Elvis and Ginger: Elvis Presley's Fiancée and Last Love Finally Tells Her Story

by Ginger Alden

  The buttons atop a phone on his bedside table lit up then and Elvis answered, listening with a concerned look. When he hung up, he told me the guard at the front gates, his cousin Harold Lloyd, said that the entertainer, Jerry Lee Lewis, had arrived in his car and wanted to see him.

  Jerry Lee Lewis? I was amazed. Much to my surprise, though, Elvis told me he didn’t want to see Jerry Lee.

  “He’s a great piano player and performer, but I just think he’s crazy,” Elvis said. Getting the guard back on the phone, Elvis instructed him to tell Jerry Lee he was unavailable.

  I didn’t get to meet Mr. Lewis in those early morning hours, but it had been one heck of a date. By now I was exhausted. When I told Elvis I thought it was time for me to leave, he surprised me again, asking, “Would you like to go on tour with me sometime?”

  I’d barely had the chance to absorb what I’d already experienced over the weekend, but I was thrilled by the offer and curious about what other new worlds I might experience with Elvis. “Yes,” I said at once.

  Elvis had singled me out, pursued me, and said things that made me feel special. Yet a small part of me still wasn’t fully sure how he felt about me, because we were just getting to know one another. There had been no passionate kisses or heavy petting, and the fact that he’d been such a gentleman fueled my attraction to him even more. I thought Elvis was a fascinating man, and I definitely wanted to learn more about him.

  Before I left, Elvis kissed me lightly for the second time, another gentlemanly peck. I found it hard to say good-bye because the word sounded final. Instead of saying good-bye, I chose to say, “I’ll see you later,” hoping, in some strange way, that this magic phrase might guarantee I’d see him again.

  And, for the rest of my time with Elvis, I never would say good-bye when leaving Graceland because I always wanted to come back to him.

  CHAPTER 5

  After that first exhilarating, overwhelming trip to Las Vegas with Elvis, I tried to resume my normal life. I slept briefly and went right back to work at the dress shop for a couple of hours that Monday afternoon and didn’t tell anyone there about my weekend.

  After work, my friend Teri stopped by my house and we went for a drive in her car. By then I was about ready to burst; I couldn’t resist telling her about my adventures. “You’ll never guess who I met over the weekend,” I said, deliberately trying to sound casual.

  “Who?”

  “Elvis.”

  Teri slammed on the brakes, pulled over to the side of the road, and refused to drive until I’d recounted how my sisters and I had met Elvis. Needless to say, she was blown away. I didn’t blame her. I still had a hard time believing any of it was real myself. I then went on and told her about our Las Vegas trip.

  I didn’t hear from Elvis Monday night. By early Tuesday morning, it was all over the news that Jerry Lee had been arrested outside of Graceland. He had returned in the early morning hours and nudged the front gates with his Lincoln, demanding to see Elvis with a Derringer .38 pistol in his possession. As I listened to the news, I remembered Elvis’s comments regarding Jerry; maybe Elvis had been right not to have seen him that night. I wondered what Elvis had been thinking when Jerry returned.

  Wednesday evening rolled around without any word from Elvis. It had only been a few days, but I wondered why he hadn’t called. He had seemed to want to see me again after our time together in Las Vegas, and he’d certainly acted like I was special to him, with all of the things he had said and done.

  From his affectionate behavior toward me, I would have thought Elvis might have at least called to say hello. After all, I was the proud owner of a bracelet with his name on it, and he had declared, “Now everyone will know you belong to me.”

  My doubts began to swirl, as I wondered whether he’d really meant the things he’d said to me. Was it possible that maybe I was placing more value on our time together than he did? I hoped not.

  When Larry, the man I’d been seeing for a few months, telephoned me at home that night, I was thrown into another emotional tailspin. Whether it was my doing or not, things had changed for me. The past weekend had been completely mind-blowing, and I hadn’t gone one day without thinking about Elvis.

  I needed to be honest and up-front with Larry, so I asked him to come over that night. I knew that telling him about Elvis and my sudden change of heart would catch him as off guard as it had me, and I felt bad about that. I didn’t know if Elvis would even call me again, but I was willing to wait and see.

  Larry and I talked for a while. Afterward, he still wasn’t ready to accept that I wanted to end things, and he left expressing the hope that we could sort things through.

  I had gone about my normal schedule, worked at the dress shop and otherwise spent time with my family, but I hadn’t gone out in the evenings, wondering if Elvis would call. My family had been stunned by the bracelet Elvis had given me. I was so afraid of having it fall off my wrist that I didn’t wear it often; I only looked at it in my bedroom, still surprised that Elvis had given it to me. It seemed to have been something special to him and yet I hadn’t heard from him.

  When Thanksgiving came and went, and all day Friday, too, without a call from Elvis, I truly felt that something wasn’t right. I must have misinterpreted what had happened between Elvis and me. I was just going to have to wake up and return to my real life.

  On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, a man called our home. He said he was Elvis’s road manager, Joe Esposito, and asked to speak with me. My mood immediately lifted as Joe told me Elvis was on tour, would be in San Francisco, and wanted me to fly there and see his show.

  My initial reaction was one of enormous relief. That’s why I haven’t heard anything, I thought. He’s been on tour! I even rationalized that maybe this road trip was the reason why we had left Las Vegas so soon.

  In the middle of arranging things with Joe, I suddenly heard Elvis’s voice come on the line. “I need you out here with me, Ginger,” he said, and added with a chuckle, “Get your ass out here!”

  I was so glad to hear his voice that I simply said, “Okay,” even though “Get your ass out here!” wasn’t exactly the way I thought I’d be invited. It wasn’t the sort of language I was used to hearing. I was momentarily taken aback, but my excitement kicked in, and I decided to overlook it. Elvis wanted me to join him on tour!

  Elvis then asked if he could speak with my mother. “I want to ease any worries she might have about you traveling to see me,” he said.

  My mother and Elvis spoke for a few moments, then Elvis put Joe back on the line to finish discussing travel arrangements. Joe told me to be at Memphis Aero at 10:30 that very night.

  Tonight? Panicked, I hung up and quickly began to pack. I had no clue what to wear and felt nothing in my wardrobe was right. Thankfully, Terry came to my rescue and generously loaned me a couple of nice outfits she’d received from her pageants.

  It was a brutally cold, snowy night in Memphis, and my parents were worried about me traveling in those weather conditions. Just as I finished packing, Milo High, Elvis’s personal pilot, called to say that the door to the JetStar was frozen shut. “We’re not sure we can open it,” he admitted.

  He also told me they had to wait for the runways to be cleared and the plane to be deiced. After the anticipation of seeing Elvis and all of my rushing around, I sat in our den and anxiously wondered if I’d even be making the trip at all.

  A few hours later, Milo finally called back. “We’re ready for you, Ginger,” he said.

  My mother asked me to call when I arrived in San Francisco as I left with my father for the airport. The JetStar was waiting for me on the edge of the runway; I said good-bye to my dad and hurriedly boarded the plane, already feeling the bitter wind seeping through my coat.

  It was so cold inside the plane, I could see my own breath. Milo and George greeted me when I boarded and handed me a blan
ket. As we took off and began our journey west, I reflected on how, once again, I was experiencing things with Elvis that I’d never done before in my life: leaving Memphis alone for the first time and going to another city I’d never seen before, to be with a man I hardly knew.

  I felt a shadow of trepidation creep over me. I suddenly wished my sisters or a friend could have accompanied me, so I wouldn’t feel quite as alone. I lay across the couch, pulled the blanket up around me, and tried to sleep, knowing I’d need my energy for whatever adventures lay ahead.

  We landed in San Francisco a few hours past midnight on what was now Sunday, November 28. I rode with Milo and George to a Hilton Hotel, where they helped with my suitcase and escorted me to my room.

  The first thing I did was place a collect call to my parents to let them know I was okay. Then I started unpacking. I didn’t know if Elvis would have a show that afternoon or evening, but because he had arranged my travel, he must have surely known of my arrival. I was certain I’d get a knock on my door or a phone call shortly. I was really looking forward to seeing him.

  The minutes ticked by. I began to feel tired from the thrill of the trip, the anticipation of seeing Elvis again, and being awake for so long, especially since I was still running two hours later on Memphis time. I tried to fight sleep by watching television.

  A couple of hours went slowly by. It was getting closer to dawn, but still feeling like I was on call, I was reluctant to wash my face, put on pajamas, and crawl into bed only to have Elvis knock at my door. So I stayed up, letting a few more hours pass.

  Finally, feeling silly, I decided Elvis was asleep and I should get some rest. I gave up and went to bed.

  I woke that afternoon around 3 P.M., feeling better but still a bit jet-lagged. Positive that I’d hear from Elvis any minute now or at least from someone who’d give me information about his show, I took a quick shower and hurriedly got dressed.

  I hurried for nothing, as it turned out. More time passed. Even if Elvis had performed last night and had not gotten to sleep until early morning, he must have been up for a while now because it was after four. Why hadn’t I heard from him?

  Again, I tried to rationalize what was going on. Since I’d arrived so late, maybe Elvis was letting me sleep, I thought. I hadn’t eaten since leaving Memphis and began to feel hungry. Suddenly I realized that, in all of my excitement and rushing around, I hadn’t brought any money with me. I’d never been in a situation like this.

  I didn’t feel right taking advantage of Elvis by calling room service. I wondered if I should leave the room and try to find a member of his staff, but I was afraid to leave for fear of missing Elvis or a phone call from one of his employees.

  Feeling more awkward by the minute, I continued to watch television as the hours marched by. It was bizarre, being whisked out of Memphis and then having to wait around like this without a word from anyone.

  I didn’t really feel angry at Elvis because he clearly had wanted me to see his show enough to bring me here. I was happy that he’d asked and excited about seeing him. But, as day turned into night, I was starting to feel abandoned and confused. Where was Elvis?

  The phone finally rang around 6 P.M. I leaped to answer it, excited that someone had finally remembered I was here.

  It was one of Elvis’s employees, asking if I needed anything. When I told him I was hungry, he said, “Order anything and charge it to the room.” Then he hung up with no mention of Elvis or where he was.

  Was Elvis’s location a secret? I felt completely baffled. I still had no idea what was going on. At that point, though, I was just relieved to know I could be eating soon, and so I ordered room service—another new experience for me.

  It wasn’t until late that night, after eleven, that there was finally a knock on my door. I figured it had to be someone associated with Elvis, or maybe even Elvis himself, so it would be safe to open the door.

  A man in his early thirties stood there. He had mid-length, dark shaggy hair and introduced himself as Jerry Schilling.

  “You’re going to be moving to a different room,” Jerry announced, then quickly walked away.

  I closed the door, more bewildered than ever. A different room? Why?

  Things had happened slowly up to now, so I figured I had plenty of time to pack. I sat back down to watch more television.

  A few minutes later, however, another sharp rap sounded at my door. Already? I opened it and Jerry was back, this time accompanied by Joe Esposito, Elvis’s road manager. Joe was shorter than Jerry, in his late thirties, with a compact build and a dark receding hairline.

  While the two men waited in the hallway, I quickly threw things into my suitcase. Joe and Jerry then led me on a long walk to another section of the hotel. When we reached what I thought was my new room, Jerry opened the door and gestured for me to enter. I was surprised to see Elvis inside, sitting on a couch in the center of a suite and dressed in a hooded blue terry-cloth robe. He was surrounded by men.

  Our eyes locked and my heart did a little skip. All of the hours of waiting and uncertainty were worth it. I was thrilled to see him.

  At the same time, I felt uncomfortable walking into this room full of men. I’d always been shy with men, and even though I knew I’d been inspected during my first time inside Graceland, the scrutiny was even more intense when I entered this room.

  Elvis seemed at ease. He stood up with a smile and walked over to give me a hug, then turned to the group of strangers and began introductions. The men in the room included Larry Geller, his hairdresser, a lean man in his late thirties; Billy Stanley, Elvis’s stepbrother, in his twenties and an aide; Ed Parker, a strongly built Hawaiian man in his mid-forties with thick silver hair who had trained Elvis in karate; Dr. George Nichopoulos, late forties, Elvis’s silver-haired physician; Dean Nichopoulos, the doctor’s son; and Al Strada. Dean and Al were both in their twenties and working as Elvis’s aides along with Billy.

  Finally, I was introduced to an overweight man in his early forties with salt-and-pepper hair named Lamar Fike. No job was mentioned for him at the time, so I was left to wonder if he was employed by Elvis, too, or simply visiting.

  Elvis took my hand and led me into the suite’s adjoining bedroom. He didn’t explain why I hadn’t heard anything or seen him until now, but I didn’t care anymore. My feelings of confusion and abandonment had vanished the minute I saw him.

  Books were scattered everywhere, on top of his bed, on the floor, and spilling out of the suitcases. A few looked familiar; they dealt with the same topics I remembered seeing in his bedroom at Graceland, including religious philosophy and numerology.

  Seeing that most of the books had to do with spirituality, I realized for the first time that Elvis truly was on a serious personal quest. We sat on his bed and talked for a little while about my trip, what he’d been reading, and this and that. He told me that he had a show the following night, and I wondered if he’d had one tonight.

  Elvis wasn’t interested in talking about his shows, however. He wanted to look through some of his books. As we continued to sit together, Elvis began reading to me, pointing out phrases he had underlined on well-worn pages, some of which had loosened and were falling out of the bindings. Seeing that he had even written notes inside some of the margins, I understood this wasn’t just casual reading for Elvis. He was studying these books in detail. I admired the fact that he was hungry for knowledge.

  Elvis had left the bedroom door slightly ajar. After a time, I noticed some of the men I’d met earlier still seated in the living room. Could these be normal hours for all of them, Elvis included? It was now well after one in the morning.

  The past times I’d been with Elvis, I had thought he was staying up late only because he was off work and enjoying himself. I began wondering if maybe the late night hours provided the only time Elvis could truly feel relaxed and find some peace because the rest of
the world was asleep.

  We talked until the early morning hours. When the two of us were both exhausted, Elvis told me I had a separate room adjoining the living room suite. Still the gentleman, he escorted me across the now-empty living room and said he would see me later that afternoon. With another light kiss, he headed back toward his own bedroom.

  I entered my new, larger room and saw that my suitcase had been placed inside. I opened it, took out pajamas, and walked into a generous bathroom wallpapered in a paisley print, noticing a telephone attached on the wall above the toilet. The phone wouldn’t have meant much to some, but this was my first time in such a lavish hotel suite and I was tickled by this small touch of luxury.

  I soon settled in bed, marveling at how my life could change so quickly. Between the trip and the anxiety that had mounted while I was waiting to hear from Elvis, I was bone-tired. My head had barely hit the pillow when I fell into a sound sleep.

  I was jolted awake at 4 P.M. by a loud knock on my door and a voice announcing, “Breakfast!” A little late for breakfast, I mused, but then again, I was in Elvis’s world and living in the Elvis time zone now.

  I jumped up, quickly dressed, put on some makeup, and entered the suite’s living room. Elvis’s bedroom door opened and he joined me, still wearing pajamas and a blue hooded robe. For the first time, we actually sat together on a couch instead of a bed.

  One of Elvis’s aides spread a towel across the coffee table and placed two plates of southwestern omelets, bacon, coffee, and juice in front of us. The television was turned on, and Elvis and I chatted as we ate.

  Shortly, some of the men I’d met the night before began filtering into the room. Given the fact that every man there wore the same gold necklace with the TCB lightning bolt emblem, I guessed they had to be part of a special group associated with Elvis.

  I hadn’t spent much time alone with Elvis, but now I had the opportunity to witness more of his sharp sense of humor as he lit up a cigar and began joking around with the guys. He found some of the things on television amusing and made funny comments as he surfed through various channels.