Me and a Guy Named Elvis

by Jerry Schilling

  It occurred to me that I’d spent all I had and put myself into hock to get my bike, and then, because Elvis liked it, everybody else got a free one. But within days the unfairness of the situation must have occurred to Elvis, too. I got a call from the Robertson lot letting me know that Elvis had paid off my motorcycle.

  Motorcyle-riding became a big part of our L.A. experience—maybe standing in as the West Coast version of our Rainbow skating nights. Almost every Sunday, Elvis and a group of eight to fifteen of us would go riding up the Pacific Coast Highway and through the spectacular, winding canyon roads of the Santa Monica Mountains. Despite the noise, these were very relaxing rides for everybody, which often ended at a little log cabin market at the top of Topanga Canyon where we’d stop and drink some Pepsis.

  But of course, you put Elvis on a motorcycle and his competitive spirit is going to come out somehow. He also liked to lead us on these late-night charges up the PCH when the sea air had gotten chilly and the fog was starting to roll in. We had the speedy Triumphs, but he was on a big, rock-steady Harley Electra-Glide. He’d get the group up to 105, when our front wheels would be shaking enough to scare the hell out of us, and he’d still pass us, nice and easy and all smiles. And no—none of us were ever wearing helmets.

  It was on one of those Sunday rides that I saw how easily Elvis could shift from daredevil to seeker. Seven or eight of us, including Priscilla on the back of Elvis’s Harley, were thundering back up Sunset Boulevard off of the PCH. Elvis was in the lead, and it seemed like some estate or building caught his eye—he pulled off Sunset through the open gates of an entryway, and we all followed. We pulled up alongside him, read a few of the posted signs around us, and realized we were on the grounds of the Self-Realization Fellowship.

  Elvis had intently studied Autobiography of a Yogi, the principal work of the movement’s founder, Paramahansa Yogananda. From what I had learned from Elvis in many of our late-night conversations, part of Yogananda’s focus was to understand that there was something miraculous in the simplest of natural everyday occurrences, and he encouraged those simple joys to be meditated upon. Some of the SRF teachings were on the proper way to breathe, the proper state of mind with which to go to sleep, the proper way to wake up and start the day. The notion of being deeply connected with your inner self—of simply being comfortable in your own skin, and of being able to live in the moment—had tremendous appeal to Elvis. It might seem strange that a guy who would insist that a dozen new motorcycles be delivered to his house at midnight was in search of a simpler life, but I think that’s the point—Elvis knew better than anybody that the money and the expensive toys were not going to lead him to any sense of deeper purpose.

  We got off our bikes that day and began to stroll through the grounds of the Fellowship—a beautiful spread of winding paths, ponds, gardens, waterfalls, and meditation chapels. Maybe some of the guys were more skeptical about the benefits of the Self-Realization philosophy, but I don’t think anybody failed to feel what I felt that day—the place had a magic. You couldn’t walk through there without feeling yourself calm down and open up.

  I could see the subtle change the place had on Elvis as we strolled along. He seemed to let himself relax and let his defenses drop. At the same time, he did not exactly slip into meditation mode. After a while, I could see a kind of antsy energy get the better of him. If a taste of tranquility was this good, then Elvis wanted access to the Fellowship’s deepest secrets of the soul as quickly as possible. He had a long talk with Brother Adolph, one of the Fellowship members on the grounds (and a guy who seemed to take in remarkably casual stride the fact that Elvis Presley had dropped in). Elvis learned that the leader of the movement was now a woman named Daya Mata, who had been personally tutored for the position by Yogananda. Daya Mata stayed at a separate, private retreat up on Mt. Washington, east of Hollywood.

  In the weeks that followed, Elvis got permission to visit Daya Mata, and many times I accompanied him up to her home—a place that had the feel of a wealthy estate, religious shrine, and working farm all at once. Again, whatever quibbles one might have had with the SRF philosophy, the Daya Mata was prime evidence that the practices worked. She was so calm and centered, so at peace with herself, that she absolutely radiated a feeling of maternal goodwill and gentle understanding. She was wise enough to know that Elvis couldn’t just jump into the Fellowship the way he wanted to—the secrets of the soul couldn’t be delivered in crates like so many motorcycles. But she was wonderfully gracious to him and truly appreciative of his search for something of substance. They developed a great friendship, and every time we drove away from that Mt. Washington retreat, usually with baskets of home-grown fruits on our laps, I could sense that Elvis had gotten some small piece of the peace he was after.

  In late spring of 1965, Elvis began work on the film Frankie and Johnny, and I found myself with a new Elvis-related job: on-screen talent. Elvis liked to include his friends in the films—Red or Sonny West turned up regularly in fight scenes, Joe had some speaking parts from time to time, and you could usually spot Alan, Richard, and Billy in the the background of crowd scenes. I’d started to do some stand-in and photo-double work for Elvis, and on this film I got my first nonspeaking bit part in front of the cameras.

  It was customary for me to ride to the studio with Elvis, but on one particular day my scene was going to shoot before his, so I took off early for the Samuel Goldwyn Studios on my Bonneville. It was a wet, misty morning, and I couldn’t wait to get to the coffee station on the soundstage. Coming through a bend in Sunset, I had the right of way, but apparently a woman in a car coming toward me didn’t see me—she started a left turn that cut me off. I tried to lay the bike down but I hit the side of her car, flipped over it, flew through the air, and landed on my back. As usual, I wasn’t wearing a helmet, so I’m lucky that collision wasn’t the end of me. I felt paralyzed for a moment, then started crawling down the street in a daze. Some other bikers just happened to see the accident happen and got me off the road, wrapped me in a blanket, and called for an ambulance.

  I spent a couple of weeks in the hospital, and though nothing was broken I had extensive internal injuries—my back and chest were so sore that every breath was painful. (A top gossip columnist in one of the papers managed to be inaccurate and insensitive at the same time, writing that “One of Elvis’s buddies had a motorcycle accident and broke his pelvis. Good thing it wasn’t Elvis.” I saved the clip for years because it was the first time he and I were mentioned together in a newspaper.) Joe Esposito and Billy Smith and Richard Davis came to visit me, and I even got a surprise visit from Elvis’s Frankie and Johnny costar, Donna Douglas (a fellow Self-Realization advocate, best-known as “Elly Mae” from The Beverly Hillbillies). She cried when she saw the shape I was in and sat with me quietly for a long time, holding my hand. She left me with a reading light as a gift.

  One strange benefit of my hospital stay was that it may have kept me out of Vietnam. I’d gotten my draft notice a month earlier and had taken a physical in which it was decided that my football-injured back required a follow-up physical. The date for that follow-up fell during the time I was laid up recovering from the accident, and after the draft board was informed of what had happened to me and the extent of my injuries, I didn’t receive any further notices. If I had, I would have gone. Not happily, but I don’t think I would have felt I had any choice but to serve.

  When I finally did get back to the Perugia house, all I wanted was to be left alone. I had healed up enough to get around, but I was in a tremendous amount of pain, and wasn’t really sure if I’d ever be completely able-bodied again. I think most people hit some point in their early adulthood where they suddenly realize that maybe they’re not indestructible. This was that point for me. The constant pain had me frustrated, and the frustration led to depression. As I hobbled into the house, I was perspiring and wincing in pain, and despite the fact that I could tell that Elvis was glad to see me, I was hurting enough
that I had no desire to talk to him. I just hobbled to my room and lay down on my bed, gritting my teeth and waiting for the throbbing in my back to subside.

  A little while later, there was a soft knock at the door, and Elvis stepped into the room.

  “The boys were worried about you, Jerry. They told me how banged up you were.”

  “Yeah. I still don’t feel so hot,” I said, hoping he wasn’t planning on a long talk.

  “You know, I’ve been reading something on the power of touch,” he said. “Healing power of the hands. Get over on your stomach for a minute.”

  I have to admit it flashed through my mind—“Please, Elvis, let’s not get into some crazy philosophy thing right now.” But, at the same time, I was desperate for relief, and it was nice to have him in the room.

  I rolled over and got as comfortable I could. Elvis lowered his voice and talked, calmly and slowly, about the idea that each human body had an energy, and through touch those energies could connect. “Sounds a little half-mad,” he said, “but you use touch just the right way, maybe you can pull away somebody else’s pain.”

  As he spoke, he put his hands on my back and applied a bit of pressure. I hadn’t read the stuff he was talking about, and he didn’t really make a big deal out of it. There was nothing mystical about the moment, and he wasn’t trying to be some kind of shaman. But dammit if by the time he lifted his hands from my back, the pain was gone. I did notice that he shook his hands out—as if he were shaking off whatever pain he had managed to soak up.

  “Get better, man. Let me know what you need,” he said quietly, then left.

  I lay there, surprised to find myself relaxed and comfortable for the first time in weeks.

  I don’t think Elvis was harnessing any supernatural powers to take my pain away. I think what really took away the pain was the kind of comfort that only a loving friend can provide. It’s lonely and scary to be that hurt, and having Elvis care enough to do whatever he could to make me feel better—to relax me and let me know I’d be looked after—meant everything to me. I think what made my back feel better wasn’t any more mystical than the concern of a good friend.

  That summer, my father came out for a visit, traveling in his usual vacation custom with two women—my stepmom, Lula, and Helen, the same friend of theirs that had been with us in Miami almost a decade before. We spent some time at the Perugia house, where my father finally met Elvis. Elvis was extremely gracious and courteous, and said some very nice things about me to my father. I could see that little twinkle in my dad’s eye—he liked knowing that I was doing OK for myself. I showed the visitors all around Los Angeles, and since the Fourth of July fell during their trip, we decided we’d do something special that day. We’d take a ferry out to Catalina Island for lunch and be back in time for a homey backyard Fourth party that Joanie Esposito and some of the other wives were organizing. It was a great day, with Dad and the two ladies duly impressed by everything they saw. But after we got up to Perugia, Mike Keaton pulled me aside.

  “Listen, I thought you should know. Marty was real upset about you taking off today. I don’t know what he might have told Elvis.”

  Mike was one of the most solid and down-to-earth of the guys and also one of the quietest. When he did speak up about something, it was worth paying attention to. I thanked him for the heads-up.

  The party was a pleasant, family-style backyard barbecue. And just as it was starting to get dark, Elvis made his entrance (even at his own parties, he could make a hell of an entrance). He said his hellos and after a while came over to where I was standing with my father and the ladies.

  “Did you take your daddy out to Catalina today?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Elvis. We had a nice time out there.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Well, I’m proud of you. That’s a real nice thing to do.”

  Whatever the guys had been worried about, it wasn’t bothering Elvis at all. He did have his black moods, and he had a temper, and sometimes he could be unreasonable. But a lot of times, it was the personal politics around him that created more worry and fuss than anything he did. The temper and the moodiness were part of his makeup, but most of the time Elvis chose not to let them affect the way he treated other people. Looking back on all our time together, what’s remarkable to me is not the handful of times that he did let a crazy temper get the better of him—what’s remarkable is that, with all that went on in his life, most of the time he chose to be a nice guy.

  By the end of that summer I was healed up enough from my bike accident to be back as a member of the Elvis team, and as preparations were made for the filming of Paradise, Hawaiian Style, my job profile came to include an interesting duty. Because the film would include a couple weeks of location shooting in Oahu, Colonel Parker was going to get to the island first and make sure everything was properly organized for Elvis. On such trips, the Colonel would travel with his chief “lieutenant,” Tom Diskin, and would also bring along one of Elvis’s guys to take care of personal and security arrangements at the hotel we were using (this also meant that the Colonel, in his inimitable way, could keep tabs on the information flowing in and out of Elvis’s inner circle). For this particular trip, he was also bringing along his wife and his teenage step-granddaughter, Sharon. I was the Elvis guy picked to travel with them.

  My security duties included making sure that access to the floor Elvis would be on could be controlled, and making sure that the hotel was going to allow us use of back doors and staff elevators. The primary concern was making sure that Elvis could be kept safe at the hotel and on the set, but I also made sure he could be comfortabIe, arranging for a piano to be brought to his room and making sure that room service would have some of his favorite foods available at the hours he was most likely to want them.

  I took my responsibilities very seriously, but it was an education to witness the Colonel in action. He always maintained his outsized presence and bluff demeanor, but he backed it up with masterful organizational skills. From finalizing contacts, to working out police escorts, to overseeing special conditions on the set, there wasn’t a single detail that the Colonel was not on top of, and not a single deal in which he didn’t get the special treatment he was after for his client. In addition, he expertly worked press and publicity angles—creating an interest and excitement in the film that otherwise would not have existed. The Colonel may not have had a clue as to how to address Elvis’s creative frustrations or spiritual questions, but he demanded that Elvis be treated as the biggest star in the world, and in his ability to have those demands met, he was astounding.

  My time in Hawaii started off in almost surreal fashion. On my first afternoon there, while the Colonel was off for a nap, I wandered down to the pool at the Ilikai Hotel, found a seat at a table near the poolside bar, and decided to order up the first mai tai of my life. I noticed a large table of guys who were talking and laughing it up together, and I was just a few sips into my drink when one of them started waving me over. I got up to approach, and quickly realized that the guy doing the waving was actor Richard Harris, the great “angry young man” of British film, who’d sometimes been described as England’s Brando. I’d thought he was great as a particularly angry rugby player in This Sporting Life, and I was also quite sure that he had no idea who I was. But that didn’t seem to matter. He had me pull up a chair and join him and the members of his film crew from the epic production Hawaii. And before long, he was talking to me like his new best drinking buddy—telling me all sorts of stories about his adventurous career. We proceeded to drink the afternoon away. Richard put down cocktail after cocktail, while I took my time with the one mai tai—which was strong enough to knock me back to my room for a nap later on.

  By the next day on the island I realized that brushes with celebrity were nothing compared to the sheer natural beauty of the place I found myself in. Spectacular beaches, gorgeous mountain vistas, lush greenery, that sweet, balmy air that made every breeze feel like a kiss—I couldn’t
imagine any paradise better than the Hawaiian-style one all around me. And as we began filming at the Polynesian Cultural Center in Oahu, I saw that the beauty of the place was not just in the land but in the Hawaiian people, too. The Center had been founded by the Mormon church just a couple years before we got there, as a means of preserving the traditions of many of the South Pacific islands—Hawaii, Samoa, Fiji, Tahiti, and others—as well as offering a chance for some higher education to young islanders. Students could take classes at the nearby Brigham Young University Hawaii campus during the day, and in the evening they displayed crafts and artwork and performed traditional music and dance for the public. Filming at the center meant that many of these students were a part of our production, and on one of the first days that we shot a big production number, my eyes were drawn to one of the dancers—the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.

  All the dancers had a glowing beauty about them, but the way I felt my heart flip when I saw this one slight dancer—I knew it wasn’t just the thrill of an infatuation with physical beauty. Watching her dance felt almost like a religious experience. And the more I watched, the more I felt drawn to her.

  In the days that followed, I couldn’t take my eyes off this girl when she was around the set, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her when I was back at the Ilikai. Finally I approached her, feeling a lot more shy than I had around any L.A. girls. Her name was Sandy Kawelo (pronounced “kavelo”), and it took only a few moments of conversation to sense that she was as sweet as she looked—a woman whose inner beauty matched her physical charms. I was hooked, and I felt like there was a connection between us. But I couldn’t figure out how any relationship would be possible once the shoot was over.