Me and a Guy Named Elvis

by Jerry Schilling

“Myrna’s going to be staying with me out here,” I said. “I just didn’t want to make any trouble for you with the fans.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I’d fallen in love with Myrna because she was beautiful and wonderful. But it had occurred to me that at the Monovale house, we’d be driving past a group of fans at the gate every day. The fact that an unmarried white guy and black woman were living with Elvis might create complications for him.

  “E, there are some fans that might have a problem with Myrna and me being together.”

  “Myrna’s my friend,” he said. “And I don’t have a problem with it.”

  He insisted I forget about apartment shopping. When Myrna came to L.A., she stayed at the Monovale house. There was never a problem.

  Elvis had been way ahead of the pop culture wave when it came to karate, but now karate was everywhere. Billy Jack had been a sleeper hit in 1971, and in 1973, Bruce Lee’s Enter the Dragon had kicked off massive mainstream interest in the martial arts. Kung Fu was a huge hit on television, and by the end of 1974, “Kung Fu Fighting” would be at the top of the pop charts.

  As a film buff and a karate devotee, Elvis had become almost obsessed with seeing the martial arts films that came out of Tokyo and Hong Kong, along with the American exploitation and “blaxploitation” films that were picking up on the martial arts trend. When we were in L.A., we’d often head out to a little theater in Santa Monica that screened these films. Some of them were brilliantly surreal, a lot of them were just plain awful, but Elvis always found something in them worth studying. And despite the lack of support he’d gotten from the Colonel on the subject, he was still very interested in putting together his own karate film.

  He and I had many conversations about what this film might be, and he got most excited about the idea of producing and starring in a film that would mix serious drama and action with a hip sense of humor, similar to Dean Martin’s Matt Helm or James Coburn’s Flint movies. At the same time, he was talking to Ed Parker about putting together an all-star martial arts team to compete in international tournaments and possibly serve as the subject of a karate documentary. The more we talked, the more Elvis sounded like he really wanted to make something happen. And so he was very receptive when I pointed out that we had an old fraternity contact that might help get a production started: Rick Husky. My Arkansas State fraternity brother—and Elvis’s honorary brother—had gone on to become a very successful television writer and producer, with credits that included The Mod Squad, The Rookies, and The Streets of San Francisco. Rick and I had gotten close again in L.A., often going out to nightclubs together. And Rick had never stopped being an Elvis fan—he’d been to several shows in Las Vegas.

  I made the arrangements, and Rick came up to Elvis’s house to have a meeting with him and Ed Parker. But right away, we ran into a problem of creative differences. Rick liked Elvis’s original idea of a Matt Helm-or Flint-style film, and felt that with the right story we could come up with a movie that might do for Elvis what From Here to Eternity had done for Frank Sinatra. But Ed Parker had been selling Elvis hard on the idea of the documentary, and now that’s what Elvis seemed to be leaning toward. Looking back, I think that even though the dramatic film had the chance to be everything Elvis had always wanted in his films, he also knew his limitations at the time. He knew he was out of shape, and he knew what would be demanded of him as the star of the film. The documentary, in which he would serve as a guide, instructor, and narrator, must have started to look like an easier option.

  At the house, Rick kept trying to proceed as if this were the same kind of story meeting he’d been at for all his other projects. He’d built a successful career taking the ideas discussed at meetings like this and steering them toward becoming finished projects. But Elvis wasn’t much of a meeting guy. He dismissed the From Here to Eternity comparison and let Parker do most of the pitching of the documentary idea. Unfortunately, Parker’s idea of pitching was mainly to demonstrate karate moves. At the end of the meeting, I could tell that Rick was frustrated. I went out with Rick that night, and by then he was down and depressed—he saw a great opportunity for Elvis in a dramatic karate film, but didn’t think he’d been given a chance to make his case.

  He didn’t give up, though. Shortly after the meeting, he put together a thirty-page treatment for the film he had in mind. Elvis would be an ex-CIA agent running a karate school who sets out on a mission to avenge the death of a close friend done in by drug dealers. Rick got it to me, and I carefully placed the treatment on Elvis’s bed at the Monovale house, where I was sure he’d pick it up and read it. But Rick and I never heard a word about it from Elvis. He’d made up his mind. He wanted to put together that all-star team and move forward with the documentary.

  I may have felt bad that our involvement with Rick hadn’t worked out, and that Elvis had decided against making the kind of film that I thought would be better for him professionally and commercially. But those kinds of feelings were quickly erased by another decision Elvis made. He was going to executive-produce the documentary—a position that would give him final say on all aspects of the production. And he wanted me to be the film’s hands-on, day-to-day co-executive producer. We were going to make the movie together.

  When I worked on Elvis On Tour, I was happy to have the chance to edit a film about Elvis. Now I was actually going to produce a film with him. Being a creative partner with him on something this big really was incredibly exciting. And it meant a lot that, after all the difficulties he was going through, he obviously had a respect for the work I’d done away from him, and, more importantly, a real faith in our friendship.

  Rick Husky and I had been spending a lot of nights out at the Candy Store, a private nightclub in Beverly Hills. There he introduced me to Ron Smith, a successful young entrepreneur who was running a modeling agency at the time. Ron invited me to a big party he was throwing for the agency, and at the party, I found myself standing next to a large, unmistakably athletic guest—Wilt Chamberlain. Wilt had no reason to talk to me, and I couldn’t think of much to say to him—I was aware of his reputation in the press as a gruff, unfriendly personality. But we both sat down at a little table set away from the center of the party. We’d been there a minute or two when a couple of short, extremely nonathletic guys came over and told us that we were sitting at their table, and they wanted it back.

  The request seemed both rude and absurd. Maybe they didn’t know about the Golden Gloves in my past, but who asks a muscular seven-footer to get out of his seat? I looked at Wilt, he looked at me, and we both started laughing. We gave the guys their table, and as we stepped back toward the party, we bumped into Ron, who officially introduced us. We talked for a while, and then Wilt asked me if I felt like getting out of there. I did. And about a half hour later Wilt and I were sitting at Theodore’s coffee shop on Santa Monica Boulevard, eating hamburgers, drinking milk shakes, and laughing it up like a couple of old buddies. At the end of the night, he said he wanted to have me up to his place sometime for dinner. He gave me his phone number and I gave him my answering-service number.

  The next night, I was out with Priscilla, Lisa, and Joanie Esposito for a belated celebration of Lisa’s sixth birthday at one of her favorite restaurants, the Luau. I felt privileged to be a part of the family celebration, and I was a little surprised when Joe Stellini, the maître d’, came to the table and told me that I had a phone call. It was Wilt. This was the night he wanted to have me up to his place. He had his private chef at work on a special dinner for us and wanted to know how soon I could be there. I told Wilt that I was already having dinner, and I told him who I was having dinner with—it wasn’t something I could dash away from. Wilt’s advice: “Don’t eat too much, and come on up to my place for a late dinner.” That was easy enough to say yes to.

  Wilt had done the designing and engineering of his home, which had been featured in all kinds of designer magazines—it was sort of a modern marvel, with a retracta
ble roof that opened up to allow stargazing from the master bedroom, and TVs that would rise out of the floor at the touch of a button. Wilt gave me a tour of the place and showed off all the furnishings, which that night included a couple of beautiful young women. Wilt hadn’t invited me to be part of some larger get-together—we were it: Wilt, me, the girls, and the chef. I wasn’t all that interested in the girls—I was, after all, crazy about Myrna. But it was a heck of a dinner party to be a part of. Before I left that night, I told Wilt that Elvis had an engagement at the Sahara in Lake Tahoe coming up and that I wanted to have Wilt there as my guest.

  Early in the run at the Sahara, I got the call—Wilt was on his way up to Tahoe. I made all the arrangements with the hotel so that he’d be well taken care of. Just before the show, I let Elvis know Wilt was going to be out there, and that he’d had me over to his home. I asked if I could bring him backstage to say hello after the show. Elvis seemed indifferent to meeting with Wilt.

  The show was a strong one. Elvis was in great voice and delivered the music with great energy. About halfway through the show, Elvis stopped the band to speak to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “There’s a man in the audience tonight who many a Saturday I’ve spent watching on TV. I’ve seen him wearing a rubber band around his wrist, and he wears a headband up around his hair. But what you notice most about this man when you watch him is that he is a true champion. Ladies and gentlemen—Mr. Basketball, Wilt Chamberlain.”

  Wilt stood up and got his own ovation from the crowd. It was an unusual moment because while Elvis might introduce a celebrity or a notable from the stage, he rarely did it with that kind of feeling and detail. I had no idea how Elvis knew about the rubber band Wilt always wore when he played. After the show, I thanked Elvis. I told him it was a great introduction, and that I was surprised to learn he was such a basketball fan.

  “I’m a fan of anyone who’s the best at what they do,” he said.

  Not only did Elvis welcome Wilt backstage, he asked him to come up to his suite. There, while the rest of us had our usual after-show gathering, Elvis and Wilt sat on a couch together in deep discussion, going one-on-one until about five in the morning.

  The karate documentary began to move forward. We were going to film the travels of the all-star team that Elvis and Ed Parker assembled, which featured a number of national champions and renowned martial-arts specialists. Parker began setting up tournaments for the team in the U.S. and Europe, while I worked out the filmmaking details with staff we’d brought on board: producer George Waite and director Bob Hammer. In between some of the tournament footage would be some more interesting work—Elvis would be on-screen himself, demonstrating moves and explaining the history, principles, and spiritual elements of karate. We’d film him watching some of the tournament scenes and he’d point out what you were seeing, serving as a fight commentator.

  In some of the extra demonstration scenes he wanted to include another collection of karate notables, including Khang Rhee, and national champions Jim Kelly, Joe Lewis, and Bill Wallace. Elvis himself wrote up a scene for the end of the film, in which he’d stand on a windblown hilltop, in tight close-up, performing “The Lord’s Prayer” in Native American sign language—a gesture he thought would emphasize the spirit of inclusiveness in the martial arts. As the camera panned back by way of a helicopter shot, we’d see that Elvis was not alone on the hill—he was surrounded by all kinds of masters of the arts. The large group would be spread across the hillside, filling the frame, and from our distant perspective we would see them begin to go through some precision karate forms led by Elvis. The words “The Beginning” would mark the end of the film.

  The filming of the team began without a problem, but I found that it was hard to get the all-important Elvis scenes. He worked Las Vegas in August and toured in October, and when he had time off I tried to set up the shoots with him. But the period of good health he’d had after his hospitalization was slipping away, and he was often in a state of exhaustion again. He always wanted to put the shoot off a week so that he could lose five or ten pounds, though I could see he really needed to lose maybe ten or fifteen pounds. It was hard for him to step away from his draining performance schedule and give the film the attention he wanted to. Finally, on the spur of the moment one night, he arranged to have some footage of himself shot at a karate school in Memphis. The effort was well-intentioned, but the results weren’t very good as either quality filmmaking or serious karate. I began to worry that if we didn’t maintain some discipline and direction through the production process, the film might spin out of control. I also began to worry that too many pressures were again going to take their toll on Elvis.

  Elvis was worried, too. During his hospitalization, he’d gotten off all his medications and had tried to get his body to function without the sleeping pills he’d relied on for so long. Doctors hoped that without the medications, he’d get physically tired enough to reset his body clock. It didn’t happen. In the hospital, Elvis had wanted to get well. He didn’t complain. He didn’t ask for any pain relief or sleep medication. But he couldn’t sleep. The most vivid image I have of him during that hospital stay is of him sitting on the edge of his bed, rocking back and forth, waiting and waiting for his body to let itself rest. After seventy-two hours of uncomfortable wakefulness, his body was under such stress that the doctors gave him a sedative. Since then, he’d been using medication under the watch of Dr. Nick. But both Nick and Elvis realized that in trying to keep up with the unbending demands of travel days and performances, his reliance on medications was getting out of control again.

  In November, Elvis decided to try to get thin and rested using a new therapy he’d heard about—a “sleep diet” that could reset his metabolism and his sleep cycles through a three-week regimen of liquid nourishment and carefully monitored sedatives. This therapy had been created by Dr. Elias Ghanem, a Las Vegas “doctor to the stars” who had previously treated Elvis during some of his Hilton engagements. In mid-November, Elvis moved into the upstairs bedroom of Ghanem’s home.

  Linda Thompson and Elvis still had a strong relationship, but Linda had been smart enough to realize that she was going to need some breaks from the Elvis lifestyle. She was also very aware of the fact that when she wasn’t around, Elvis might be with someone else. When Elvis came to Dr. Ghanem’s house, he was accompanied by Sheila Ryan. Sheila was a shy, pretty young girl with a deceptive independent streak, and she and Elvis had become involved during his August Las Vegas run. For additional moral support, Elvis also had Charlie Hodge staying nearby at the Hilton.

  I went to Dr. Ghanem’s in mid-November to give Elvis what I thought was a very encouraging report on the documentary. I sat with him in his bedroom and laid out papers and checkbooks and told him what had been shot and how the production was doing. I told him we now had enough footage that it was time to take the next step—we needed a post-production facility. I’d found a space on Hollywood and Vine that would work as a business office and editing studio, and I told him what we needed to do to get in there and get working. I’d already secured the services of Bert Lovitt, a top editor who’d done some great work on Elvis On Tour. The movie was really happening, and contrary to all the Colonel’s dismissive comments about Elvis’s ability to handle business, we were sticking to our budget. Elvis was right on top of everything I was telling him, asking all the questions a sharp executive producer would and seeming satisfied with the progress that had been made on the film.

  It was after midnight when we finished talking, and I told Elvis I was going to head back to the Hilton, where I was staying. But Elvis casually asked me to stick around downstairs at Dr. Ghanem’s house for a while. I killed some time down there, and about a half hour later Charlie Hodge came down and told me that Elvis wanted to talk to me again.

  I went into his bedroom and walked over to the side of the bed, where he was sitting up. He looked very serious and was focusing on me hard, like he was really taking note of
me. Without saying anything, he handed me a piece of paper.

  It was a check, for an enormous sum, made out to me. It didn’t match up with any of the film budget items we’d talked about, and I thought he must have misunderstood something I told him.

  “Elvis, what’s this?”

  “Jerry, you’ve been working hard for me. I’m buying you that house you’ve been talking about.”

  As comfortable as I’d been at Monovale, I’d still felt like I wanted to get my own place. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay at Monovale much longer anyway—Elvis had let us know he intended to sell it. Rick Husky was getting ready to sell his home—a great, hillside house off Sunset Boulevard, and I’d been doing everything I could to scrape together a down payment. But banks were taking a dim view of my unusual, entertainment-industry employment record, and it didn’t look like I was going to be able to make the deal. The check Elvis handed me wasn’t for a down payment. It was to buy Rick’s house outright. While I’d been downstairs, Elvis had called Rick—waking him up—and negotiated the deal. Elvis was buying me a house.

  My hands started shaking so badly that I dropped the check.

  “Elvis—this—this is too much.”

  He leaned forward with a smile, picked up the check, and put it back in my hands.

  How many friends buy you a house? I felt more connected to Elvis than I ever had. But back at the hotel, a thought crossed my mind. The Colonel was not particularly sympathetic to matters of the heart, and it was possible he’d find a way to quash this deal and cancel out Elvis’s gift, just the way he’d rendered my “Personal Public Relations” business cards useless. This gift meant enough to me, and to Elvis, that I decided to take action to prevent any possibility of the Colonel’s interference. I got a security guard from the Hilton to accompany me to a bank, where I cashed the check. I then flew back to Los Angeles with a suitcase full of money. I can say from experience that when you travel with a carry-on full of cash, you don’t sleep on the plane.