Dream Angel : Heaven Waits
Page 13
With steady hands, he took the jewelry from my grasp, and in looking down at me, that familiar grin slipped across his face. “What’s the matter youngin, cat got your tongue?” He laughed, and I admired the lines of aged wisdom that deepened around his eyes.
“You’re beautiful,” I whimpered through my tears and eased into his arms, relishing the feel of his strong embrace encircling me.
“Careful now, this ole body hurts.”
“You do? Where?” I instantly felt the need to mother him.
“Everywhere.”
“Can I help?” I rubbed the sides of his arms, surprised at how stout he was even at this stage in life.
“Nah, it’s just a few too many, ‘Polk Salad Annie’s’, I’m afraid.” He chuckled and then I laughed with him, hugging him once more.
He was so beautiful; I would have happily sacrificed years from my own life to have seen him experience this stage of his.
“Let me get a look at you, darlin’.” Elvis said while reaching out to take my hand.
Stepping back, he lifted my palm in to the air, and in turning his head slightly that little boy grin of his shined. He admired my face, then my hair, and I blushed as his eyes sparkled with approval. I felt special. I didn’t have to look in the mirror to know my cheeks were once again a multiple shade of red. And when he reached out with his free hand and wound a bent finger inside my curls, I laughed nervously like a teenager on her first "real" date
“Look at you, so beautiful. And, I’m in no position to do a damn thing about it.” His easy smile was just for me, and even at this advanced age, he was still capable of stirring a desire deep within me.
“The tiger is tamed?”
“Tired, is more like it.” His wide smile deepened those adorable dimples, and I was unable to resist the need to touch him. I placed a light touch against his cheek, and he promptly took my hand and brought it to his lips for a tender kiss instead.
“Turn around, let’s put this on.” He winked.
I had been so involved with his transformation; I had long forgotten that he had taken my necklace. I turned around, lifted my hair, and felt him slide the chain around my neck. The metal was cool against my fiery skin. And after he'd clasped it, with surprising accuracy, he rested his open palms to my bare shoulders, and then leaned down to gently brush his lips across my skin in a light airy kiss. A vision of a much younger Elvis raced through my mind.
“You’re too old for me, you know?” I teased, enjoying the sound of him chuckling in my ear.
***
The drive to the Cobb Galleria Centre was short, but still the traffic crawled. A light mist fell, and the city lights sparkled in distorted watermarks across my windshield. There was an excitement in the evening air, a charge. It was the kind of thrill one can only find in a city the size of Atlanta.
The night was alive, and I was dressed for it. I wanted nothing more than to grab my handsome escort, and show him all my favorite spots across town. And yet here we were, stuck in traffic with only the slap-slap sound of the windshield wipers for company. Talk about a downer, I thought while also steeling a look at myself in the rearview mirror. Great, I frowned. My curls were already drooping.
As we sat, at a complete standstill, a stream of vehicles filed past us. It seemed as if the whole town had showed up, and I counted three cars before someone finally let us in. If people only knew who was sitting in this car, I mused, the effort to park would be a lot less painful.
I circled once, twice, and then found a spot.
At first neither of us moved to exit. And as I watched Elvis’ face flood with astonishment, I had to admit, even I was shocked. There were fans everywhere! Some were dressed for an evening out, while others displayed their loyalty on a tee-shirt, but all unknowingly passed their idol in the car as they headed for the show.
“Are you sure, you want to do this?” I asked, but only silence followed as he was too busy watching two women screaming and running to each other, arm’s out and in full stride, to respond to any questions.
Both of our eyes widened as the ladies collided and hugged as if they hadn't seen each other in years. Smiling to himself, he let out a deep chuckle and just shook his head, nibbling absorbedly on those legendary lips of his. I thought possibly he hadn't heard me, and I was just about to repeat the question when he suddenly spoke two simple words, “I’m sure,” and then turned back to watch the nights excitement.
Examining his profile now, I willed myself to see anything but Elvis Presley and failed miserably. “You’re sure nobody can see you?
“They see what they—”
“Want to see… I know, you told me.” I sighed loudly, and his attention snapped my way.
“Let’s just enjoy the evening, Samantha.”
“Ok, however, you still look like,” I started, but stopped when his eyes squinted at me. I held up my hands, “I’m just saying.”
He drew in a deep breath, and calmly reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a pair of thick black glasses, usually reserved for glaucoma patients, and I watched as he slipped them on.
When he turned back my way, his expression remained blank. "Better?” He asked rather dryly, and then flashed me a forced smile.
The glasses engulfed his face, hiding his famous baby blues, but his features were still hard to miss.
“I vote we leave.” I said flatly.
I knew every romantic spot in the city. This wasn’t one of them. What I wanted was privacy, alone time, with the most charismatic man in musical history. I wanted to find a cozy restaurant and cuddle up in a corner under candle light. I didn’t care if he was old enough to be my grandfather — I stole a look — literally! And when I turned, bent on suggesting it, the passenger side door opened, which I took to mean any proposal of a change would be vetoed. Disappointment flooded my heart.
Even as a much older man, Elvis remained a solid figure, but still moved in a slow and calculating way that matched his new age. I could not help but stare as he picked up each leg with his hand and encouraged it out of the car. I jumped out and raced to help him, but he waved me away with a scowl. Normally he’d tower over me by at least four inches, but on this night I had on my big girl shoes, which allowed for a few more inches. And though I tried to help by slipping my right hand around his left forearm, he promptly swapped our hands. Always a man’s man, only he would escort me not the other way around. I should have known.
We stepped in behind the crowd, and Elvis’ gait, though slowed to quarter-speed, still held that hypnotic strut. I was aware of how distinctive this walk of his was, perhaps to the degree of imagining double-takes from others around us. I paced us slower, allowing for more space between Elvis and his devotees.
“You need to change your walk,” I whispered.
“What?” He said a bit too loudly.
I stopped and waited for the crowd to move further along.
“I know you don’t realize this, but your style of walking is like the drug of choice to us fans. That impersonator inside has probably spent years trying to copy it perfectly!”
Elvis looked down to the ground with a smile.
“Can you change how you walk?”
“I-I don’t know any other way to walk, honey.”
“Think, Sammy Davis, Jr., John Wayne, or anyone else for that matter. You’re an actor, improvise.”
“Ok, I’ll think of something.” He gave my arm a reassuring pat.
We started once again and this time, his body leaned heavily against mine. The sheer weight of him caught me by surprise, and I heard myself grunt like a man. I fully expected a teasing comment to follow, but thankfully none came.
With his arms draped around me, his shoulders slouched, and he walked with a limp in his right leg. A war wound, maybe? I had no idea, but he played the age card perfectly. Had I not known better, I would have rushed to get him a wheelchair.
***
The red brick galleria of Atlanta hosted an ar
ray of events. It was a multipurpose venue, used not just for the benefit of entertainment but also conventions. A modern building, it was rectangle in shape, and looked out of place when in comparison to the more mature establishments that flanked it. Course, the oddly shaped glass pyramid set on top didn’t help. The building looked as if it wore an oversized birthday hat, and I couldn’t help but snicker whenever I saw it.
The walk to the entrance was a bit of a distance, but eventually we caught up with the crowd. A woman threw us a look, one that suggested she found it odd that such a tiny woman could really second as a leaning post for a six foot tall chunk of man, no matter the age. I realized we must look ridiculous, and even in stout heals, I was miscast in my part.
Once inside, people were elbow to elbow. I was overcome by the pungent smell of floor cleaner and tangled cologne from the crowd. The chattering was so loud I could barely hear myself think. And how they managed to carry on a conversation I’ll never know. But when a small group of people split off to admire the extravagant décor, the space they left behind helped to ease my sudden case of claustrophobia. My ability to breathe improved, but I still wanted to flee. And I was looking around for the nearest exit when Elvis patted my arm, and reluctantly, I pushed forward.
We parted the sea easily. People would see us coming and politely move aside. Maybe it was a respect your elders thing, but all I cared about was finding unused air before I passed out. And when my view was finally not the back of someone’s head, I could see a group moving down a side hall. The sign read “Ball Room” so we jumped in.
The current flowed steadily. The shuffle-step-stop repetition allowed my attention to wonder. In fact I was so busy examining the glass roof — it didn’t look half as silly from the inside as it did out — that I was unaware we'd stepped through two absurdly tall solid oak doors. When I returned to the present, I felt transported back to the Peabody hotel.
The room was breathtakingly beautiful. And deeper than it was wide, with three crystal chandeliers over head, and round tables decorated in fine linen spaced evenly throughout the room.
“Over there.” Elvis pointed to the farthest corner, and with a burst of vigor, gave me a yank.
To my shock and dismay, we were headed for a table occupied by three young women.
“Mind if we join you young’uns?” Elvis asked in the voice of a 90-year-old man that had even me doing a double take.
Three heads, a statuette blonde, a brassy brunette and a mix of both, turned. All three women looked first from me and then to Elvis before nodding their approval with weak but respectful smiles.
Had I not been busy feeling so conspicuous I would have appreciated Elvis’ thought-out seating arrangements. Having us sit with women barely out of high school was genius. A younger flock of women would likely ignore a man as old as their grandfather. It was a perfect plan, really, but as we settled in for the show, I still felt ill at ease.
“Where y’all from?” Elvis’ accent twanged as he yelled at the girls, who were talking amongst themselves.
“Macon,” the blonde, wearing a size too-small tee-shirt, said.
“What’s that?” He cupped his ear with his hand.
People around us began to gawk.
“He doesn’t hear too well.” I mouthed, pointing to my own ear. I held back my laughter as all three of their faces took on the look of dread.
“Y’all like this Presley feller?” Elvis asked, and the ladies eyes brightened at the mere mention of his name.
“Oh, he’s wonderful,” The brunette gushed with an accent that sounded more East coast than of a Southern decent.
“He’s dead. Ya’ll know that, right?” He blurted out.
All eyes, including mine, now glared his way. None of the young women spoke. They were seemingly unsure of how to respond to such a statement.
“Ah, just the same, I never cared for all that wigglin’ anyhow.” Elvis licked his lips as if the mere thought of it had left a bad taste in his mouth.
This was apparently the last straw, as all three women stood, grabbed their bags, and marched away from our table. Elvis watched them leave, his lips twitching with humor.
“Was it something I said?” He joked, sounding very much like his old self.
He crossed a boot over his left knee, and gave me a wink.
“If they only knew,” I muttered as I watched the ladies walk away.
Elvis glanced back over his shoulder, and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes softened. “No, it’s better this way,” he said, and then the room lights dimmed.
As if someone had flipped the volume switch, a room full of chatter dipped to a low buzz. The room shuffled, glasses clanged and people hushed each other around me. The air was thick, pulsating with excitement. The audience was ready.
An orchestra rumbled from the stage. And even with my vision partially impaired by the sudden darkness, I saw all heads turn forward. All eyes but mine, that is, as I was busy watching the restless stirring at the tables around me. The excitement was especially visible in the women. Some were hugging the friend next to them or holding hands. All waited impatiently for the man of the evening.
And when a short burst of excitement sounded from the opposite side of the room, Elvis slipped off his glasses. With an unobstructed view, I considered how, even in this low light, his silhouette announced his presence. How right before me, beneath the canvas of a 75 year old man, sat a living legend whose knee bouncing excitement told me he wanted nothing more than to take that stage. In fact, he was fidgeting so badly, I half expected him to leap out of his chair at any moment. And my attention was so focused, that when the horns sounded with the opening of 2001 Space Odyssey, my heart jack hammered inside my chest.
“Elvis!” A woman shouted somewhere in the darkness.
“I’m here, baby, I’m here,” he whispered, and shifted to the edge of his seat.
He was holding my hand while that famous crescendo swelled. The percussions blasted, and his grip tightened. I winced while the drummer crashed his symbols and the band ignited. Elvis was so transfixed, he didn’t even notice when I slipped my numb and tingling hand out from his death grip.
A spot light hit the stage, and the crowd went into a frenzy of applause. Elvis clapped too, but when four women stepped out from stage left, followed by four males, he all but elevated right out of his seat. Thankfully, I had my hand out, ready to grab him at any moment.
“Well, alright,” he said with a brilliant smile.
When all the performers were in their rightful place, the intro came around again, and the man of the evening took the stage. A round of applause filled the room. I sat up tall, but my view was partially obscured by a few hundred bobbing heads. And it was only when the artist moved to center stage that a beautiful replica of the famed 1973 American eagle jumpsuit came into view. I squinted as the stage lights reflected off the red, white, and blue rhinestones in an almost blinding ray of light.
The artist strolled across the stage, twice, and then stepped up to the microphone. The theater lights hit his face, and the crowd gasped. I could tell by the wide-eyed look on Elvis’ face that he was as surprised as I was at the likeness. Though not as strikingly handsome as my angel, I had to admit this man was close. In fact, the resemblance was eerie.
“Well, I said, see, see, see rider.” The song began.
The screams grew louder. The crowd was caught up in the moment. And when a woman directly behind us screeched, Elvis and I both turned. It was dark, but I could clearly see him watching her as she waved her arms, unaware the man she “really” wanted was right in front of her. And when he turned back to me, perplexed and slightly amused, I could only shrug. I’d never been to a show quiet like this, and her reaction stunned even me.
Worried, I considered mentioning that the man on stage was doing him a great honor, but then a woman stood up from her seat and rushed the stage, and that’s when everything changed.
“Come on.” He grabbed my hand.
A storm was coming; I could see it brewing in his eyes. His heated gaze was locked onto the stage, and to my horror, I realized he was marching in full Elvis fashion no longer caring about the illusion of his age. As though on a mission, he took rushed elongated steps that were agile even for a twenty year old. I frantically scanned the room, relieved that nobody was paying us any mind. And when he stopped a few feet from the stage, and I accomplished a virtual face-plant against his back without acknowledgment, I knew I was in trouble.
“Everyone’s having a good time, don’t you think.” I said loud enough to be heard over the music.
He said nothing. He simply stood there, with his arms crossed at his chest, and his gaze shifting from the man on the stage to the women waving their hands in the air while their husbands rolled their eyes. It was no secret that Elvis the man never understood his fans devotion, but he did count on it and even needed it. And while this love he counted on was being showered onto another, the look of worry on his face told me, he feared losing it.
We had to leave.
I opened my mouth, an excuse already prepared, but I never got a chance to speak it. I was silenced by the first few bars of “Love Me Tender”, or as I liked to call it, the kissing song. Cringing, I prayed God would come to our rescue, and when he answered, I was never happier.
“He’s good, but he’s sure not Elvis.” A woman said to another as they walked by without seeing the man she spoke of so ardently.