“Let’s live a little,” she said. “Move your ass. We’re going to get a hamburger.”
“All right,” I said. “But we’re going to look like pickups. I’m telling you.”
As we stood in the doorway, waiting for a table, I saw my friend Bill Browder, better known by his stage name, T. G. Sheppard, who had a big hit called “Devil in the Bottle.”
When he saw me, he waved in my direction, a big grin on his face.
“Linda, come over,” he said. “We’ll buy you lunch.”
“See, we’re getting picked up,” I said. “I told you we’d look like pickups.”
Jeanne was used to how proper I was, and so she just rolled her eyes and headed right for the guys. We sat down at their table and ordered lunch.
“Hey, you girls want to meet Elvis tonight?” T.G. asked.
“Yes, absolutely,” Jeanne said without taking a breath.
“Well, he rents out the Memphian Theater after midnight when he’s in town,” T.G. said. “He screens movies. I’d love to introduce you to Elvis.”
“Oh, we’d love to, but we have to work tonight,” I said, thinking of the modeling gig we were committed to as Miss Tennessee Universe and Miss Rhode Island Universe.
“Forget it,” Jeanne said. “We’re getting substitutes. We’ll be there.”
Just before midnight we drove down to the Memphian Theater in my little Chevy Vega. It didn’t have any air-conditioning, and the heat was oppressive. We had the windows down, hoping for any breeze that might trickle in. As a longtime Elvis fan, it was hard to control my nerves, and on that hot summer night, the air enveloped us like a moving blanket of warmth and anticipation. Figuring we’d be immune to a ticket at midnight, I found an illegal parking space just outside the theater’s front door. I had reasons for wanting my car close by.
“We’re going to park right in the front here,” I said. “Just in case things aren’t on the up-and-up, we can make a quick getaway.”
“Oh my God, you’re so stuffy,” Jeanne said, laughing.
As we walked up to the theater, I smoothed down my short silk skirt, which was fitted at the waist and flouncy. I was wearing it with a matching cream-colored bodysuit printed with lavender flowers, and lavender suede high-heeled sandals. I was, after all, beauty pageant material then, so I had a tiny little waist. Tanned from the Puerto Rican sun, I was wearing a push-up bra, enhancing the appearance of my Sally Average–sized breasts. False advertising, I thought to myself with a chuckle, as we knocked on the door and were admitted to the theater. Not that I was trying to dress attractively for Elvis. As far as I knew, he was a married man—he’d been with his wife Priscilla since 1967—and therefore absolutely off-limits. But I took my role as Miss Tennessee Universe just seriously enough that I felt I should look the part when meeting the King of Rock and Roll.
As we entered the theater lobby, I observed what looked to be a sizable entourage present, including Elvis’s stepbrother, David Stanley, deejay George Klein, and a bunch of his friends. I was being introduced around as Miss Tennessee Universe; I smiled demurely, wondering what would happen next.
All of a sudden, a loud banging sound came from the direction of the side door. Somebody went over and opened it. In swooped Elvis, looking 100 percent Elvis, in a black suede cape with red satin lining, black pants with a flared leg and red satin piping, black stage boots, and big sunglasses, even at midnight—because when you’re that cool, the sun shines on you twenty-four hours a day.
“Who the hell locked this door?” he yelled. He was carrying a two-foot-long black flashlight and started shining the light around the room in an aggressive manner.
“Oh, sorry boss,” one of his entourage members said, squinting into the light.
Elvis flicked the light onto one of the other guys.
“Sorry, boss,” that guy said. “We thought you were coming in the front door.”
“I told somebody I was coming in the side door,” he said. “I won’t have that happen again.”
Then he flashed the light on me. As soon as he saw my face, he dropped the light.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said, his tone changing immediately to pure Southern gentleman. “Hello, honey.”
Elvis strode right over to me, and I immediately felt the extraordinary presence he exuded, his natural charisma, a force field of pure energy and charm that radiated out of him.
“Hey, boss, this is Miss Tennessee Universe, Linda Thompson,” said David Stanley.
“Oh, you’re Miss Tennessee,” Elvis said, his voice like honey.
Oh my God! When he smiles, his lip really does curl slightly, I mused.
“And this is Miss Rhode Island, Jeanne LeMay.”
Jeanne, of course, was batting her eyelashes at him and smiling that blinding smile of hers from ear to ear.
But he already seemed smitten with me, as he had from the first moment he’d held the light on my face.
“Aren’t you hot?” I teased him. “It’s so hot and humid outside.”
“No, honey, I just came out of the air-conditioned car into an air-conditioned building,” he said, laughing uncertainly, as if unused to being questioned about his choice of wardrobe or anything else he did.
“We’re kind of dressed a little like Dracula tonight, aren’t we?” I said, still teasing.
Now he laughed openly, that wonderful, joyous laugh of his, catching on to the edge intrinsic to my sense of humor, and seeming to appreciate the fact that he’d found a sweet Southern belle who dared to joke and spar with him. One who would even venture to call him out for wearing a black suede cape in the middle of summer in hot, humid, Memphis, Tennessee.
We made a little small talk about the pageant, but it was as if he and I were already speaking a familiar language, born of our common upbringings yet personal to the two of us. We couldn’t take our eyes off each other. Finally, he looked around the crowded lobby, everyone half-watching him, but pretending not to be. Everyone always watched Elvis when he was in the room.
“Let’s get this movie started,” he said.
Elvis swept into the theater first, and we all trailed behind him, as if he were the Pied Piper. A TV tray was set up by one of the seats midway down the theater, and right smack in the middle of the row. That was his designated seat and nobody sat in front of him. Ever. On his tray were a big Coca-Cola, a Mountain Valley Mineral Water, and his Tiparillo cigars.
After he took his seat, we all left an empty row behind him and then settled into the seats in the next few rows. George Klein, a locally famous deejay on the most popular station, WHBQ, and host of a weekly dance party in Memphis, came in and sat down next to me. I’d been a guest several times on his talk show, which was devoted to promoting local events and happenings. He’d had me on when I won Miss Memphis State University, Miss Liberty Bowl, and Miss MidSouth, and he’d taken to referring to me as “Miss Everything,” as in “Here she is, again, ladies and gentlemen: Miss Everything.”
During the lull before the movie started, Elvis turned around and smiled that gorgeous smile at me. He asked me a few questions, and I remembered to blurt out, “By the way, my aunt Marie went to high school with you at Humes High School, and she said to be sure to say hello to you if I met you tonight.”
That seemed to amuse him.
“Oh, Aunt Marie,” he said, as if he knew her, when of course he didn’t.
As he turned back around, I felt slightly embarrassed that I’d blurted out such a random comment. I figured the movie would start any minute and conceal my shame.
But, no, Elvis turned around again. This time he held up his watch, which featured a lightning bolt design, all done in diamonds.
“You like this watch, honey?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s really pretty,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”
He smiled and nodded, as if he agreed, and then turned around again.
He’s trying to keep making small talk with me, I couldn’t help but notice.
“R
oll the movie,” he said, in a voice meant to travel, waving his arm as if giving a royal command.
Just like that, the movie started. That was my first observation, how with the snap of his fingers, Elvis got the world to do what he wanted.
Not long into the movie, Elvis stood up. Of course, all eyes in the theater were on him, not on the screen, but we all pretended like we were still watching the movie. Elvis walked toward the back of the theater, pausing in the aisle by George, who was seated next to me. Elvis tapped George on the shoulder and beckoned him out to the lobby.
“Excuse me, Linda,” George said.
“Sure,” I said.
A few minutes later, I felt someone sit down next to me, and I assumed it was George again. But when I turned around to look, Elvis was there in the seat beside me.
“Oh, to what do we owe this honor?” I asked, rather impertinently.
“Well, I, I, I just …” he said, stumbling over his words a bit in a way that was boyish and very endearing. “I wanted to sit here, honey, and get to know you better.”
On my other side, Jeanne jabbed her elbow into my ribs so sharply, she just about broke the bone, and I could hear her whispering under her breath.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe he’s sitting next to you,” she said.
He’s still married, I thought. I definitely don’t date married men. And, besides, he’s probably just being polite because I’m Miss Tennessee. I represent his state.
With that in mind, I was gracious to him, but not overly friendly, as we talked a little bit more. During all of this, Elvis’s high school friend turned bodyguard, Red West, came and sat next to Jeanne. She leaned over.
“Great, you get Elvis Presley, and who’s this guy sitting next to me?” she whispered in my ear. “Red fucking West. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Relax, he’s married,” I whispered back. “Everything’s fine. Elvis is married.”
And then, he started to pull the old yawn and put his arm on the seat behind me trick, and started hugging me up. Now Jeanne, of course, was really breaking my ribs with her elbow. While Elvis was attempting to get cozier and friendlier with me, I was very resistant, pulling back from him as far as I could in my seat. Finally, I turned to Jeanne.
“I think we should go,” I said to Jeanne.
Elvis leaned around and toward me to get my attention.
Looking me intently in the eyes, he said, “Honey, you know I’m not married anymore.”
“No,” I said, totally shocked. “I had no idea.”
“Well, we haven’t released it to the press yet, but I’ve been separated since last December,” he said. “I’m officially separated. We’re going to get a divorce. She left me for someone else.”
“Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that,” I said. “But you know, you should have married a Southern girl.”
He seemed a little taken aback that I would speak so bluntly to him, and about something so personal, but then he smiled at me.
“Yeah, you know, you’re absolutely right,” he said.
And that, right there, was the beginning of Elvis and me. In the years that followed, he would always remind me that one of the wisest and most memorable things I’d ever said to him was right in our first meeting, when I told him that he should have married a Southern girl.
“You were one hundred percent right,” he always said. “It’s like you and I knew each other before we knew each other, because you grew up the same way I did. I know you. I know your spirit. I know how you think and how you feel.”
And I felt the same way about him. I knew who Elvis Presley was, of course, because he was famous, and so I knew trivial things about him that I’d read in magazines. But beyond that, on a visceral level, I knew what was important to him, because it was also what was important to me.
Elvis leaned in and kissed me, and the fullness, tenderness, and sweetness of his absolutely perfect lips were like kissing marshmallows. Seriously, if you want to know what it was like to kiss Elvis, get the biggest, puffiest marshmallows you can find and press a few of them against your lips, because his lips really were that sweet and soft. He was the most mesmerizing kisser, so very sensual and intense. So, yeah, it was a pretty staggering first kiss, intoxicating to the point that neither of us seemed to mind that we were surrounded by people in the theater. We were oblivious to everything and everyone. And all my pious propriety as Miss Tennessee Universe went out the side door of that theater and up in smoke.
Those first kisses went on and on, and then he started nuzzling me, and kissing me on the neck, and whispering sweet everythings to me, like, “Where have you been all my life?”
To which I answered: “Umm, growing up, I’d have to say.”
He laughed out loud.
“I’ve been looking for someone like you, honey,” he continued.
In fact, I have no idea what movie we saw. It was a double feature, and yet it wasn’t nearly long enough for me. I never wanted that night to end. I’m sure the movie was something about karate, or maybe a Blaxploitation film, because Elvis loved movies like that, movies like Across 110th Street with Anthony Quinn and Yaphet Kotto, which was released later that year. And as I soon came to find out, when Elvis was in the building, we always did what Elvis loved.
Eventually the movies were both over and the lights came on. With Elvis kissing me for several hours, I had been dimly aware of a ripple of interest in the theater around us, as everyone there seemed to notice that Elvis had met a girl, and it looked like it was getting kind of serious. Now in the light, I knew they were all staring at me. I smoothed down my clothes and pressed my palms against my cheeks and chin, trying to cool the heat of the whisker burn I thought had to be apparent on my face. He and I both giggled at the awkwardness of the moment. For the first time in hours, I was self-conscious and shy about the total abandon Elvis and I had displayed during the movies.
We both stood, and even though other people were gathering their things around us and starting to make their way out of the theater, Elvis seemed hesitant to make any move away from me.
“Honey, I don’t know where you’ve been all my life, but I’m really happy I met you, and I want to see you again,” he said. “I want you to come to Graceland tomorrow night and meet my daddy.”
Is this really happening? This is really happening!
“Oh, we’re going on vacation tomorrow night with my aunt and uncle,” I said, my heart sinking at the thought of going away from him, “But I can come for a while anyway.”
“Yeah, I want to show you Graceland,” he said. “I want you to meet my daddy. What’s your number?”
“Well, I don’t have a pen or a piece of paper,” I said in a playfully resistant tone.
What? I’ve probably been making out with him for four hours in a movie theater full of people, and now I’m playing coy? Well, I can’t make it too easy for him.
Elvis called his longtime friend and road manager Joe Esposito over and asked him for a piece of paper and a pen. Joe had a book of matches, so Elvis took it and a pen from him and wrote down the number himself. On a book of matches, what a cliché. But that’s exactly how it happened. As I would soon learn, this was a big deal, because Elvis didn’t do anything for himself, really. That’s what Joe was there for; he was always the guy who wrote things down and made calls for Elvis. But in this instance, Elvis took down my number for himself.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“Okay, we’ll come over tomorrow night,” I said.
He pulled me into him and gave me another kiss, held me for a minute, and asked where I was parked. Like the gentleman he was, he escorted me to my car, opened the door for me, and leaned in for one more kiss as I settled into my little Vega.
I waved goodbye as Jeanne climbed in next to me, and I drove us down the deserted street on my way back to Aunt Betty’s house. And reality.
“What’s the matter with me?” I chided myself out loud. “Why did I make him write d
own my number? He probably didn’t even write the number correctly. Why was I being so cool and coy? I should have written it myself. At least I’d know he has it!”
“I know,” Jeanne said. “I couldn’t believe that you didn’t just write it down for him in the biggest block letters.”
“I probably won’t hear from him again,” I wailed. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I played that hard to get.”
When we got back to my aunt Betty Sue’s house, I could hardly believe it was four o’clock in the morning. Elvis and I had been kissing for almost four hours. Even though it was so late, almost morning, Betty Sue was waiting up for us. She was excited that we’d gotten to meet Elvis Presley that night, and she wanted to hear all about it.
“Well, was he there?” she said to begin. “Did you get to meet him?”
“Not only did she get to meet him,” Jeanne said, “he kissed her. He’s crazy about her.”
Aunt Betty Sue could tell by the look on my face, and quite possibly the telltale beard-burn flush, that all of this was true.
We sat at the kitchen table, going over the evening in every wonderful detail, when the phone rang. By this point, it was around four thirty.
Betty Sue looked at me questioningly as she answered the phone.
“Hello,” she drawled in her sweet Southern accent. “Why, yes, oh, well, it’s lovely to speak to you, Elvis. Yes, she’s here. Just one moment, please. Let me get her for you. Nice talking to you. Bye-bye.”
Putting her hand over the phone receiver, she raised her eyebrows in exaggerated surprise.
“Oh my God, it’s him! It’s Elvis Presley on my phone. On my phone!!” she exclaimed.
“Ssshhh,” I said, not wanting him to hear her, as I stood to take the call.
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Hey, honey, I just wanted to tell you one more time …” he said, noticeably slurring, his voice groggy and trailing off at the end of words. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have met you. You’re everything I’ve been looking for. I don’t know where you’ve been all my life, but I’m so happy I met you, and I want to be with you.” He repeated the same sweet things he had said to me in the theater.
A Little Thing Called Life Page 4