“Well, I’m just glad you didn’t write down my number wrong, and you called,” I said. “Have you been drinking? You sound very sleepy, or something.”
“Ahhh, nnnooo, honey,” he drawled. “I’m just tired. I, uh, I really want you to come over tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, surmising that was perhaps simply Elvis’s unique way of speaking when he was super-tired, his own cadence, with his kind of sexy, slurred mumbling. Anyway, I bought his explanation. I didn’t have any experience with drinking or drugs to make me think otherwise.
“I’m going to get Joe Esposito to call you tomorrow, and he’s going to give you all the instructions,” Elvis said.
The next day, amid packing and other preparations for our departure for our family vacation that night, Joe Esposito really did call and give me the information I needed to gain access to Graceland that evening. At 6 P.M., as instructed, I pulled up to the gates of Graceland in my little non-air-conditioned Vega, with Jeanne in the passenger seat. As we stopped at the guard shack, I thought back to when I was a ten-year-old Elvis fan who’d seen all his movies and knew the words to all his songs, and I’d gone to the Graceland gate with an Elvis calendar, hoping for an autograph. Back then, his uncle Vester watched over the gate, and when he saw me staring through the bars, he came over to me.
“Honey, do you want this autographed?” he asked me.
“Yes, please,” I said, sticking it through the bars. “Is Elvis home?”
“He is home,” he said. “I’ll just take this up to him and get him to sign it for you.”
“Oh, wow, that’s great, thank you, sir,” I said, amazed that the Elvis Presley was really in there.
Vester took my calendar up to the house while I waited excitedly at the gate. Of course, now I’d make an educated guess he probably got Elvis’s cousin, Patsy, to sign the thing for me. But when he brought it back down to me, I was convinced I had the one and only Elvis Presley’s signature in my possession, and it became a treasure. And now, unbelievably, the gates of Graceland were opening to me, and we were driving up that long, winding driveway into this fantasyland that I had grown up only observing from outside those famous guarded gates.
The front door opened to reveal a tall, handsome man with a full head of white, wavy hair and a rather terse smile.
“Hello there, Miss Tennessee, I presume?” Vernon Presley said. “I’m Vernon, Elvis’s daddy. Y’all come on in.”
We walked right in, even though it felt a little like a dream to do so.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” I said, appropriate to my Southern upbringing.
We were led back to what is now known as the Jungle Room, but what was then the TV Room, before Elvis and I redecorated it into Elvis’s wild jungle fantasy. Elvis was sitting there, his leg shaking rhythmically, as it always did, his body forever in motion. He sprang up and gave me a big hug, and I was enveloped in his sweet, sexy scent, which was already becoming familiar to me.
“Let’s go for a golf cart ride,” Elvis said.
At the time I didn’t know what a golf cart ride might entail, but I was game for almost anything Elvis might suggest. Elvis climbed into the driver’s seat of a golf cart that was parked behind the house, and I climbed up front next to him, while Red West and Jeanne climbed into the backseat. Elvis started driving fast, laughing when he saw me holding on as tightly as I could, and steered us toward a field where corn had once been grown. The earth was still furrowed in rows, and he bounced us over the bumpy earth, laughing the whole way. And even though he kept nearly turning the cart over, and I was slipping and sliding around on my seat, nearly falling off with every big bump we hit, for some reason I always felt so safe with Elvis, like if anything happened to me, he’d take care of it. If I got broken, he’d fix me. He could do anything, and would do it for me, because that’s who he was.
After our wild ride, Elvis showed us all through his beloved home, Graceland, pointing out special features and telling us stories about things that had happened there.
“I sometimes play the piano in this room, so I call it the music room,” he laughed.
“Sounds reasonable,” I offered supportively.
We both laughed.
“We don’t use the living room much,” he said. “I think that’s true in most houses. I like a less formal room where you can kick back, put your feet up, and relax.”
He seemed so proud of his famous home. He was like a little kid showing me through his playhouse he had built himself.
“Through there is Dodger’s room. That’s my grandmother, but I call her Dodger. I used to play games, throwing small things at her when I was a little boy, and she would dodge them. My aunt Delta takes care of her and stays in that room over there.”
When we were all standing together back in the TV Room, he turned to the others.
“Jeanne and Red, excuse us, I want to show Linda my upstairs,” he said. “I’m going to show her my bedroom.”
I’d had boyfriends before, and obviously had even been proposed to by my football player high school sweetheart, but like the good Southern Baptist girl I was, I was a virgin. And Elvis, well, he was Elvis. And we were about to be alone together in his bedroom, but somehow I felt perfectly comfortable about all of this. Of course, Jeanne, being my best friend, knew my virginal status, and she wasn’t so sure about me climbing the stairs up to Elvis Presley’s bedroom, where God knows what had taken place through the years, or what might happen to her innocent friend.
“Oh, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” she said, like she was my bodyguard.
“Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of your friend,” he said. “I’m a gentleman.”
“Relax, it’s fine, Jeanne,” I said. “I’ll be all right. I’m a big girl.”
We went upstairs, and just as he’d promised, Elvis was a gentleman. While showing me his dressing area, the lady’s dressing area, the office, with its piano organ, and Lisa Marie’s room, he was absolutely respectful of me. Finally, we were alone in his bedroom, with its huge, nine-foot-by-nine-foot bed.
“Wow, that’s the biggest bed I’ve ever seen,” I said.
“Yeah, honey, I had it custom made,” he said. “I like to have plenty of room when I sleep.”
A gold-plated phone sat on the table on one side of the bed, with a regular phone on the other side, and there were guns everywhere, including on the nightstand.
“Are those loaded?” I asked.
“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “Why would I have them if they weren’t?”
We sat down together on the edge of the bed and talked and kissed. We talked and kissed some more. Even though it was only our second night together, we were already very comfortable, cuddling and talking baby talk to each other.
“Your skin is so soft, smooth, and pretty,” he effused. “Like a baby. You’re my baby, aren’t you?”
Dreaming, I must be dreaming.
This man I grew up watching in movies, listening to on the radio and records, fantasizing about with my young girlfriends, was now holding me in his arms and kissing me like he never wanted to let me go. Every so often, we’d stop kissing, and he’d show me some detail of his room. He had books on philosophy and spirituality stacked all around, including the Bible, of course, but also Paramahansa Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi, and even books by Karl Marx, who had famously said, “Religion is the opium of the people.” As Elvis shared with me about his reading and his studies on the subject, it was clear that he had done his research and was delving into every aspect of spirituality. Not only what God meant to him, but also what God meant to others all over the world. Having been raised with a deep faith of my own, I found it fascinating and wonderful that here was a man who was sitting on the pinnacle of success, and he still wanted to know what it all meant, and where he fit in, and what good he could do in the world.
“I think about it all the time,” he said. “What God wants me to do. I can’t help but wonder why God p
ut me here. Why he gave me the talent to sing and entertain people. Why me, Lord? ‘For those to whom much has been given, much is expected.’ Have you heard that, honey? I know I am supposed to give all that I humanly can to repay my maker and for blessing me with all that he has.”
As I was learning, that’s how Elvis thought every day of his life, and how he functioned. And then, we kissed and snuggled close together some more, until before I knew it, it was three o’clock in the morning.
“Oh, I’ve got to go,” I said, like I was Cinderella.
“Why?” he said, sounding surprised and disappointed. “I want you to stay here with me.”
“Oh, I can’t, and I wouldn’t,” I said. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t stay with you tonight, only just having met you last night. It would be too soon to sleep over.”
“Well, I respect that,” he said. “But just know that I don’t like to be alone, and I want you to be with me. I really want you to be with me. Be with me.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, flattered, but not fully understanding the desperate level of his need. “But my aunt Betty Sue, uncle Steve, my cousins, and I are all leaving at four in the morning to drive down to Gulf Shores, Alabama, for two weeks. And I’m still here. I’ve got to go.”
“All right, I’ll let you go,” he said. “Just promise me I’ll see you again.”
“Of course I want to see you again, too,” I assured him.
He walked me downstairs, where we found Red and Jeanne in the TV room, and then he walked Jeanne and me out to my car. Elvis and I were standing there, kissing and saying goodbye, when Jeanne broke into our moment.
“I can’t take it anymore,” she said. “I just have to be able to tell my friends back in Rhode Island that I kissed Elvis Presley. Can I just have one kiss?”
Elvis looked at me with a wry little smile crossing his perfect lips, as if to ask permission.
“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you,” I said.
“That’s fine,” he said. “How many girls have I kissed in my life? Yeah, it’s fine.”
He gave her a little kiss on the lips, and she nearly swooned right then and there.
“Ahhh, oh my God,” she said.
“I know,” I said, laughing. “Marshmallows, right?”
“Yes, I’m good for life now,” she said, climbing into the car to wait for me.
Elvis and I continued to kiss and hold each other, and I could tell he didn’t want to let go of me, didn’t want me to go at all.
“I have to go because my aunt’s going to be waiting for us,” I said once more. “I’d feel terrible if I kept them waiting. This has been planned for a while. Their car is all loaded. We’re driving to Gulf Shores, and we’ll all be gone for two weeks.”
We said one more goodbye and shared one more kiss before I finally pulled myself out of his arms and in a state of slight delirium drove down the driveway. When I got back to Aunt Betty Sue’s house, they were all waiting for us. As we all piled into the car and finally got on the road, my aunt popped in an Elvis eight-track.
As I listened to Elvis croon his way through “Until It’s Time for You to Go,” “I Just Can’t Help Believing,” and all of those beautiful songs, I sat in the backseat, reliving actually being in the presence of that voice, his voice.
It didn’t take long for me to start second-guessing everything I’d been through in the last forty-eight hours. “Do you think I’ll ever hear from him again?” I asked. “It’s Elvis Presley. Why did I believe he wants to be with me? He’s been with Ann-Margret. He’s been with every beautiful movie star, and he could be with any model.”
I spent the better part of the ten-hour drive to Gulf Shores, and all through the next two weeks, bemoaning my fate. We didn’t have a phone in our little rental cottage. I didn’t have his number anyway. And it’s not like one just picks up the phone and calls Elvis Presley. The vacation was everything a great big family trip should be. We slept out on the screened-in porch, walked on the beach, talked about life, cooked out, showered outside, had family sing-alongs, and got suntans. But the whole time, I was awash with wonder and the thrill of my newly made memories with the King of Rock and Roll. My Elvis.
“A Love That Will Last”
I want a little
Something more
I don’t want the middle
Or the one before
I don’t desire
A complicated past
I want a love that will last
Say that you love me
Say I’m the one
Don’t kiss and hug me
And then try to run
I don’t do drama
My tears don’t fall fast
I want a love that will last
I don’t want just a memory
Give me forever
Don’t even think about
Saying goodbye
’Cause I just want one love
To be enough
And remain in my heart
Till I die … so …
Call me romantic
I guess that’s so
There’s something more that
You ought to know
I’d never leave you
So don’t even ask
I want a love that will last … forever …
I want a love that will last
I don’t want just a memory
Give me forever
Don’t even think about
Saying goodbye
’Cause I just want one love
To be enough
And remain in my heart
Till I die …
LYRIC: LINDA THOMPSON
Chapter Four
A Vegas Fairy Tale
By the time we got back to Memphis, we were all road weary. The primary thought going through my mind was how wonderful a soft pillow was going to feel against my cheek. As we ambled, dragging our luggage into my aunt’s house at the end of our ten-hour drive, it was around ten o’clock at night and the phone was ringing.
“Wow, who could that be this late at night?” Aunt Betty Sue asked, picking up the phone.
My heart raced at the thought it might be Elvis. Get a grip on yourself, I thought. You just walked through the door after two weeks away. Just because your mind has been utterly consumed with Elvis doesn’t mean he has given you equal time in his consciousness. He’s a little busy, being Elvis, after all. My silent self-admonishment came to an abrupt halt when, with a big grin on her face, Aunt Betty turned to me and rather ceremoniously plunked the receiver into my hand.
“It’s for you,” she said, beaming.
“Hello?” I asked.
“Oh my God, is this Linda?” said the man on the other end of the line.
“Yes, this is she,” I said, politely and cautiously.
“Linda Thompson! This is Joe Esposito, Elvis’s road manager,” he said. “I’ve dialed your number so many times in the last two weeks I’ve memorized it.”
He recited the number to me, as if offering proof.
“Elvis has been trying to reach you nonstop for two weeks,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry I’ve been unavailable. I told him I was going to be out of town,” I said. “I was in Gulf Shores, Alabama.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Joe said. “He’s grabbing the phone. He’s grabbing the phone away from me.”
“Honey, where the hell have you been?” Elvis said.
“I told you I was going to be on vacation for two weeks with my aunt and uncle,” I said.
“Sweetheart, you told me you were going on vacation,” he said. “You didn’t tell me you were going to drop off the face of the earth for two weeks. I’ve been going crazy trying to get a hold of you. Who do you think I am? Who the hell do you think I am? What do you think I meant when I said I want to be with you? I meant every word I said to you! I want to be with you.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” I said, flustered. “I thought you understood that I’d be gone for a couple o
f—”
“I want you on a plane in the morning,” he said, interrupting me.
“Oh, but honey, I just got in,” I said. “I’m not even unpacked from the beach. I may still have sand between my toes.”
Elvis chuckled. “You won’t need anything,” he said. “Just get on the plane tomorrow morning. I’ve got to go to Vegas for rehearsals. I’m opening in Vegas, and I want you to fly into Los Angeles, see my house here, and then we’ll fly into Vegas together.”
“I don’t have any … I don’t …” I said, trying to catch up with what he was telling me.
“No, no ifs or buts,” he said. “You’re on that plane in the morning.”
“Okay, okay then,” I said. “If you insist.”
“Oh, I insist,” he said, very powerfully yet tenderly summing up the purpose of his phone call. “I can’t wait to see you, baby. You are all I’ve been able to concentrate on. Don’t ever leave me again like that.”
I hung up the phone and turned to Jeanne and Aunt Betty Sue’s expectant faces.
“Oh my God, I only have my little college clothes, and Elvis wants me to go to Las Vegas with him,” I said. “What am I going to do? What kind of clothes do I take? What am I talking about? What kind of clothes do I even own appropriate to Vegas?!”
We immediately started going through my meager wardrobe.
“Well, let’s just fix this dress up,” Betty Sue said. “Let’s fix that dress up.”
While I had a few beauty pageant dresses and some long ones leftover from the evening gown competitions, I’d never been to Vegas. But I wasn’t just going to Las Vegas: I was going to be on the arm of Elvis Presley, the man who ruled that town. Aunt Betty and my cousins Lori and Brenda and I put some things together as quickly and painstakingly as we could, folded them in a suitcase, and, oh yeah, tried to get a little sleep before the next morning, when I found myself flying, first class, to Los Angeles.
A long, black Mercedes limousine picked me up at the airport. Let’s just pause for a moment to savor the scene: The limo was Elvis Presley’s personal one and had lush fox fur carpeting. What?! I was expected to put my shoes on that gorgeous fur on the floor? I was familiar with the term “four on the floor,” but c’mon, “fur on the floor”?
A Little Thing Called Life Page 5