BURNIN’ LOVE
I Met Elvis and Instantly Fell in Love
Soul-raptured at an early age
I saw Baz Luhrmann’s film Elvis several weeks ago — almost a month after its official opening. I wanted to see it during a noon, week-day matinee, long after the early crowds had thronged the theaters here in Memphis.
I wanted to sit far from whispering popcorn chompers, seat kickers and people who make a production out of opening a candy wrapper. I’m as eccentric as Woody Allen about going to the movies. I must arrive at least 15 minutes before the film starts — and cannot, under any circumstances — enter a theater if the movie has started.
As prepared as I was for the film to disappoint — it didn’t.
It mattered not that young Austin Butler didn’t look like Elvis. After five minutes into the film I was memorized by Butler’s heart-breaking blue eyes and sexy curl of his lips. His husky southern drawl was close enough to convince anyone he was imbued with the spirit of Elvis.
By the end of the film, he was Elvis. He was that good.
Memphis, Tennessee in the fifties was a slow-paced southern town perched on the bluff of the Mississippi River. Back then it was the world’s largest hardwood lumber market and brokered more cotton than all other American cities combined.
And that was long before FedEx, St. Jude and of course, Graceland.
Almost everyone raised in Memphis during the fifties and sixties has an Elvis story. One friend sold Girl Scout cookies to him when he opened the door at Graceland one afternoon.
Another friend met him when the interior design company she worked for upholstered some sofas in his living room.
Two others attended Immaculate Conception High School with Priscilla while the sixteen-year-old was dating Elvis. They didn’t meet him but did hear some cool stories about cars Elvis was always giving people — sometimes to total strangers.
I wasn’t a girlfriend (too young) or a co-star (no talent) and he never gave me a car, or anything else for that matter.
But he left me with a memory I’ve enjoyed all my life.
My mom was a huge Elvis fan. The handsome singer with naughty hips spoke to her through his records, and I remember us jitterbugging in the living room while Dad was at work. We slid around the hardwood floor in white cotton bobby socks as a lavender plastic transistor radio blasted out the sounds of “Don’t Be Cruel” and “Jailhouse Rock.”
One hot Sunday afternoon Dad, who was not particularly fond of Elvis but who was fond of minimizing my mother’s nagging, drove out to Highway 51 in the direction of Graceland.
Mom wanted to see if by chance Elvis might be out in his front yard.
The rock ‘n roll sensation had been honorably discharged from the military, and disk jockey Dewey Phillips teased listeners with unconfirmed reports that Elvis was back home that weekend.
The wide iron gates, adorned with musical notes, were open. Elvis was sitting atop his horse on the grassy front lawn of the stately colonial-style mansion, laughing and signing autographs for a gaggle of young women.
Dad cautiously drove the blue Chevrolet halfway up the driveway. “Oh, my goodness, he’s really here!” Mom whispered. She rummaged through her pocketbook and thrust a fountain pen and blank postcard into my hands.
With firm instructions to get his autograph my best friend Peggy Jo and I scrambled from the car and raced up the driveway toward Elvis on his horse, while my parents, younger sister and brother watched from inside the unairconditioned car.
As the teenage girls elbowed and pushed their way closer to their idol, Peggy Jo and I wriggled our skinny ten-year-old selves right up to the front of the throng. I was eye-to-eye with Elvis’s black riding boots.
Suddenly I heard the panicked voice of my friend. “Agggh! Help! His horse is stepping on my foot!” she shrieked. I looked down and sure enough, Elvis’s horse was resting his gigantic hoof on top of Peggy Jo’s white Keds sneakers.
I stared in horror as she squealed,“He’s squashing me! Make him stop!”
Normally I was a polite and shy sort of kid but my friend was in trouble and bold measures were required. With defensive anger, I reached my spindly arms as high as I could and yanked Elvis’s pant leg.
When that didn’t get his immediate attention I swatted at him as hard as I could.
From the car my parents would have only seen the outer layer of the swirling throng of giggling girls, as we disappeared into its vortex.They might have noticed when Elvis jerked his head downward and then slightly moved his horse’s position.
Elvis looked down at me with that famous smile and cerulean eyes and asked, “What’s the matter, little lady?” My face turned crimson as the older girls snickered and glared. “My friend!” I croaked feebly.
Then more forcefully and with the sternest frown I could muster. “Get your horse off my friend’s foot!” Elvis gently raised the reins and his horse eased back. “Sorry ‘bout that, little lady.”
The crowd parted and we sprinted back to the car. Behind us one of the girls called out, “You dummies!” We spilled into the back seat, breathlessly relating our disastrous encounter.
As my story unfolded mom’s eyebrows began to knit and twist as she stared at my empty hands.
The only thing she was interested in was his autograph. “No!” I barked incredulously. “Why would I want his lousy autograph after what he did to Peggy Jo!”
Mom looked like she was going to cry as Dad laughed and pulled another cigarette from his Lucky Strike pack. “Ah, come on, Dot. That boy ain’t ever gonna be that famous.”
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