off the side of the house by ourselves, just watching TV. At one point he turned to me and said, “Jerry—you know the hardest thing you’re ever going to have to learn?”

  “No, Elvis—what’s that?”

  “How to not do anything.”

  It took me years before I really understood that, but it’s turned out to be one of the smartest things anybody’s ever said to me. In my personal life and in my career, I’ve learned again and again that having nothing to do can be a lot harder than having something to do, and that living a dream isn’t always as satisfying as having a dream.

  On the nights we stayed in at the Perugia house, we spent a lot of time around the pool table in the big round den with the open fireplace, and even more time hanging out in that little den. Elvis had become infatuated with playing a Fender electric bass guitar, and a lot of nights he’d plug in, sit in front of a TV with the sound turned down, and play along at extremely high volume with a stack of records.

  Elvis had learned very early on in his career that if he tried to plan any personal outings in advance, word would get out, he’d be mobbed, and what was supposed to be personal time would become a public appearance. So he got in the habit of making last-minute decisions to do whatever it was he wanted to do (a habit that fit very well with his temperament). Occasionally, a buzz would ripple through the house, and we’d all snap into action like the White House staff and the Secret Service getting ready for a presidential excursion: We were going out.

  Elvis’s club of choice in Los Angeles was the Red Velvet on Sunset Boulevard. The TV rock-and-roll show Shindig, which had recently debuted and was an instant hit, was taped nearby on Monday afternoons. Monday nights, guys from the house band, the Shindogs, and some of the artists that appeared on the show would head to the Red Velvet afterward (one of those Shindogs was a twangy guitar player named James Burton, later a member of Elvis’s band). The Red Velvet had the feel of a hipster lounge: big red-leather booths, low lights, a small stage, and a cool clientele. Elvis had become friendly with the owner of the club, Tony Ferra, who was always happy to rope off a few booths and get the place ready for an Elvis entrance when he got the word from a couple of us guys working as an advance team.

  The very first time I was part of a Red Velvet expedition, I was understandably excited and wanted to make the best impression possible. The guys had started making Saturday shopping trips to the Fred Segal store to pick up clothes for ourselves and Elvis, and I put on what I thought was my best Segal-bought stuff to go out. As I left my room to head toward the door I passed Elvis, who was looking killer sharp in his black pants and tailored jacket with the collar up. He just glanced at me and said, “You better get ready, Jerry, we’re going out.”

  Obviously I had not passed muster. I went back to my room, put on a different set of still pretty-nice slacks and shirt, and headed out again. This time, I met Elvis and some of the other guys by the front door. Elvis eyed me up and down.

  “Jerry—you’re gonna wear that? We’re going to a club.”

  Now I broke out in a nervous sweat. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. I’d already picked up on some of Elvis’s wardrobe tricks, like cutting out the pockets of pants to get a smoother, tighter fit. But apparently something about my fashion sense wasn’t working. I ran back to the room, threw on my last possible going-out outfit, and ran back to the group. Now Elvis actually looked angry.

  “Would you stop messin’ around? You’re gonna wear that? C’mon man, it’s a club. A Hollywood club.”

  I must have looked red-faced and desperate enough that before I could ask what wardrobe mistake I was making, the whole group of guys cracked up. I’d just been given a traditional Memphis Mafia hazing. Elvis came over to shoot an elbow at my ribs. My red face might have clashed with whatever I had on, but it didn’t matter. I’d be riding with Elvis for a night on the town.

  At the Red Velvet, we mixed with members of acts like the Buffalo Springfield, the Righteous Brothers, and a Memphis trio called the Guilloteens, who’d scored both a Shindig appearance and a Phil Spector recording session. It’s surprising how low-key it felt to be hanging out with some of the hottest names on the L.A. music scene at the time. I suppose I felt I was already with the biggest star in the room—everybody else was just a nice guy to have a drink with. And I wasn’t that interested in drinks with the guys—I’d started taking out a very cute extra from Harum Scarum named Vicki, and she, along with some of the other guys’ dates, would often come with us to the club.

  It seemed like a lot of the other musicians still considered Elvis to be the biggest star in the room. One time we were watching singer P. J. Proby perform his big hit, a cover of “Somewhere” from West Side Story. Elvis sent up a note to the stage asking him if he’d sing the song again. Proby, a polished professional, read the note, stopped dead, and sat down on the stage. After a moment, he said to the crowd, “I’ve just received the biggest honor I could ever hope for—a personal request from Elvis Presley.”

  Around our work and home schedules, I started making some outings of my own. Elvis was still passionately interested in explorations of spirituality and was constantly poring over his collection of books, marking them up, and occasionally reading out sections to some of us. I got the feeling that some of the other guys saw this as the “weird” side of Elvis—something that just had to be put up with (their attitude toward Elvis’s books was no doubt colored by their strong antipathy toward Larry Geller—who was always much more of a California dude than a Memphis fella). But I was fascinated by the fact that Elvis was still curious and hungry for education, and that sharpened my own hunger for knowledge.

  So in the spring of 1965, I worked for Elvis by day and started taking classes at UCLA at night. Back in my high school football days, I had always nursed a dream of playing for USC. But working for Elvis, we drove through the UCLA campus in Westwood almost every day to get to our regular market, or pharmacy, or pizza place. I fell in love with that sprawling, stately campus and realized how much I actually missed being a student. So I signed up for some anthropology and history classes there to pick up my last credits toward a degree. While I didn’t hear anything directly from the guys about my new nighttime activity, I’m sure they took it as evidence that I too was getting weird: Why would anybody in their right mind choose to go back to school?

  As it turned out, some nights I might have learned more by staying home. In one class we were going to discuss something about the “dynamics of social structure” and the power of popular culture. I opened up my textbook—and there was a picture of Elvis. I had a brief temptation to shout out, “Hey—I just walked down the hill from this guy’s house,” but I kept quiet. I just couldn’t believ
e I’d gone to the trouble of enrolling in a night class to study the guy I was spending all day with. It was one of the better discussions that semester, though.

  I think my long walks from Bel Air to UCLA influenced another independent decision I made—to become a motorcycle owner. I’d always wanted to have my own bike, to see if I couldn’t pull off a bit of that Brando-in-The Wild One mystique. A motorcycle seemed just the thing to make my California dream perfect and complete. So, despite my resistance to the idea of taking on debt, I went down one day to the Robertson Triumph Motorcycle dealership, where Alan Fortas had developed a relationship with the owner, put down as much as I could, signed up for years of payments, and became the owner of a brand-new Triumph Bonneville 750.

  A few days after I got the Triumph, Elvis took note of it and asked me if he could take it for a ride. He had always been a Harley-Davidson rider and wanted to compare the feel of the rides. He rode around the circle in front of the Perugia house and into Bel Air a little bit, then came back and casually told Alan Fortas that he wanted everybody in the group to have a Triumph Bonneville. And he wanted his guys to have the bikes that night. Alan soon discovered that there were only three Bonnevilles at the Robertson lot, and those were in crates, not fully assembled. Alan must have called every Triumph dealer in Southern California, and by midnight we had nine Bonnevilles being uncrated and assembled in the Perugia front yard. Three hours later, we had all of them roaring away through the streets of Bel Air. (When George Klein came out for a vacation visit and guest deejayed at KFWB, the number-one rock station in town at the time, he’d send out mysterious dedications to the “Bel Air Bonnevilles” and then play an Elvis record.) The Bel Air Homeowners’ Society was a little less impressed with us, and threatened to have Elvis kicked out of the neighborhood if there was any more late-night rumbling. Elvis’s response was to buy a truck and trailer so that all the bikes could be hauled in and out of Bel Air with minimum noise.