Me and a Guy Named Elvis

by Jerry Schilling

  The deal with Rick happened quickly. He told me that in his conversation with Elvis, Elvis had asked if Rick wanted him to send some guys over to help him move out. Rick had asked, only half-jokingly, if he could finish his night’s sleep there before worrying about moving. Rick did let me move in while all the paperwork was being handled, and I’d been in the house a couple of days when a housewarming party showed up. Elvis arrived with Joe Esposito, Dean Nichopoulos and Linda Thompson (he was going to spend Thanksgiving with Linda in Palm Springs).

  Elvis loved the place as much as I did. Set high up on the side of a canyon, the house had a spectacular view of Hollywood and the city beyond, which Elvis said reminded him of his Hillcrest house. I enjoyed the warm conversation with everybody, and it occurred to me that for the first time in my life, I was the host and Elvis was the guest. When he and I had a moment alone out on the home’s beautiful balcony, I thanked him again.

  And, as he stared out at the spectacular view of the twinkling city below us, looking absolutely at home here at my new place, I thought again about something he’d told me a few days before at his house. He’d said, “You know, I drove the other guys crazy when I bought that for you. But Jerry, your mother died when you were a year old. You never had a home. I wanted to be the one to give it to you.”

  13

  BECKET

  None of us were sure whether or not Dr. Ghanem’s therapy accomplished anything, but the time Elvis spent at his house gave him a chance for deep rest that he found hard to get anywhere else. In December, he checked back in with Ghanem for a second round of the sleep diet. This time it was Linda Thompson (and Charlie Hodge) who accompanied him. I flew back out in the middle of the month to give Elvis another report. But before I made that trip, I got my first unscheduled visitor at my new home. The doorbell rang, I went to answer it, and I found myself facing a mountain of muscle.

  “Rick? Rick Husky?” the mountain asked.

  “No. I’m a friend of his. He used to live here. It’s my place now.”

  “Oh, sorry to bother you,” the mountain said. “Just tell him Jim Brown came by.”

  Jim Brown, the record-setting former running back with the NFL’s Cleveland Browns, had been Elvis’s favorite football player. Elvis admired Brown’s hard-charging running style, but what he really loved was the way Brown would get up and walk back to a huddle after he’d been tackled. Brown never ran back to a huddle—he walked like he owned the field. And no matter how hard he was taken down, he got up and walked back to his team with the same confident, unhurried strides. It was a walk I’d seen Elvis emulate time and time again in our football games. Brown had moved on from football to pursue a film career, and apparently wanted to meet with Rick Husky to discuss some kind of film or television project.

  It was another one of those moments where all I could do was shake my head: I’m standing in a house Elvis Presley bought me, turning Jim Brown from my front door. And as Brown walked away, I got to see up close and in-person that same nonchalant swagger that Elvis loved so much.

  I’d been going to our film production office at Hollywood and Vine every day to work with the editors, and I was feeling confident that the karate documentary was progressing smoothly. The team that Ed Parker had put together performed incredibly well, and footage shot at tournaments in England and France looked great. I felt that the film had every chance of becoming an exciting feature documentary. What was taking shape in the office matched up very well with Elvis’s vision for the project.

  The Colonel had put his objections to the project in writing, pointing out that if a business plan he had designed was not strictly adhered to, he wanted to be completely absolved from any involvement with the film. So much for a manager’s vote of confidence. The Colonel continued to insinuate that Elvis had no idea what he was doing getting involved in film production. But Elvis was a bright guy who had already made thirty-three films—he had picked up a thing or two about movie-making along the way.

  I flew out to Las Vegas, checked into the Hilton again, and headed over to Ghanem’s house to meet with Elvis. I gave him a report on all the finances, and told him things were going well—it was another positive meeting. Elvis didn’t look like he had lost any weight, but he had good color and looked healthy.

  This time, after we talked, I did head straight back to the hotel and went to sleep pretty quickly. A couple hours later, I was woken up by the phone.

  “Jerry.” The voice sounded so weak I almost didn’t recognize it.

  “Elvis?”

  “Can you help me?”

  “What’s wrong, E?”

  “I can’t move.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Nobody.”

  I got over to Ghanem’s house as fast as I could. Up in the bedroom, Elvis was lying facedown on the floor. Linda was there, but hadn’t been able to lift him up.

  “Jerry, my legs won’t work.”

  Elvis had gotten up to go to the bathroom, had fallen, and then found that he didn’t have the strength or coordination to get himself back up. I picked him up and got him into bed and as comfortable as possible. His breathing was all right, and he wasn’t in any pain—he just felt he couldn’t control his legs. We didn’t talk about calling an ambulance—we were already at a doctor’s house. But we needed to get ahold of the doctor. Ghanem was out somewhere and wasn’t reachable when Linda tried to call through to him.

  When we were sure that Elvis wasn’t in any further distress, I went downstairs to wait for Ghanem. I liked the doctor personally, but I was furious that whatever he was doing to Elvis had reduced him to this state. And when Ghanem finally showed up, after a night on the town, I tore into him, questioning him harshly about the therapy. Ghanem insisted he was treating Elvis with placebos, but I didn’t believe that placebos could knock him to the floor. I yelled at the doctor until it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t going to debate his idea of therapy with me. I left the doctor with these words, “This is a proud man, and I better not see him like this again or I’ll go all the way.”

  The next morning I went back over to the house with Charlie, and I was happy to see that Elvis was feeling well enough to be up on an exercise bicycle in his room. He was also feeling well enough to be angry. He’d called out to me when he needed help, but he also hated to be found in that undignified situation. And he did not appreciate my criticism of Dr. Ghanem. He pedaled a little harder, looked over at Charlie, and said, “Goddamn it, when you guys get your medical degrees you can tell my doctors what to do.” He went on and on about how unqualified we were to judge his condition, but it was always directed toward poor Charlie. Elvis was obviously aware that I had a temper, too, and he didn’t want to get into a face-to-face confrontation.

  A couple of hours later, when he’d calmed down, I felt I could talk to him. But I was still very conscious of how vulnerable Elvis was at this moment, and I didn’t want to say anything that would embarrass him. I simply tried to put across my viewpoint as tactfully as possible: After a month’s worth of treatment with Ghanem, Elvis wasn’t in the shape he wanted to be in. When he’d been under Dr. Nick’s care, in the hospital, he’d come out feeling strong and healthy. I suggested that he get back with Dr. Nick again.

  Elvis, a guy who never had a problem spending money, shot back, “He’s too damned expensive.”

  But a few hours later, we were out of Ghanem’s house and on a plane to Memphis.

  Elvis got comfortable at Graceland, where, this year, the holiday season was going to be very quiet. I wasn’t sure how well my words at Dr. Ghanem’s had sunk in, but I knew better than to push the matter. Elvis had grown up vulnerable—poor and unaccepted. As an artist, he was willing to make himself vulnerable on stage. Offstage, he wanted to be the guy who took care of everybody else’s problem. It was almost impossible for him to admit that he had a problem. I always wanted to speak the truth to him, but I was usually careful to speak it in a way that he would actually hear, and just possibly acce
pt. I’d said all I could say at Ghanem’s. So as Elvis settled in for quiet holidays with Linda and family, I headed off to New Jersey to spend them with Myrna and her family.

  Myrna lived in a poor neighborhood in Newark (members of the Elvis circle teased me that I was probably the only white guy who headed to the ghetto for a vacation). She lived in an old, three-story wood-frame house in the city with her grandmother, mother, and brother, all of whom helped her raise her son from a previous marriage (Elvis was particularly fond of her son and made him the only recipient of a specially designed kids’ TCB). Myrna had an apartment up in the attic of the house—a cool, bright, comfortable place that she’d fixed up beautifully—it would have been a wonderful creative oasis in any town. And as we spent time together up there, we took advantage of the chance to open up a little further with each other, and I really got a sense of just what a creative talent Myrna was. Her vocal abilities were obvious, but she was also a fine songwriter, lyricist, and poet. She’d even written a play that had been performed in town. I’d fallen in love with a beautiful singer—now I was finding out there was a lot more to love about her.

  Myrna’s family was very accepting of me, and I found myself having some great conversations with her brother, John T.—a smart, talented athlete who was working as a schoolteacher and a karate instructor. I think maybe the only thing close to an awkward moment during the trip came when he and I went out for a drive around town.

  I’d made it out of North Memphis, I’d survived showing up in New York City without a dollar in my pocket, I’d been at ease both in the Oval Office and the humble Hawaiian fishing village where I’d courted Sandy. So as out of place as I was, I can say that it didn’t even dawn on me to feel scared of the surroundings in Newark. Parts of town were run-down, the neighborhood around Myrna’s place was obviously pretty rough, and I didn’t see any other white faces around. But I guess I just didn’t know enough about what went on to feel threatened.

  John T. and I went out for a drive, and decided we were going to pick up some White Castle hamburgers—the famously small burgers very similar to the Krystalburgers that Elvis and I enjoyed in Memphis. We parked the car, and I started to get out to head into the busy White Castle. John T. looked stricken. I suppose I should point out that at the time, I was wearing my winter coat—a white rabbit-fur jacket (not something I’d ever put on again, but it seemed pretty cool at the time).

  “You can’t go in there.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “I thought we were getting burgers.”

  He just shook his head, and probably got ready to put some of his karate to use. We went into the White Castle—I think we had to step over a few drunk guys to get in—and though we turned a few heads, nothing happened. We got our bag of burgers. If anybody in there was looking for trouble, I guess they figured a white guy in white rabbit fur buying burgers in that part of town was just too crazy to be worth messing with.

  At the end of January 1975, Elvis took the step I’d been hoping for and checked himself back into Baptist Memorial Hospital. There was some fallout from this decision—for one, an engagement at the Hilton had to be postponed. Also, work on the karate film was halted and the production office was shut down. We had a great rough cut put together, but without the Colonel’s support, and with Elvis’s health now a primary concern, the film couldn’t move forward. It was sad to see the project lose momentum, but it was more important for Elvis to get well.

  Tests were done on his liver once more, and his chronic intestinal problems were monitored. Once more we treated the floor of the hospital like a Vegas suite, setting up Elvis’s room the way he wanted it, which again included a bed for Linda. And once again Sonny and I took turns sleeping in a room across the hall. After the first few days Elvis was doing great, and was no longer confined to bed. It wasn’t unusual to have him stroll into my hospital room as if I were the patient and he were the visitor.

  The threats to Elvis’s health were serious, but we shared one good laugh early in his stay when I noted the names of a couple of the staff that would be taking care of him: Nurse Marian Cocke and Nurse Kathy Seamon.

  “Cocke and Seamon?” I remarked. “Elvis, what kind of hospital is this?”

  As Elvis laughed, Nurse Cocke herself walked very calmly across the room, got a pitcher of ice water, and poured it down my shirt. Elvis laughed even harder. That was the beginning of a friendship between him and Marian Cocke—she’d later become his personal nurse at Graceland.

  After a few days some of the new guys moved into the extra hospital room and Sonny and I left to stay at Graceland. Elvis wanted to get off his medications, but he wasn’t happy about eating hospital food, so each day one of the guys—usually Al Strada—would bring a meal the Graceland cooks had put together—typically meat loaf, corn bread, and greens. Clean pajamas, favorite books, and anything else Elvis wanted in his hospital room would also be delivered. One day, Aunt Delta told me that Elvis’s food was ready, but that Sonny, who had offered to make the delivery that day, was still sleeping. I said I didn’t have any trouble making the run, since I was going over to the hospital anyway. In the kitchen, I picked up the big brown bag that held food containers and some pajamas. On top of all that was a small box that had come through the mail for Elvis. It had no return address, but was postmarked “Las Vegas.”

  “What’s this?” I asked Delta.

  “I don’t know. I just thought Elvis might want it,” she answered.

  Sonny was just getting up, and I showed him the box and asked if he knew what it was. He didn’t. He and I figured the best thing to do was open it up—Elvis’s standing order was to open any suspicious packages. I opened it, and found, at the center of a lot of packing, one large vial of pills. This was an upsetting discovery, and I had the awful feeling of being in the middle of a no-win situation. But I didn’t want to just turn this stuff over to Elvis if it was part of the problem. Instead of heading straight to the hospital, I took the pills over to Dr. Nick’s office in Mid-town and told him how I’d found them.

  Dr. Nick said that maybe we should give whoever had sent them the benefit of the doubt—maybe a doctor was helping treat Elvis with some kind of placebo. He sent his head nurse, Tish Hensley, out to have the pills tested.

  I waited in Dr. Nick’s office for a while as he saw some patients. Elvis’s meat loaf was getting cold, but this was a more important concern. After a while, the nurse came back with the results. The pills were not a placebo of any kind—they were a powerful narcotic. Anger and frustration flashed across Dr. Nick’s face.

  “Elvis is doing fine right now,” he said. “But I can’t get help from any of these other doctors.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do next, but Dr. Nick had an idea how to handle the situation.

  “Look, Jerry, Elvis is in a good place emotionally. Take the package to him just like it is. He may handle this well.”

  I got over to the hospital, and made it up to the room. Vernon and a couple of the guys were there talking with Elvis, who was in bed. I made the food delivery and showed Elvis the small, opened package.

  “E, I didn’t know what might be in here, so I opened it up…”

  He knew exactly what I was showing him, and quickly spoke to his father and the others, “Would everybody excuse Jerry and me for a moment?”

  I got nervous—thinking maybe he was going to explode at me. But when the others were gone, he stayed perfectly calm and smiled. “It’s OK, Jerry. I just didn’t want to embarrass my daddy. He has a prostate problem and that’s just some medicine I got for him. Go ahead and put it in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”

  From what Nick had said, this was obviously not any kind of prostate medicine. I was worried about leaving the pills there, and checked back with the doctor as soon as I could. Dr. Nick pointed out that he was in the room at least twice a day and he knew where the pills were and how many were in the vial. If he suspected Elvis had used any, he would confront him. But days went by
and the pills remained untouched. Finally, at one checkup, Dr. Nick pulled the vial from the cabinet and asked Elvis where this medicine had come from.

  “I don’t know,” said Elvis. “Whoever was here before me must have left it there.”

  “Maybe I should just flush them,” said Dr. Nick.

  “Yeah, good idea,” said Elvis. The pills were disposed of.

  The incident points to what Elvis was up against. Even while he was in the hospital trying to overcome the problem, he was being sent opiates as a kind of twisted token of esteem (we never did figure out who sent the pills—Elvis had dealt with many doctors during his stays in Las Vegas). A lot of us close to Elvis wanted to do everything we could to get him well. But there were too many doctors happy to write prescriptions just so they could have some connection to Elvis Presley.

  He did get healthier during the second hospital stay, and was days away from being discharged when another Presley had to be checked in. Elvis called me one afternoon from the hospital. “Jerry, I’m worried about my daddy. He’s not feeling good. Would you go by and pick him up—get him over to the hospital?”

  I headed over to the house behind Graceland, where Vernon now lived with Sandy Miller. Sandy, a former nurse, had called Elvis at the hospital to let him know that Vernon needed medical attention. When I walked in, Vernon was white as a ghost and obviously in tremendous pain. Sandy hadn’t wanted to alarm him, but she told me how serious she thought the situation was. I spoke to Vernon.

  “Mr. Presley, I don’t think we should wait for an ambulance.”

  “I don’t think so either, Jerry,” he whispered.

  I found myself making the same speedy drive to the hospital that I had when Priscilla went into labor with Lisa Marie. But now there was an expressway to use, and on that road, we caught a break—just as I got on the highway I was able to get behind an ambulance with its lights on and siren blaring. I stayed behind the ambulance all the way to the hospital, where the doctors told us that Vernon had suffered a major heart attack. We’d gotten him there just in time.