Outside, a crowd of a hundred or so girls are chanting his name and occasionally breaking out into squeals.
He leans in to kiss his visitors’ cheeks – Mama’s first.
Barbara says, ‘Sounds like that one was a success.’
‘It was crazy!’ Elvis says, pacing up and down before them. ‘The best yet, probably. They’re still real excited.’
She nods thoughtfully. Unlike Dixie, Barbara never bubbles over. He wonders what it would take to make her raise her voice. She still has her hat on, a tiny red velvet thing which puts him in mind of a jewellery box. He can’t fathom how it stays on her head; perhaps it’s held in place by Barbara’s will, alone.
‘Red said it was more than crazy, son,’ says Gladys. ‘He said things got a little scary.’
‘There was some girls, after, came into the dressing room uninvited, that’s all.’
Gladys shifts in her seat, dabbing at her hairline with a handkerchief. ‘Did you ask Mr Parker about getting more police protection? He promised me he’d take good care of you. Me and daddy would never have signed that contract if we’d known—’
‘He’s doing a good job, Mama. And it’s a miracle, ain’t it? Everyone wants me! Listen to them!’ Elvis gestures towards the window. In fact, the shouting has died down some.
‘Just so long as they don’t hurt you, son. Barbara here’s been worried, too.’
Barbara screws up her nose, but she’s smiling. ‘Those girls are kinda wild, Elvis. You’re driving them wild.’
‘I’m just entertaining them. I owe it to them to put on a good show.’
‘Do you have to do all that … that stuff, on the floor?’ Barbara asks.
‘What stuff?’
‘Elvis wouldn’t do anything unchristian,’ says Gladys.
‘Seems to me those girls need a little more self-control!’ says Barbara, glancing at Gladys.
Elvis snorts. ‘Control’s something you’re real good at, ain’t it?’
Barbara draws back. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you might try getting off your behind to kiss me when I come in!’ He hoists her to her feet and plants a kiss on her neck.
Barbara touches her hat, apparently worried that it has moved.
‘Now, son, she’s just concerned for your safety,’ says Gladys, patting Barbara’s hand. ‘Why don’t you fetch us all a cool drink and maybe a sandwich from the lobby, Barbara, dear? Whoever’s down there won’t bother you … Elvis, give Barbara some money.’
‘I got it,’ says Barbara.
Elvis tries to stuff some bills in the pocket of Barbara’s dress as she walks to the door. His hands fumble at her waist, and she pushes them away.
‘I said, I got it.’
When she’s gone, Elvis collapses on the couch next to his mama.
‘That girl sure is sensitive,’ says Gladys. ‘You gotta be real careful with her.’
‘I can handle it, Mama,’ says Elvis.
‘Well, I’m glad she’s gone, because I got news.’ She takes his hand in hers, and lowers her voice. ‘There’s no way to tell you this but straight, son. Dixie’s fixing to marry.’
Elvis springs from the couch and in two steps he’s at the window, checking on the crowd outside. The noise increases.
‘Still around a hundred girls out there,’ he says.
‘You hear what I told you, son?’
He puts his hands to the window, then presses his cheek to the glass. In response, the girls wave their arms, straining upwards as though they could reach him, even from four floors below. It’s useless, of course; there is no ladder to where he is, but still they stretch as far as they can.
‘I’ll never understand why the two of you parted, but now she’s found a nice boy with a good steady job—’
‘Hi, girls!’ Elvis flings open the window and waves, and the crowd erupt into yelling. Several drivers blast their horns at the commotion. The cool air coming from the bay feels good on his face. He wonders what would happen if he were to fall. Would the crowd catch him, or would they devour him?
‘Elvis! Come away from there! You gonna get those girls in trouble.’
‘Sure mean to,’ he mumbles.
‘What did you say?’
‘I sure am happy for Dixie,’ he says, closing the window.
Gladys sighs. ‘You know, you didn’t oughta let Barbara go the same way. She’s a good girl.’
He crosses the room and kneels before his mother, resting his head on the couch. ‘Mama,’ he says, looking up at her, ‘I don’t need no wife. I got you.’
She smiles and pats his hair. ‘Quit messing around.’
‘Nobody’s gonna look after Elvie like you do.’
‘You gotta do right by that gal, or she’ll be gone. Be smart. If you keep Barbara happy, she’ll wait for you.’
He gets to his feet once more but doesn’t go to the window this time. At his back the sound of the girls chanting his name reverberates up into the air.
‘Mama,’ he says, ‘I got so many girls to keep happy, it makes my head spin.’
‘Son,’ says Gladys, ‘if anybody can do it, you can.’
Elvis stands at the window and throws it open to let the cold air and the sound of his fans surround him. He can smell the ocean. It’s close to midnight; his mama and Barbara have gone to their own beds and Red is in the suite’s bathroom. Leaning on the sill, he waves down to the girls still on the sidewalk – about fifty, he reckons. Their upturned faces are lit by the hotel sign, which flashes blue and green, giving them an unearthly glow. One of them shouts, ‘Take off your shirt, Elvis!’
Pretending not to have heard, he cups a hand to his ear. ‘Say what?’
‘Shirt off!’
He shakes his head. ‘Can’t hear you!’
‘Shirt off!’
Drawing back, he unbuttons his shirt – pale blue, embroidered with white diamonds – to the rising crescendo of squeals, then dangles it above the crowd with one hand.
‘Those crazy females will wake the whole city.’
Red has returned from the bathroom and is standing close to him, looking out. Earlier, it was obvious to Elvis that Red wanted to go out on the town with Scotty, Bill and DJ, the new drummer. But, knowing Elvis couldn’t join them, Red chose to stay and keep his friend company.
He lights up a cigarette and blows smoke out of the window.
‘Why you half-naked, E?’
‘Just having me a little fun,’ says Elvis, tossing the shirt into the air. It balloons out, then flutters down with its arms catching on the breeze. The girls rise as one to grab it. It gets hooked by at least four of them, who shriek as they try to tug it from each other.
Red looks down. ‘Those gals gonna kill each other,’ he murmurs.
Elvis turns to him and says, ‘Feel like doing something for me?’
‘Sure, E.’
‘Go down there and pick me one out. You know the type I like.’
Red looks as though he’s about to laugh, but Elvis holds his gaze.
‘There’s one I seen. Around sixteen. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Kinda small, with a round behind. Bring her up.’
‘How will I know which—’
‘You’ll know,’ says Elvis. He’s seen no such girl in the crowd, but he can imagine her well enough, and he knows Red can, too.
Red drags on his cigarette. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘but what if there’s more than one like that?’
‘Hell, bring ’em both up,’ says Elvis.
‘And what if there’s three, E?’
Elvis laughs. ‘Then there’s one for you, too, man.’
As Red leaves the room, Elvis adds, ‘Don’t tell Colonel nothing about this.’
The girl’s name is Diane. In her pink dress and matching lipstick, she is almost exactly what he’d asked for, and she hasn’t said a word since Red brought her up with her friend, Alicia. They both sit on the couch drinking Pepsis while Red and Elvis swap wisecracks. Both girls laugh at everything Elv
is says, but Alicia laughs the loudest. When Red takes Alicia off to his room, Elvis suggests that Diane might like to see where he sleeps.
She removes her shoes and sits on the edge of the mattress, studying her bare feet. Her toenails are painted light green, and each one is perfectly shaped and glossy.
‘I like your toes, honey,’ he says. ‘I can tell you’ve gone to a heap of trouble, there.’
She wiggles them for him.
‘Why don’t you go wash them?’ he suggests.
She frowns, but takes herself off to the bathroom. While she’s gone, Elvis fetches a pair of ladies’ cream silk shortie pyjamas from his suitcase and places them on the bed. He swallows down a couple of sleeping pills from the bottle he stashed in the drawer earlier. Then he strips to his undershorts and climbs between the sheets. He arranges the covers over his lower half and sits upright, watching the door.
When it opens, Diane catches her breath and stands completely still, unable to look at his face.
‘It’s OK, honey,’ he says, ‘I just want to snuggle. Slip on those pyjamas for me, and come over here.’
She puts a hand to her cheek and sways a little.
‘I know you’re a virgin,’ he says, ‘and I reckon you oughta stay one. I just want to hold you real close, so I can sleep.’
He can’t tell if she’s on the verge of laughter or tears, so he smiles. ‘Put on the pyjamas, sweetheart.’
In a small voice, she asks, ‘Do you want to watch?’
‘Well, sure,’ he says, stretching his arms along the headboard and resting his head on the wall. ‘If you don’t mind.’
Diane turns her back to him to unzip her dress, fumbling a little when it gets caught on her bra. She’s wearing white underclothes, and the skin on her back is lighter than that on her arms. From the small indentations above her panties, he can see where the dress was tight on her waist. His cock jumps, but he ignores it and takes a swig of water. He can pick up some other girl tomorrow afternoon, between shows, an older one who has already been spoiled and knows what she’s doing. For now, he must focus on rest. It is so hard, these days, to allow himself to slip into the warm darkness of sleep. Even when his body is exhausted, his mind still skips in loops. If he can hold this girl, maybe it will be easier to relax into the oblivion he craves. The pills usually work, but the whole process will be sweetened by the presence of a girl.
He doesn’t tell her to turn around. As she steps into the pyjamas, her thighs shiver.
‘You look real nice,’ he says, and she almost vaults to the bed, diving beneath the covers and lying next to him with the sheet pulled up to her neck.
Elvis clicks off the light, then reaches for her.
‘Oh, my God,’ she whispers, as he aims his lips at her face. He can already feel the pills’ heaviness settling in his limbs. Diane stays absolutely still, apparently frozen to the mattress, until he finds her ear and nibbles it, and then she turns and holds him fiercely. He kisses her lips and feels her body loosen beneath his hands until she is a warm mass up against him. He guides her hand to his cock and together they bring him off with a few swift strokes. Then he buries his face in her chest and allows the drug to take hold.
‘You’ll be here when I wake up, won’t you, baby?’ he whispers.
‘Yes,’ she breathes. ‘Yes.’
* * *
Another minute seems too long to wait: he has been on the train from New York for twenty-seven hours. He tells anybody who asks that he won’t fly because it makes his mama too jittery, but the truth is he fears being up in the air and would rather endure twenty-seven hours on a train than board any plane. Twenty-seven hours of looking out of the window and seeing nothing much, save his own reflection and that of the Colonel’s cigar bobbing as he talks of what’s next and when (always now) and how much money it will make them. Twenty-seven hours of combing his hair, rearranging the pens in his shirt pocket, swapping jokes with Scotty and Bill and his cousins Junior and Bobby, his travelling companions, there for the ride and, as Gladys has said, to give him that family feeling, even when he’s away from home. Twenty-seven hours of intense July heat that has the sweat trickling into his eyes. Twenty-seven hours of checking on Junior, who sits next to Elvis like a dog guarding his master. But the master must also control the dog, for Junior is a Section 8, an ex-serviceman who went crazy in Korea and shot a group of civilians. Throughout the trip, he’s sipped bourbon from a flask, twitched at unseen threats, grinned whenever he’s managed to tune in to one of Elvis’s jokes.
Twenty-seven hours of girls peeping at him and whispering, Is it him? Didn’t we see him on TV? It is, it’s him! Giggles, smiles, longing looks. The occasional kiss.
That, at least, has been fun.
The Colonel has spoken to the railroad guard, and the train makes an unscheduled stop at White Station so Elvis can save time getting back to his new house on Audubon Drive. He tells Junior and Bobby there’s no need to come with him; they must be tired and it’ll be easier for them to get home from downtown Memphis.
He steps from the train, relieved to be alone for the first time in days, and waves to the guard. Once the carriages have rumbled away, there’s no noise save the tapping of his white buck shoes along the sidewalk. He is carrying nothing but the rough cuts from his recent recording session. Junior will bring his suitcase to the house, later. But the acetates are too precious to leave with anybody, even the Colonel. And he can’t wait to play them to his mother and to Barbara, who has been keeping Gladys company. She is good at that. The two of them often go out shopping, or for a bite to eat, together. He’s spoken to them every night, reassuring them that he’s just fine, it’s going wonderful well, and he’ll be back. Although sometimes he wondered if he’d ever make it.
Squinting at the sun-bleached road, he remembers it’s morning, before nine-thirty. Most days he has no idea what time it is. If he’s not on the road, driving to the next show, then he’s in a hotel, waiting to go on. Every hour of every day is spent anticipating the moment he will step onstage and become his best self. Each day brings so much pleasure and excitement and terror that he feels as though he is balanced always on the edge of the rooftop of the Peabody Hotel, peering down at the fast flow of the Mississippi and the blinding lights of the city. Sometimes those lights hurt his eyes and that river seems mighty close to his nose.
The Colonel tells him not to worry. ‘The thing about it,’ he says, ‘is not to get too bothered. Nobody ever died from nerves, or lack of sleep.’ Thank God the Colonel is here to steer him through all this. It seems to Elvis that his manager has seen it all and can deal with just about anything. When the press exploded in righteous fury over Elvis shaking his ass on The Milton Berle Show, calling him vulgar and accusing him of the kind of animalism that should be confined to dives and bordellos (that phrase had stuck in his mind), the Colonel’s only reaction was to announce that he was going to get a wiggle-meter. If Elvis stopped singing, he said, he could still put him onstage and count the wiggles.
Elvis means to walk all the way to his house, even though he’s not exactly sure of the route. It’s hot already, and his toes are rubbing together in his shoes. When he gets home, his pool should be finished. He imagines diving in, Barbara watching as he parts the cool water like one of those Acapulco guys. Then a taxicab rolls by, and he hails it, just because he can. He has a bundle of money in his pocket bigger than anything his daddy ever brought home. As soon as he gets through the door, he’ll hand half of it to his mother.
The driver winds down the window and looks him over. Elvis senses the man’s hesitation. The words the Employment Officer used when he left Humes High run through his mind: Elvis Presley is something of a flashily dressed playboy type. The driver will have noticed his black sport coat and matching pegged pants, white shirt and white knitted tie, and his long, greasy forelock. After twenty-seven hours on a train, he doesn’t smell so good. Possibly the driver assumes he’s spent the night in a bordello. Elvis almost apologises for
his appearance, wanting the older man to know that he has just been to New York to appear on two television shows and cut a record. But instead he removes the money roll from his pocket and pretends to check it. Immediately, the driver opens the door and asks him where he’s going.
‘Ten thirty-four Audubon Drive, please, sir.’
The driver sits up straight. Audubon is one of the best streets in Memphis, home to the golf-club set, filled with brand new, ranch-type houses. Frank and Betty Pidgeon have already invited the Presleys over for cocktails.
In the back of the cab, Elvis places his acetates carefully on the seat beside him, resting one hand on the paper sleeve. As they sail through the quiet streets, the driver keeps glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. The sunlight falls through the trees like a blessing. A surge of delight goes through Elvis, thinking of his mother’s face as he walks up their wide driveway, earlier than expected.
‘Sure is good to be back in Memphis,’ he says.
The driver grunts.
Elvis tries again. ‘Beautiful morning, ain’t it?’
‘What number Audubon, again?’
‘Ten thirty-four.’
The winding tree-lined avenue opens up before them. Each place – wooden-shuttered, car-porched, hemmed by lawns so green and neat they look like carpets – is immaculate, at least on the outside. He tries to remember what his house looks like, exactly – has it got green or blue board-and-batten sidings? The shutters are black, for sure, as is the door. There’s no porch, which was one of the things Gladys first noticed about the house. It didn’t matter that they had a large patio out back; where, she’d wanted to know, was she going to sit to greet her neighbours and drink lemonade? And what about that lawn? So much grass. They’d never be able to keep it neat. He’d reminded her that they could get a boy to do that, now. She and Vernon needn’t lift a finger. Behind a smile, she’d hidden some reaction he couldn’t read.
Graceland Page 28
