by Ginger Alden
We continued to talk, with Ricky and George chiming in periodically. Elvis told us what an honor it was to have the street name changed to Elvis Presley Boulevard and mentioned he sometimes joked, “Get off my street!” to other motorists while driving down it. He talked about karate, too, letting us know he was a ninth-degree black belt.
“It’s a beautiful art form,” I told him, adding that I’d wanted to take lessons when I was sixteen, but my parents thought I was too young.
Elvis disagreed, saying it was never too young to start. Terry talked about the classical piano music she enjoyed. I brought up my love for art, but didn’t dare mention my singing. Rosemary, the most comical of the three of us, often had him laughing.
Elvis was polite and easy to talk with, which was putting me at ease until he tilted his head to one side, looked toward the floor and said, “Ginger, you’re burning a hole right through me.” His intense blue eyes slowly drifted back up to my face.
“Who, me?” I asked.
“Yes, you,” he replied.
I didn’t know what he meant, as I didn’t feel I’d been staring at him. We were just talking. I was embarrassed and felt a flash of heat warm my face.
We talked a little more, then Elvis asked, “Would you like to see the rest of the upstairs?”
Thrilled, we said, “Sure!”
Along with Ricky and George, we followed Elvis out into the hall. I was still holding my unfinished glass of soda. Elvis reached for it, took a sip, and handed it back to me. This distracted me so much that I made a wrong turn and headed toward the front stairs. I then felt Elvis’s hands on my shoulders, gently turning me and guiding me back through a set of double doors.
Everyone followed Elvis and me as we cut through an office and then another set of double doors into his master bedroom. The first thing that struck me was that the matching couch and chairs looked identical to the furniture we had in our den at home. What were the odds of that?
Otherwise, the room décor here was very different from anything I’d ever seen before. A shiny, black, Naugahyde headboard crowned the massive bed, which Elvis proudly told us was nine feet by nine feet. Reading lamps were attached to the wall on either side of it. The same red shag carpet covered the floor, with black and gold wallpaper lining one wall and padding on the other. The bedroom doors and ceiling were also padded and, much to my surprise, there were two television sets embedded in the ceiling. Elvis explained the padding by saying he didn’t care for outside noise when he slept.
Ricky left as my sisters and I followed Elvis, along with George, into his office. It was decorated in masculine tans and browns. On my left was a glass case filled with rifles and handguns; in the center of the room, two couches faced each other, a coffee table between them. Near the back of the room was a large desk with a chair, and behind it, two bookcases stood against the wall.
Elvis walked over to an electric organ near a closed accordion-style door and sat down on the bench. I stood behind him with George and my sisters gathered around. Something about this felt comfortably familiar because I’d so often stood and sung behind my mom while she played piano.
Placing his fingers on the keyboard, Elvis began to sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” If I’d ever felt like I was dreaming, it was now!
At various times during the song, Elvis looked up from the organ, smiling at Rosemary and Terry or glancing over his shoulder to smile at me. At one point, I looked into the mirror above the organ and noticed George yawning. That made me wonder whether he’d seen Elvis do this sort of thing many times before or if he was just tired because it was so late.
Elvis finished and we applauded. Standing up, he said, “I’d like to show you my dressing area.”
I was surprised by this; I’d always thought of people’s closets as personal. On the other hand, seeing Elvis’s dressing room would be an added bonus because I was enjoying being with him and thrilled by the idea of seeing one of his inner sanctums.
We followed Elvis back through his bedroom and into his bathroom, which was carpeted in the same royal red shag carpet. On my left stood a black commode with a telephone attached to the wall nearby. A black vanity was covered with toiletries on the right. Above it, the mirrored wall was outlined with makeup lights.
Beyond an enormous, curved shower with multicolored tiles, we entered Elvis’s dressing area. It was filled with racks of clothing surrounding a bed covered in a faux fur similar to the one in Lisa’s room. A bust of the Greek god Apollo sat on a pedestal beside an open doorway leading out to the hall. (Later, Elvis would tell me he thought the bust resembled him. I thought it did, too.)
Pointing out a few stage jumpsuits, Elvis said he was proud of the workmanship that went into making them. He told us they were made of material that didn’t let any air in or out. Then he began showing us his boots and casual clothes.
“Casual” for Elvis appeared to be coats with fur collars; brightly colored, high-collared satin shirts; flared pants; and hats that looked like they could have been worn on the set of the movie Shaft.
I could understand Elvis wanting to show us his costumes, but again I was surprised that he’d be willing to show us his more personal clothes. Was this an extension of his persona? Was this something he felt he needed to do with us?
When Elvis was finished giving us a tour of his dressing area, he excused himself and, as he walked toward the front of the bathroom, called out for George to follow him.
My sisters and I now found ourselves in the extraordinary position of standing alone in Elvis Presley’s closet, trying to process what had started out as an innocent evening at home. Elvis had been captivating, entertaining, funny, and gracious. We talked quietly, assuming the show was over and we’d be asked to leave when George reappeared.
To my surprise, George came back and said, “Ginger, Elvis would like to see you for a minute.”
What did Elvis want with me? I glanced uncertainly at Terry and Rosemary.
“He’s waiting for you,” George urged, motioning me toward the front of the bathroom.
Taking a few steps forward, I turned back to see George guiding my sisters out through the door by the dressing area. My anxiety roared back. My sisters and I had acted as a safety net for each other, but now I was on my own.
When I stepped past the doorway of his bathroom, I saw Elvis seated on the side of his bed. He smiled and patted the red bedspread, motioning me to sit down next to him. Unsure of what he wanted, I nervously walked in and complied.
“Did you notice I was paying more attention to you than to your sisters?” he asked with a faint smile.
I briefly looked away.
My heart began to pound. Was Elvis actually hitting on me? It went far beyond my wildest imaginings that he would single me out. I felt he had treated the three of us fairly equally, but when I thought back, I remembered his comment about me “burning a hole” through him, how he’d taken a sip from my glass of soda, and the way he’d placed his hands on my shoulders in the hallway. Was that what he meant?
Not quite sure, I looked up at him and answered, “Yes.”
He nodded. “When I like someone, I really like them a lot,” he said. “It’s not just a fling. I don’t like one-night stands.”
“I don’t like one-night stands, either,” I replied, wanting him to be sure I wasn’t that kind of woman.
Elvis regarded me silently for a moment, then gestured toward the window. “I’m not that street out there,” he said. “If you cut me, I bleed.”
I couldn’t believe that Elvis, a charismatic, handsome superstar, was talking to me in this intimate way. The only thing I could think to say was, “I understand.”
“Good,” he replied. He leaned over then and picked up a book lying with some others on the floor beside his bed. It was the Book of Numbers by Cheiro, the world-famous seer.
“When’s you
r birthday?” Elvis asked, opening the book.
“November thirteenth,” I replied.
“You’re a number four,” he said, and began explaining that he reached the number by adding the one and three together. Picking up a pair of glasses from his night table, he put them on and began reading to me about the number four. He told me that fours are sensitive and had their feelings hurt easily. Fours were likely to feel lonely and isolated, with few real friends, but to the few friends they did have, they are very loyal.
Elvis had my attention. I didn’t feel lonely, but I was shy, sensitive, and loyal to my friends. Elvis obviously was passionate about the subject of numerology and I found myself being drawn into it. Telling me January 8 was his birthday, which made him a number eight, he read on regarding that number. He said these people were often misunderstood and for this reason felt lonely. They usually “play some important role on life’s stage, but usually one which is fatalistic, or as the instrument of Fate for others.” He also said that eight people are either very successful or complete failures. They feel different from others and “seldom reap the reward for the good they may do while they are living.” It is only after their death that they are praised and honored.
My first thought was, Wow! Some of the characteristics really seemed to fit him, but Elvis lonely? That was difficult for me to believe, given the number of people gathered downstairs on this night.
Elvis stayed on the topic of numerology for a while, then lifted another, larger book off the floor and began leafing through it. “This is supposed to be an illustration of God,” he said, stopping on a certain page and showing it to me.
It was a drawing of a man with a long white beard seated on a throne with symbols of fire, ice, rain, and wind at his sides. The book reminded me of a large illustrated Bible my mother had that she often read to my siblings and me when we were younger. Still holding the big book in his hands, Elvis settled farther back on the bed and motioned me up beside him.
By now, I was feeling more comfortable and decided it was a harmless enough request; Elvis seemed absorbed by the book. I scooted up to sit right next to him with my back against a pillow. He then surprised me again by handing me the book and asking me to read aloud. I did, feeling shy about it. I didn’t want to make a mistake because I could feel him watching me closely.
The subject matter in this book was different. I was again drawn into it while Elvis observed, periodically sipping ice water from a large glass jar sitting on his night table. Cool air was blowing from an air conditioner unit situated inside the bedroom’s front window. I was chilled, but Elvis seemed fine and I didn’t feel right asking him to turn it down.
We took turns reading and talking into the early morning. At one point, Elvis went into the bathroom, leaving me to think that it had been an unforgettable night. I was going to have quite a story to tell my friends.
Having been up almost twenty-four hours by now, however, I was starting to feel overwhelmed by fatigue. I hated it but could tell that I wasn’t going to be able to concentrate well anymore. Now that Elvis was out of the room, I also became aware that a lot of time had gone by and our parents still hadn’t heard from us. I was worried, too, about Terry and Rosemary having to wait for me.
When Elvis returned from the bathroom, I politely said, “Elvis, I should find my sisters and probably leave. It’s really late.”
He sat back down on the bed. “They’ve already gone,” he said casually. “Your sisters went home earlier.”
I was stunned. They’d already left? I’d been at Graceland all this time without them? Puzzled, I wondered how he knew. Had Elvis arranged all this earlier with George?
“Someone will take you home when you’re ready,” Elvis added, watching the confused expressions flit across my face.
I decided that Elvis was probably tired, too. Thinking it was proper for me to go, I thanked him on behalf of my sisters and myself for the night. He moved to the edge of the bed and I inched my way beside him as he picked up a telephone receiver from his night table and asked someone to give me a ride home.
To my shock, he added, “Please be sure and get her number,” before hanging up. Then he turned to me and said, “You should always politely ask someone to do something for you. Never tell a person what to do.”
As I nodded, still dumbstruck, Elvis took a pen and a matchbook from the night table drawer, opened the matchbook, and asked, “What’s your phone number?”
This can’t be happening! My thoughts suddenly flashed on Larry, who hadn’t wanted me to come to Graceland tonight. Despite feeling conflicted, I gave Elvis my number. He wrote it down.
As I looked at him, Elvis suddenly leaned in toward me, catching me totally off guard. He kept his hands on the bed and gave me a quick, light kiss on the lips. It was so quick I barely had time to register what had just happened, but I was stunned and excited.
Afterward, I walked out of Graceland in a trance. As I rode home with an employee named Steve Smith, I went over the kiss again in my mind. I certainly didn’t want Elvis to get the wrong impression of me. I wasn’t a seasoned pro when it came to sex or relationships. On the other hand, I hoped he had liked kissing me.
Even though it was nearly sunrise, the lights were on inside my house when we pulled up to the curb. Before getting out, Steve asked me for my phone number. Giving it a second time, I quickly ran inside.
My mother and sisters were sitting on the couch in our den. I figured my father must be in bed because he sometimes worked on weekends. Our parents had been excited when we were invited to Graceland, but my mother admitted now that they’d started worrying when so much time went by without any word from us.
“I felt bad about leaving you there,” Terry said, explaining that George had taken them outside to a racquetball court behind the house, where Charlie and Ricky joined them for a tour of the court.
George then told Terry and Rosemary that Elvis wanted to spend more time with me, and that they were welcome to wait if they wanted or, as it was so late, to leave. He had assured them that Elvis would see I got home safely.
Exhausted, but still running on nerves, I filled them in on what had happened, leaving out the kiss. We weren’t a kiss-and-tell sort of family. Some things were personal, and we were private with each other when it came to that sort of thing.
Now that I was home, the whole night seemed unreal. Elvis was different from anyone I’d ever met. Here was this rock-’n’-roll superstar singing to my sisters and me, showing us his closet, and then inviting me to join him on his bed, where he’d been a gentleman. He’d read religious books with me and shared his thoughts and feelings.
Elvis had been polite and funny, too, which I related to. He’d demonstrated a sincere desire for me to understand what he was about in a short amount of time, and in the hours we’d spent together, I’d felt an intense attraction between us.
I had enjoyed the night; it was magical and unique, and from what Elvis had said and how he had acted, I thought he had enjoyed spending time with me, too.
When I was finally alone in my bed that morning, none of that seemed real or even possible. I was in turmoil. Would Elvis call me? And, if he did, would I agree to see him again, knowing it would hurt Larry, the nice guy I’d been dating? I honestly didn’t know if I was more afraid of Elvis being attracted to me because of this or more afraid that I’d find myself feeling let down if he didn’t call me.
I rolled over in bed, searching for sleep. Before long, I had to admit to myself that if he didn’t call, I’d be disappointed, and so I decided if Elvis wanted to see me again, I would say yes.
CHAPTER 4
I woke late that Saturday afternoon and began thinking about the evening again. I had, of course, been enthralled with meeting Elvis, that was to be expected: This was Elvis, after all. However, he had been trying to connect with me, and after I saw how open and approachable he was, he
had succeeded. Our age difference didn’t even enter my mind, and I hoped I’d get the chance to try to get to know him better.
Gathering with my sisters in the den, we talked about the evening’s events. I ended our conversation, musing, “If I don’t hear from Elvis, I’ll write last night off as the most amazing night of my life so far.”
Around 8 P.M., the phone rang. My mother answered it in the kitchen, and I heard her say hi to George. I walked in and she handed me the phone.
“Elvis would like you to come over,” George said. “I’ll drive by and pick you up.”
“All right,” I said and rushed to get ready. I wondered why Elvis hadn’t called me himself, but it made me feel great that he’d actually been thinking about me and wanted to see me again so soon.
George and I made small talk on the ride over to Graceland, where he led me straight upstairs to the master bedroom and left. I was just as nervous as the night before and could feel my heart racing.
Elvis was sitting on his bed, watching television. He wore a loose-fitting navy jumpsuit and a black rhinestone belt with chains. As he greeted me with a smile, I relaxed a little and thought with relief, So last night was real.
Elvis got up and walked past the foot of his bed to turn off the TV, looking over his shoulder at me. “You know, television destroys the art of conversation,” he said.
This was an interesting observation, coming from a man who had at least one television set in just about every room. Returning to his bed, he asked me to sit beside him. I did as he requested, trusting him to be as gentlemanly as he’d been the night before.
We talked a little about music. When I told Elvis that my mother often played hymns, and that “In the Garden” and “How Great Thou Art” had always been two of my favorites, he asked me to follow him into his office. I was touched when he started playing the organ and sang “In the Garden” just for me.
