Chapter Text
Listen: Elvis live in Jacksonville, FL, April 16th, 1972, evening show (audience recording)
Sunday, April 16, 1972
1:15 pm
Nashville, TN
While Elvis and the rest of the guys were surely getting ready for the show, you sat in your bed, sheets tangled in a mess all around you, feeling indescribably empty and numb. You’d gotten back to your apartment late last night and had fought all night to try to sleep, but the crazy schedule you’d been on with Elvis had made that all but impossible.
Not to mention that the phone hadn’t stopped ringing since you got home. You ventured to pick it up once, and were surprised to find that it was Joe calling to make sure you’d arrived home okay. You told him you’d made it fine, but when he started saying something about you returning to the tour right away you felt a rising panic and hung up on him instantly. It was out of character for you to do something like that, but, well, so much for you had been out of character lately. The phone kept ringing well into the night, but you tried your hardest to ignore it until finally, mercifully, it stopped.
You couldn’t remember dreaming much, or if you did, it was just blurs of sounds and images you couldn’t make sense of. The last thing you remembered when you finally woke up the next day was the feeling of walking on the beach, firm wet sand beneath your feet and the cool, salty breeze that seemed to ebb and flow along with the waves. Something about that picture seemed calming to you, so you dwelled on it as your mind slowly regained consciousness. But at some point that calmness turned into upset as you realized that your stomach was cramping. You couldn’t even remember if you’d eaten anything lately. You ran into the bathroom and dry heaved.
You brushed your teeth and dragged yourself to the kitchen table and sat down. For once, you were grateful to be alone. There was no one there who you needed to impress. No one to care that your hair wasn’t brushed, that you hadn’t showered, or that you didn’t particularly feel like talking. The phone started ringing.
Oh, no. Not again, you thought. Should you pick up? Maybe it’s something important? The ringing stopped. You breathed a sigh of relief. Then it started again.
That was it, then. It had to be Joe calling, trying to spout some apology or other to get you to come back. Saying that Elvis realized he had made a mistake and wanted you back, or whatever. Well, it wasn’t going to be that easy. He couldn’t summon you. He couldn’t train you. You wouldn’t run back to him just because he said “come,” like a dog who’d slipped its leash. You just needed time to think. You needed silence.
You thought about yanking the phone cord straight out of the wall. You thought about picking up the receiver and slamming it audibly on the countertop. But you didn’t do either of those things. Instead you marched to the phone, nostrils flaring with the aggravated breaths you were taking, and then with extreme control you picked up the receiver as quietly as you could and laid it gently down. You stood hovering over the receiver for a few seconds longer, your heart racing and fingers trembling, until you could hear the faint tone of Joe’s voice sounding distantly. “Hello?...Hello?...Sam, are you there?” Then, feeling awash with content and a strange sense of peace, you walked back to the kitchen.
Silence, at last. You felt a new peace with the knowledge that now no one could bother you. Your stomach grumbled and you realized how hungry you were. You’d been gone for over a week, which meant there wasn’t much around for you to eat. There were some not-so-fresh apples sitting on the kitchen counter that seemed a possibility. In the refrigerator was a half loaf of bread, some spoiled milk, a stick of butter, and some assorted condiments. You settled on the idea of a piece of toast, some sliced apple, and a cup of black coffee. Just what your body needed. Even with the meager selection, it felt good to do something for yourself for a change.
You took the coffee pot over to the sink to rinse it and saw your hastily drunk cup from the day you left still sitting there, as though stuck in a time capsule. A ring of dried coffee stained the bottom. How long ago that seemed, when Charlie had come to pick you up and take you to the airport. So much had happened since. It felt like you were a different person back then.
You snapped yourself out of your melancholy and brought your attention back to the smell that was emanating from the toaster. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d smelled something so good. You savored each bite of your stale buttered toast, relished the sweetness of the mealy apple, took long, quenching gulps of your bitter black coffee. Nothing felt so good.
With your mind feeling cleared from breakfast, you made yourself another cup of coffee and sat down on the living room couch. You were still trying to put together the pieces of what had happened, even though you weren’t really ready to think about it.
You didn’t want to think about the stupid fight you’d had, or how you’d said something without really meaning it and had inexplicably gotten yourself sent home. Or even how, on the way to the airport, Jerry had been so nice to you, and how despite all of the feelings of rage and shame and anger and sadness that were coursing through you, you still couldn’t help but steal glances at his muscular physique while he was driving, with his handsome, chiseled face and his broad, developed footballer pecs peeking out of his V-neck t-shirt.
It didn’t help anything that he had been so kind and rational, and that he spoke to you calmly when he told you that he’d help you in any way he could. Somehow you believed him in a way that you’d never really believed Elvis. It was all just too confusing. Maybe your leaving was really for the best.
Caught in your ruminations, you flinched when you noticed a pair of eyes looking back at you.
Beside the sofa sat the record player, with an album cover propped up against it, and there was Elvis. He looked at you, his face a little younger, his hair shorter, but those piercing blue eyes just the same, that snarl on his lips seeming to say to you, You can’t escape me. Your heart started to race again. As much as you wanted to just move on with your life, to forget the past ten days like they had never happened, here he was coming back to haunt you. He was right. You couldn’t escape him. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing now. Or what you would be doing, if you were still there.
Did he miss you? Was he angry? Was he sad? Did he have another girl with him to fill your place? Or was he just carrying on business as usual, not even paying attention to whether you were there or not? For some reason, that was the hardest possibility to stomach.
3:15 pm
Jacksonville, FL
The guys arrived at the Veterans Memorial Coliseum and ushered Elvis quickly into the small backstage dressing room. He still seemed a little cloudy, his body still working to find some equilibrium between the pills he’d taken to calm himself down and the counter-treatment that Dr. Nick had administered to get him ready for the show. The dressing room was small and congested, and made even more so with the presence of the two-man film crew and their equipment. It seemed silly, having them all crammed into such a tiny space right before the show, but evidently that was the shot that the film crew had wanted. Elvis turned around in a tiny circle, looking at the space.
“This is a little bigger than the auditorium,” Joe joked. “This room.”
Elvis pivoted to look at him, his face deadpan as he stared Joe down through his amber-colored shades, waiting for the punchline.
“There’s only three people in the auditorium,” Sonny said, picking up the thread. “That’s how we sold it out.”
“Oh!” pantomimed Elvis, nodding as he went along with the joke. “That’s good!” He turned to drink a glass of water.
“You know what?” Lamar joined in on the conversation. “John Wayne keeps his cufflinks in a place like this.”
Elvis paused with the glass halfway to his mouth and scoffed. Red burst out laughing. Vernon sat quietly laughing in the corner, cigarette dangling between his lips.
Elvis raised his glass of water ominously, his focus now turned on making Lamar the butt of the joke—it was too irresistible an opportunity. He poised himself to turn the glass over slowly in Lamar’s direction, amid shouts and gestures from the guys, and from Lamar loudest of all, begging him not to do it. Some of the dissenting voices in the room countered, saying, “That’s an excellent idea! Baptize him!”
A mischievous look crept across Elvis’s face, and he began to recite an ominous preamble.
“As the cup turns…” he started, tilting the cup perilously downward.
“Don’t do it, Elvis! Come on!” Lamar shouted.
Lamar tried to get up and out of the way, but the room was too small – there was nowhere for him to hide. Elvis dripped a small stream of water onto Lamar’s shirt, prompting a new rise of laughter from the group. Then, just when they thought he was done, he unceremoniously flung the rest of the liquid out in Lamar’s direction. Lamar, drenched, stood up looking sad and disappointed. He always had to be the damned butt of the joke.
Vernon stood up too and wiped his hair, having found himself in the splash zone, and continued smoking his cigarette. He was used to this kind of nonsense. Elvis got someone to hand him a towel and he walked up to Lamar in an act of mock tenderness, and began to dab the water off his face. The group erupted in a chorus of “Awws” and Lamar’s expression softened. For the sake of the show, he was determined to stay in a good mood. He forced a laugh.
“Who’s got a hair dryer?”
Nashville, TN
You sat on the couch in a daze, your second cup of coffee long emptied, and your bladder telling you you really needed to get up and pee, but you just didn’t feel like moving. You’d been sitting there for an hour, ruminating about Elvis when you knew you should be doing something productive to keep your mind in a better place. It didn’t make you feel any better to know that in all the time you’d been just sitting there in your underwear and a t-shirt, Elvis had already done an entire show, sweated two buckets, changed clothes, and was probably now sitting comfortably in his hotel room having lunch.
You wanted to cry, just get it all out, but you felt too tired and numb even for that. If you focused on his face on the album cover looking back at you, your vision would get hazy and your eyes would fill with tears—but that was all. You decided that you couldn’t ignore your bladder any longer and got up to head to the bathroom.
You peed, brushed your teeth, and looked in the mirror. You didn’t think you looked all that bad, considering. But certainly not up to Elvis’s standards. Not that they mattered anymore. You went into your room and stood just inside the doorway, wondering what you should do next.
Your ripped and stained peach-colored dress was crumpled on the floor next to your bed. After a moment’s hesitation, you picked it up and looked at it indifferently, then draped it carelessly on a chair. You pulled open a drawer from your dresser and took out a clean towel, then headed back into the bathroom.
It felt amazing just to stand there under the hottest water you could tolerate. You could feel your muscles relaxing and the grime leaving your skin, and the familiar scents of your regular soap and shampoo, not Elvis's or the hotel’s, infused you with a calmness and profound sense of appreciation to be back in your own element. For once you didn’t have to worry that someone might barge in saying you were needed elsewhere, and with that little bit of assurance you took a nice, long shower.
4:32 pm
Jacksonville, FL
“It’s a hot time in Florida,” Elvis announced to the moving car, as he dabbed at his forehead with a towel and replaced his sunglasses over his eyes.
“Boy, it is,” agreed Red, who was at the wheel.
They’d just left the Veterans Memorial Coliseum. Everyone agreed that the show had been good; the sound was good; and they were all glad for the opportunity to go back to the hotel and rest. The sweat trapped inside Elvis’s suit was rapidly turning from hot to cold. His ears were throbbing and his field of vision was filled with blind spots from the flashbulbs. His eye makeup was smeared and, mixed with his sweat, was causing his eyes to burn. His left wrist was sore where his watch had been rubbing it for the past hour. But he took it all in stride. He was happy for another successful show; happy to be with his friends; happy that soon he could peel off his jumpsuit and shower; and above all, happy that he was still wanted, loved, and relevant.
“Rainy night in Georgia,” he sang out and smiled.
Joe, Red, and Sonny chattered as they drove. Joe was cracking jokes, as usual. Vernon sat on his other side, silently taking part in the scene.
“…Oh, it’s a salt hare,” Joe quipped, his double chin protruding visibly. No one was paying him much attention. Elvis withdrew into himself, not worrying about the conversation, just letting the scenery go by as he monitored the thoughts inside his head.
“Lay your head…” he sang quietly to himself, “…upon my pillow….”
Sonny joined in with him on the next line and the two started harmonizing. Red tried to join in a few times, but he didn’t know the words.
“Hear the whisper of the raindrops, blowin’ soft against the window…” Elvis took the higher harmony and Sonny sang lead, their voices coming together with a practiced beauty that was sweet with Elvis’s tenor. Joe nodded and chewed his gum appreciatively. Vernon looked out the window.
“Make believe you love me one more time...” Red joined in for the last line, and the three of them finished the song.
“For the good times.”
Nashville, TN
You got dressed in your bedroom, putting on a pair of comfortable faded jeans and a t-shirt. Elvis would never have wanted to see you wearing something so casual. You couldn’t help but grimace – the invisible Elvis in your head was still telling you what to do.
You sat down and thought a while, looking around your room as though it was your first time seeing it. You’d stayed in so many fancy hotel rooms lately that in comparison, the colors looked faded and dingy, the edges rounded where they should be sharp, and various items laying in disarray, like…like somebody actually lived here. You saw reminders from your childhood, photographs of people you loved, your favorite things strewn all around you, and you thought—who is the little girl that lives in this room?—it was nothing like Elvis’s bold, masculine taste.
You started to wonder—had it all been a dream? The longer you sat, the more impossible it seemed that you had just traveled all around the country on a private jet, draped in the finest clothing and jewelry, a veritable rock’n’roll socialite. You were just Sam. Plain, old Sam. But the peach dress draped over your chair caught your eye and told you otherwise. Even lying there wrinkled, ripped, and stained, it was the showiest item in your room and it stood out. Or maybe it was the spiky silver heels that stood next to it.
You looked over at your bags that you’d dropped just inside the doorway and figured that now was as good a time as any to unpack them. You got on your knees on the floor and started going through their contents, placing clothing in piles for later washing and sorting out items that needed to be put away. You pulled out your makeup bag and felt a small jolt of dread. It was there that you’d found the ruby red ring, which had seemingly caused this whole mess of trouble and misunderstanding that had somehow culminated in you getting thrown out of the tour.
You could almost see yourself in that moment, taking the ring out of the makeup bag in front of the bathroom mirror, trying it on your finger, and meeting Charlie to go down to the show with—with the band. Yes, that’s right. The band, because that was the first day that Elvis had inexplicably told you you couldn’t stay with him anymore, and it just didn’t make sense. Why didn’t he want you around then? You felt rage trickle into your body and, trying to make it subside, you briskly placed the makeup bag down on top of your dresser and returned your attention to the suitcase in front of you.
The next item you took out was the copy of the Book of Numbers that Elvis had gifted you, and staring at its cover puzzled you. If he didn’t want me around, then why did he give me the book? You tried to find a deeper meaning in it, but you couldn’t. You again saw the note sticking out of the pages, written on the hotel’s memo pad in Elvis’s slanted scrawl: To Sam, All of these can be lucky. He had signed it ‘Psycho’, a reference to the Foundation book that you’d been discussing with him at the time, and which was still sitting in the suitcase. You remember feeling warmed by that discussion, touched that he seemed to take you seriously; that he made you feel like he valued your mind and your opinions.
You pulled out more items of clothing, shoes, and toiletries. You remembered all of the pieces of jewelry that Elvis had given you, and not seeing them there, you felt a slight pang of regret that you’d taken them off and left them in the hotel room. But they’d be constant reminders of him, anyway, so it was probably better that way. You were ready to get all this behind you and move on.
You heard a noise at the other end of the apartment and jerked to attention. Someone had just walked through the door. Your heart began beating faster.
“Sam?” You heard a female voice call. “Sam? Are you here? I’m back!”
You breathed a quick sigh of relief. It was your roommate, Jeannie. She must have just returned from visiting her sister. Fortunately, she didn’t seem too concerned about finding you right away and she stopped in the kitchen for a while. You heard her opening drawers and cupboards.
You continued to sift through the belongings that were haphazardly thrown into your various bags and boxes. Your fingers grabbed a piece of dark blue fabric that was crumpled up near the bottom, and you weren’t sure at first what it was. But as you pulled it out you saw the white ‘EP’ monogrammed on the front and realized it was his pajama top that you’d been wearing. You took a deep breath and tried to swallow the knot in your throat. But just seeing it brought back all of your memories of the past ten days, and before you could try to control yourself you collapsed forward with a sob.
Wearing that shirt had felt so special to you at the time. Like you were part of him, or like…like he owned you. You gripped the fabric between your hands, and your eyes began to fill with tears until the white monogrammed ‘EP’ became blurry. Images began to enter your mind of kissing Elvis goodnight, of him making you laugh and touching you, of hugging him in the morning and smelling the sweet scent of his skin. You sobbed into his shirt, not knowing what you missed more – him, or just the way that you felt when you were with him. The lingering traces of his scent brought fresh tears to your eyes with each pulse of your breath, feeling something far more complicated than words could describe.
With your eyes closed, smelling him, hearing him, you could almost imagine that he was there with you; could almost imagine that he’d be there to give you a hug, to hold you, to tell you that everything was going to get better. But he wasn’t, and you sat on the floor rocking yourself with your face buried in his shirt, using it to wipe your tears and the snot that was streaming out of your nose.
You didn’t even notice the sound of fingers lightly rapping at your door.
“Sam, are you in there?” your roommate called out. You didn’t answer.
“Sam?” she asked again. “How was the tour? Hey, I tried to call you, but it sounded like the phone was off the—” She cut herself off when she saw you crumpled on the floor and dropped to her knees beside you.
“Oh, Sam!” she shouted, with a sharp tone of concern, and she put her arm over your back. She held you for several breaths as you sobbed, then waited patiently as you gradually became quiet and worked up the courage to face her.
“Oh, Sammy, baby, what is it?” she asked quietly, full of concern. You sniffled and thought about what you could say. She knew that you had been with Elvis on tour for the past few days, and one look around your room told her just about all she needed to know.
“It’s—” you started, but you couldn’t finish the sentence without crying.
“Is it Elvis?” she asked, as she gently rubbed her palm over your back, noticing the snot-streaked and tear-dampened EP pajama top that you were buried in. You made a sound and nodded.
“He”—you started again, slowly, taking slow and deliberate breaths—“He…We got into an argument, and he told me to go home.”
It sounded so silly when you actually said it out loud; it sounded so trivial. People got into arguments all the time. But there just seemed to be such a finality about the way it had happened.
“It’s okay, honey,” your roommate soothed. “Sometimes people just need a little space.” You didn’t answer, so she continued. “Maybe both of you needed a little space.”
You pictured seeing his face again and your crying began anew.
“Tell you what,” she said, adjusting her approach. “You take your time. Cry it out. Do whatever you need to do. And when you’re ready, come on out and we’ll have a girls’ night. I’ll cook dinner. Hmm?”
“Mmm,” you responded, feeling grateful for her sympathy.
6:45 pm
Jacksonville, FL
Elvis was about as relaxed as one could be in the interim between the afternoon and evening shows. It was that time of day when he had just about recovered from the exhilaration of the first show, and the first tingles of nerves had started to make themselves known in preparation for the second.
Millie and her family had been invited to join the guys in the suite, and Millie was full of complements about the show.
“Oh, it was wonderful!” she exclaimed, virtually sitting in Elvis’s lap, making sure her parents could see.
“Just—everything! The lights, the sound, and—oh, the crowd! They were dying for you, baby! It was just so—so magnetic! Didn’t you think so, Mama?”
“Oh, yes,” chimed in Millie’s mother, who looked delighted just to be staring at Elvis, as though the permanent thought that ran through her brain was, What a handsome young man. “Oh, I just loved that ‘Hound Dog,’ and—what was that other one, dear, the one with the, um—”
She looked to her husband and made some kind of gesture. Her husband jerked to awareness and tried to interpret what she was saying. She tried to sing a line or two from the song she was thinking of. Elvis and her husband grasped the song title at the same time.
“Hunka—‘Big Hunka Love,’” they both said in unison, and pointed at each other with a smile. Elvis nodded. He’d rather be talking about some of his newer songs, but the old ones were always the ones that made the crowd go wild – especially the older crowd, like Millie’s parents, who knew him best from his older material anyway.
“Yes, ‘Big Hunka Love,’” she repeated. “Oh, I just loved it when you did that stuff in the fifties. You were so cute.” She sang a few lines of ‘Big Hunk’ again and wiggled her hips.
Elvis gave her an aw, shucks kind of look and they kept talking.
When it came time to start preparing for the evening show, Millie and her family graciously offered to leave so Elvis could get ready. Before they left, however, Elvis wanted to present them each with something special.
To Millie’s younger brother, Joey, Elvis gave a genuine police cap that had been bestowed on him by one of the local police departments who had helped run security at the shows. The cap was several sizes too big, but Joey nonetheless received it with ample awe and appreciation.
To Millie’s mother and father, he gave a very generous check for two thousand dollars, which they at first tried to decline, but he insisted that they use it to buy themselves a new dining room set, a new suit for Millie’s father, and a new fur coat for the missus. They were delighted.
“Y’all’ll be at the show again, won’t you?” Elvis asked as they said their goodbyes.
He offered Millie’s father a handshake, then patted Joey on the shoulder. Then he walked up to Millie’s mother to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Millie’s mother answered, undressing him with her eyes.
“Yeah, I can’t wait to see the show again,” yelled out Joey, who was all of 10 or 11 years old. “I love when you do all that karate stuff on stage. You should do more of that!” He kicked out his leg and tried to do karate arms for emphasis.
“Good,” Elvis said. “I’ll try to do some more for you...if I’m not completely buggered out from the first show.” He laughed.
Then, saving Millie for last, he looked her in the eyes and found her looking back at him expectantly. He smirked. “Now, you know I wouldn’t forget you, would I, baby?”
He walked over to a table in the corner of the room and picked up a small box. Grinning, he brought it over to Millie.
“Open it.”
She did, and gasped when she saw an elegant necklace of pearls interspersed with small diamonds. She brought a hand up to cover her mouth.
“Oh!” She yelped, throwing her arms around Elvis. “It’s beautiful! Oh, it’s just gorgeous! Oh, Mama, isn’t it?” She held the necklace out for her mother to see, then clasped it around her neck. She turned back to Elvis. “Oh, I love it! Thank you, baby!”
She kissed him and he drew her closer, savoring the feel of her body. He looked her in the eyes earnestly and there were a few seconds of silence. Then he said to her, quietly,
“You gonna come back here after the show?”
“Oh, honey, I wish I could!” she squealed. “But I know we’re all going to be just so tired after the show, and Mama and Daddy want us to get a move on first thing in the morning.” She could tell Elvis looked quietly disappointed. She lowered her voice to soothe him.
“But that’s why I came here earlier, baby,” she said, as she ran her hand down his hip suggestively. “I wanted to make sure I could take care of you.”
Elvis felt a small tingle when she touched him and he blushed a little. Despite being the world’s foremost sex symbol, he was still embarrassed about Millie touching him in front of her brother and her parents.
“Okay,” he said, as he prepared to let go of her waist. He tried not to let his disappointment show. “Well, I’ll seeya.”
8:30 pm
Nashville, TN
“So wait, let me get this straight. You’re saying he shot a TV? Like—” Jeannie cocked her fingers into a gun shape and mimed shooting straight ahead of her.
You tried to talk through your laughing. “Yeah, that’s exactly what he did! And then—” you paused to pour yourself another glass of wine and held it up as you spoke. “—And then one of the guys called the hotel manager and made up this story that, oh, Elvis just loved their TV so much, and he was going to take it with him to his next stop, but he’d be happy to pay for the replacement…”
You barely got out the last part of the sentence because you and Jeannie were laughing so hard.
“I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed. “God, he sounds like he can be a real bozo.”
Your gaze turned serious for a second and you felt a pang of sadness.
“Oh, honey,” Jeannie said, “it sounds like you’re better off here. Putting up with crazy shit like that? You could have gotten hurt!”
“I guess so,” you conceded. “I guess I was pretty scared at the time, before I knew what happened.” You started laughing again. “But that wasn’t even the half of it! Talk about bozos, you wouldn’t believe the kinds of things I heard the guys talking about!” Jeannie started laughing with you.
“You know, at first they kind of kept quiet when I was around, ‘cause I guess they didn’t want to offend me, or whatever, ‘cause, you know, I’m a lady.” You emphasized the word “lady” with air quotes. Jeannie laughed. “But after a few days, or whatever, they just didn’t care anymore. I mean, ‘fuck this,’ ‘fuck that,’ ‘guess who’s getting laid,’ I mean, whatever.” You took another drink.
“Well, I’m glad you got to go, but I’m glad you’re back,” Jeannie said. “’Cause I’m telling you, he may be Elvis Presley, but ain’t nobody good enough for my Sammy.” She took another drink. “Except me.”
You both laughed. You sighed.
“I’m just so glad you’re here with me,” you said to Jeannie. “I’m feeling a lot better now. It’s just, like, when you’re in it, it’s just so hard to stop and think about anything!”
“I know,” said Jeannie sympathetically.
“And I am glad I came back early,” you said. “It was all just getting to be too much. I mean, the jewelry, the clothing, it’s like, night after night, he keeps giving me more necklaces and things to wear.”
“Oh, yeah, I know how hard that must be for you.” Jeannie rolled her eyes.
“Oh, shut up!” you laughed. “It’s just, like, he has to keep giving me stuff. Like, the last thing he gave me was a gun.”
“A gun?” Jeannie repeated incredulously. “He gave you a gun?”
“Yeah! It’s in my—” you tried to remember where you had last seen it. You thought it was packed in your bags, but you didn’t remember coming across it when you were unpacking. “Oh, I guess I must have left it there,” you said with a touch of sadness. “I mean, I didn’t really think I’d use it, or anything, but God, it was beautiful. You should have seen it.”
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “First he shoots the TV, then he gives you a gun. What’s next?”
A small lump formed in your throat when you remembered that he’d invited you to do target practice with him in Memphis…but that had really meant that he was asking you to live with him. You didn’t want to think about that now. Not when you were having such a good time with Jeannie.
“Yeah,” you said, “fuck that.”
“Yeah, fuck that!” Jeannie repeated emphatically. She raised her glass. “Fuck Elvis!”
You squealed with surprised laughter. You mimicked her gesture. “Yeah! Fuck Elvis!” The two of you drank. Then the phone started ringing.
You looked at Jeannie with fear in your eyes. “What if that’s him?” you asked, your panic rising.
“Don’t you move,” Jeannie commanded as she stood up. “I’ll handle it.”
She walked over to the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey! This is—Sam?”
“Sam’s not here right now,” Jeannie said, cutting him off. “Can I help you?”
“Ah, right, okay—this is Joe Esposito, I work with Elvis, and he wants Sam to come out and join him as soon as she can. Can I speak to her?”
“I told you, Joe, she’s not here, and she ain’t ever gonna be here, and you can tell Elvis to take his sorry, TV-shootin’ ass all the way back to Memphis, and find someone else to give all his dresses and jewelry and guns to.” Before he had any chance to reply, she slammed the phone back into the cradle.
You looked across the room at Jeannie in silence, your hand covering your mouth, which was wide open.
“Oh my god,” you said to her, not sure if you should be scared, or mad, or ecstatic. You chose the latter. “That was AMAZING!”
The two of you rocked with laughter. Jeannie returned to the kitchen table and poured herself another drink. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I did that!” she took another gulp of wine to calm herself down. She gestured to the plate of dinner that she’d cooked. “More pasta?”
***
Joe took the receiver away from his ear with a curious expression on his face, pausing to puzzle at the handpiece before resting it neatly in the cradle.
“Was she there, Joe? Was that her? What’d she say?” Elvis asked from a few feet away.
“Ahh, yeah, I don’t think she’s home right now,” Joe said, stalling. “I guess now isn’t the best time.”
9:30 pm
Jacksonville, FL
Elvis once again prepared to go onstage, the familiar rollercoaster of emotions washing over him in due sequence. First there was the indifference. The feeling of, ‘It’s just another show. Just like the one this afternoon, and yesterday, and the day before that.’
Then there was the excitement. ‘It always feels good to be on the stage. To be singing, and feeling the music, and joking with the crowd.’
Then came the nerves. ‘It’s a different crowd every time, and you never know what they’ll be like. What if they get bored? What if they walk out? What if my voice should fail me?’
And then, as he walked onto the stage, there was the thrill. ‘There they are. There are my people. Those are the people who love me.’
And there was nothing else to it. With the first words of ‘See See Rider’ he was off on an unstoppable trajectory, bound to the pace of the show until he reached the finish line. He lived off of that attention. He lived off of that love. Without it, he would simply cease to be. And so, he gave it his all, every single time. He poured himself into every song, full with mind, body, heart, and spirit.
Every joke, every kiss, every smile, every note; he relinquished conscious thought and let his body take over. He forgot about all of the minutia in his life because here, on stage, none of that mattered. Here was the world where nothing could go wrong; where he was driving the show, and he called the shots.
Sure, he let Tutt do the driving—that’s what he liked to say—but he took that drumming, took it all the way inside of him, and let it explode out of him in a storm of emotion. He was a human amplifier. What Tutt gave him with his drums, and the Sweets with their voices, and JB with his riffs, and the audience with their screaming, and grabbing, and pulling, and kissing, and the women vying to touch him, scratch him, love him—he took in that frenzy and projected it right back out, and he could fill way more than an auditorium with all that he had to give.
He bent down and a woman grabbed him by the neck, almost breaking his chain in the process. She greedily rubbed the fingers of her other hand up and down his sweaty chest, swirling the hair beneath her hand. What made her do it? What made her moan as he kissed her, taking her to the point of hysteria? What did she want from him? And did she need him as much as he needed her?
He didn’t know. He didn’t have to know. He never did, and he never would. All he needed to know was that he would do it again, and again, and again…
Monday, April 17, 1972
2:53 am
70,213 Nautical Miles from Earth
Young, Duke, and Mattingly had broken through the Earth’s orbit and were headed on a steady trajectory toward the moon. Other than a few minor occurrences that hadn’t gone according to plan, all systems were still go. The team had kept successfully in touch with Houston Mission Control and had relayed all of the necessary instrument readings, recalibrations, and special assignments that were crucial to the mission. They had completed the transposition, docking, and extraction maneuver to eject the Saturn V rocket’s third stage and continued in the docked Command Module and Lunar Module on their target path through space.
They had cancelled the first planned midcourse correction burn, since their trajectory was still following the correct path. Now they were sailing smoothly with the spacecraft set in a passive thermal control mode, also known as the “rotisserie barbecue mode,” which ensured that the vehicle would be rotated about its longitudinal axis at a rate of three revolutions per hour to maintain proper temperature equilibrium. Mattingly had captured UV photographs of the Earth from their vantage point in the spacecraft and all three astronauts had remarked on the spectacular view that they were witness to.
“You would really love this sight,” said Duke into the intercom to Mission Control. “You can see India and the continent, and it’s covered with clouds, and no photograph can ever describe the way it looks. It’s really super.”
“It really sounds fantastic,” said CAPCOM Don Peterson. “Wish I were there.”
“Yes, sir. You would love it.”
Now at almost 15 hours following the launch, the astronauts were preparing for their first sleep period and performed their final communications with Mission Control.
“Okay, Henry,” said Mattingly into the intercom, “Are there any onboard readouts that you folks would like to have?”
“Negative, Ken,” said the CAPCOM. “I think we’re all in good shape here. Everything looks good at this point. You got anything else for us?”
“No, I’m just looking ahead, and I’ve got five and a half minutes to go to sleep.”
“Roger,” replied CAPCOM. “Why don’t you take that. Y’all did a real good day’s work. Only two things left to do are those two COMM switches, the squelch and the normal mode voice. Get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”