Yankee Doodle Dixie (34 page)

Virginia, the only true Elvis fan of our group, is dying to be an Elvira. For weeks she’s searched online for the perfect costume. Well, John searched and printed out the info. (Virginia’s about as adept with Google as I was at snow shoveling.) And apparently, we’d all be shocked at how many girl Elvis costumes there are out there. “The only thing missing is the sweet potato bulge behind the zipper,” Virgy said, when she called to tell me about the one she wanted. While searching the bounty of Elvis Web sites for Virginia’s perfect EP getup, John found White Jumpsuit Elvis—with hotpants as an alternative instead of the traditional full-length one-piece; Sexy Black Jumpsuit Elvis with cleavage cut down to the navel, and Red Hot Elvis with or without a cape. To top it all off, she told us that each item was available in a variety of plus sizes for an additional ten dollars. The costumes range, she explained, anywhere from fifty dollars up to four thousand, depending on how fancy the Elvira wants to look, or just how seriously she takes herself. I couldn’t believe that people would dole out that kind of money for a surely ill-fitting polyester monstrosity. But, true to form, Virgy settled on White Jumpsuit Elvis with a cape and promptly forked over two hundred dollars. Well, John did.

Alice has decided to dress like early Priscilla with a short sixties party dress and a ten-inch beehive that she’s having done at a vintage beauty shop in North Memphis near the Millington Naval Base. Mary Jule has decided to be George Klein, Memphis deejay and Elvis’s dear friend, since Elvis was best man at his wedding and especially since her dark hair is already short. All she would have to do is part it on the side, she said, and add a dab of Brylcreem. We suggested she also add dark circles under her eyes just so she’d be a dead giveaway.

I had the hardest time of all coming up with an idea for a costume. I wasn’t all that thrilled about spraying my hair black and dressing as Lisa Marie for the night, so in keeping with my red hair I finally picked Ann-Margret—Elvis’s costar in
Viva Las Vegas.
It was a little hard deciding on what to wear, to guarantee people would recognize me, but when I remembered that Ann had made a guest appearance on an episode of
The Flintstones
as Ann-Margrock I just went with that. I found a Betty Rubble outfit at a local costume shop, added a necklace with a dog bone charm, and called it a day.

So on a late Thursday afternoon, August fifteenth, the day before Elvis’s actual death day, after a fresh peach daiquiri each (the peaches still have a little life left this time of year) the four of us set out toward Graceland. Although the vigil doesn’t start until eight thirty and goes well into the wee hours on the sixteenth, we’ve decided to arrive early to partake in some of the other activities.

Once we’ve all piled inside her car, Alice accidentally smashes her beehive on the inside roof. “Well crap,” she says and pulls down her mirror on the sun visor to re-fluff. She turns on the air, full blast, and points the vent directly at her face. “I am hot as hell already,” she says as she backs her car out of Virginia’s driveway. “Damn this Memphis heat.”

“At least your hair is off your neck,” says Virgy, who is seated in the passenger seat. “How do you think I feel wearing this polyester stretch-suit and this hot black wig? I forgot all about the heat when I ordered it. Now I wish I’d bought the one with hot-pants.”

“Better you than me,” I say as cool as a Popsicle in my Ann-Margrock suit and high ponytail.

“I’m about to melt, myself,” Mary Jule says. “What was I thinking when I chose this costume? Y’all know what I think about all the Elvis people anyway.” She leans in toward the backseat air vent between Alice’s console and lets the cold air blow the hair around her face.

“Oh, forget it. I’ve been living for this night,” Virgy says. “If I get hot, I’ll just dive into Elvis’s pool. What can they do? Arrest me?”

It takes two hours to find a parking spot. Everything I’d read warned to expect big delays, but until we were inching down Elvis Presley Boulevard at five miles per hour for an hour and thirty minutes, I had no idea how jammed it truly would be. Finally Alice gets frustrated and jerks into a McDonald’s, three long blocks away from the mansion. When we pull up, one of the workers motions for her not to park in the McDonald’s lot but she just rolls down her window, inconspicuously fishes out some cash stowed away in her large, sprayed-to-the-nines beehive, and puts an unknown sum into his bewildered hands. “Shoog, I’m counting on you to look after my car,” she says, matter-of-factly. He shoots her a toothy smile and waves us on through, no doubt curious as to what else Alice had hidden up there.

Elvis Presley Boulevard is closed off for two blocks in preparation for an estimated forty thousand people. As we maneuver through the crowds, we pass a Days Inn on the way down to Graceland. It’s a motor-court motel, actually, and we notice hundreds of somber Elvis people milling about in the parking lot, as if actually waiting to attend a viewing. From wigs, to sunglasses, TCB (Taking Care of Business) gold necklaces, Elvis suits out the wazoo, and blue suede shoes, these people are paying their respects. Naturally, our combined sense of curiosity can’t keep us away any more than a tornado could so we walk up to get a better look and mingle with the crowd.

Most of the doors to the motel rooms are standing wide open and the large windows above the air-conditioning units have been decorated as shrines, with flowers, signature Elvis photos, and homemade crafty items paying homage to the King. There are plenty of mementos for sale, as well. A little chuckle slips out when I see the ceramic blue suede shoes salt-and-pepper shakers. I immediately look around to see if anyone has noticed. Thankfully, my unintentional indignity has slipped by unnoticed. But when Virgy sees me inspecting an Elvis toaster, she holds up her own find—a clear shower curtain with Elvis heads scattered all over it—and asks the Elvira who is selling the merch for the price. Mary Jule gives me one of her “I’m about to lose it” looks as she squints her eyelids, presses her lips together, and lightly shakes her head. Whenever she does that, I know she’s doing her best to temper a laughing attack. Clearly this is not the place.

“Are you thinking about it for the guest bath or the master?” I ask Virginia, loud enough for all browsers to hear.

“The master, of course. The King belongs nowhere else but,” she says. And as the merch lady is ringing up her purchase Virginia adds, “And I’ll take this EP toothbrush holder and wastebasket to go along with it.”

Alice whispers under her breath, “And just where in the hell are you really going to put that? Your next garage sale?”

“I don’t know right now. I might use it as a slip and slide for the kids. Here, Fiery, you need this.” Virgy lightly taps the top of Mr. Potato Head Elvis.

“Now that’s worth it,” I tell her and pass over my money, too. Neither Alice nor Mary Jule make purchases. Alice said she’d already spent plenty on her beehive and Mary Jule thinks it’s all ultra-tacky anyway and wouldn’t be caught dead with something like that in her house.

We stroll over to a food court, which is set up in the middle of the parking lot with free tastings of all Elvis’s favorite foods. Small portions of peanut butter and banana sandwiches, crunchy bacon, sweet potato pie and banana pudding are scattered among the tables. There’s even one with samplings of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, cornbread, and small cups of ice-cold Pepsi colas. We all partake of the banana pudding but leave the rest untouched.

Despite the costumes, the general sense of Elvis Week revelry, and no doubt a few adult beverages, there’s an honest-to-goodness air of somberness among the mourners. At the same time, they seem eager to reunite with the comourners with whom they’ve become acquainted during the yearly pilgrimages to Memphis. Instead of a high-spirited hello, they give each other a controlled hug, and lightly nod their heads to acknowledge their mutual state of bereavement.

The four of us, acting as if we’re mourning right along with them, stroll through the motor court, stopping to chat with some of the fans, taste the food, and answer questions about our costumes. Naturally, Alice receives a discreet whistle or two as we pass, her natural beauty only intensified by the Priscilla getup. The sight of her in costume is most likely as close to the real Priscilla as some of them will ever come.

One man whistles at all of us as we pass and Virgy hollers out, a little louder than what would be deemed appropriate, “In your dreams, big guy.”

“You are my dream, baby,” he yells back.

“And don’t you forget it,” she says.

“Who are
you,
little darlin’?” he says to me.

“Before I can open my mouth, Virgy says, “Who do you think she is? The one and only Ann-Margrock.”

“Where have you been all my life, Annie? Why don’t you just Viva Las Vegas your way over here to Papa?”

We don’t pause even for a second, and as we’re leaving he pleads, “Don’t leave, ladies. I’m just taking care of business.”

“Sorry,” we all say in unison, as we’re exiting the motor court.

We meander through the huge crowd bowled out toward the mansion to get in line for the vigil. On our way over to the gate, we pass the entertainment tent in front of the Heartbreak Hotel, which has a sign out front that reads “Elvis Bingo.” Just outside the opening to the tent there’s a small group of people surrounding a certain Mexican Elvis. The closer we get I could almost swear the big burly guy at his side is his bodyguard as he’s standing dangerously close to the señor and seems to be making an effort to shield his body.

“Oh my gosh,” Virgy says, outstretching her arms to stop us from moving a step further. “It’s El Vez.”

Alice grabs the back of her arm. “
Who?
”

“El Vez, the Mexican Elvis.”

“How in the world do you know about him?” Mary Jule asks her.

“From TV or
People
magazine, I don’t know. Everyone knows who he is,” Virgy says, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look.

“I don’t know who he is,” I say to Mary Jule. “Do you?”

“Are you kidding me?” she says.

Without turning her eyes away from him, Virginia informs us, “I read an article about him in
Rolling Stone
. Here’s the best: He claims he’s running for president.”

“Of America or Mexico?” I ask.

Mary Jule shakes her head. “This is almost more than I can take, to tell you the truth.”

“El Vez!” Virgy screams. “Can we get a picture with you?” She’s scrambling in her purse for her camera.

El Vez travels with an entourage and they all stop to see who adores him now. “But of course,” he says, in his Spanish accent. “But I’ll have to make it quick.”

“Hurry, hurry,” Virgy tells us, handing her camera to the bodyguard and we all squeeze in for a picture. El Vez puts his sweaty arm around my bare shoulder and puts the other around Virgina’s. Alice and Mary Jule are on either side of us. I can hardly smile because I’m just sure my shoulder must smell like BO.

When the bodyguard stares at me and slowly peeks his tongue through his slightly parted lips, it churns my stomach. “Just take the picture,” I say and shoot him a phony smile. When he hands Virginia back her camera, and we’re walking away I say, “I hope that was worth it. I’m scared to sniff myself, there’s no telling how nasty I smell.”

Virgy says something but her voice is muffled due to an off-key voice emanating from inside the entertainment tent. When we get to the opening to sneak a peak, another Priscilla lookalike (this one must have spent the extra ten dollars on her costume) is belting out the chorus of “Jail House Rock” from the tiptop of her lungs. Bless her heart. She’s awful.

“This is the hands down best thing about karaoke,” Virginia says, “the people that think they’re good when they’re terrible. Let’s find a seat.”

We meander through the room and spot a table in the middle with four empty chairs. There’s a White Jumpsuit Elvis, probably in his midfifties, sitting all alone, swaying his head to the performance. He’s got the lip, the hair, the cape—with a large studded eagle on the back—and the TCB necklace. Since there’s not another table to accommodate the four of us, Alice walks right up to him and says, “Excuse me, shoog. Do you mind if we sit with you?”

He takes one look at her, stands up and pulls out the seat next to him. “Why of course not, Priscilla dear.”

As Alice is scooting into the table she says, “Would you please be a dear and pull out the seats for my other friends, Elvis darling?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he says with a nod of his head. “Hello ladies, I’m Elvwayne. I know Priscilla is unaware, but a true tribute artist does not go by Elvis.” First he situates Mary Jule and then helps Virgy with her chair. I notice him studying my costume while he’s helping me with mine. “And who are you, little darlin’?”

“Ann-Margrock,” I say. When he looks confused I remind him of
The Flintstones
episode.

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll look forward to your performance.”

“Oh, I’m not performing,” I tell him, shaking my head and waving my hand in the air.

“Why, anyone dressed as Ann-Margrock must sing ‘Viva Las Vegas.’”

Alice slaps her hand on the table. “Leelee! Of course. You have to sing ‘Viva Las Vegas.’ You absolutely have to.”

Without committing myself, I shrug my shoulders. I’m considering it; but I’m not telling them.

Elvwayne says, “The words are written on the screen.”

I say, “Actually, you should be talking to Elvira over there.” I point right at Virginia. “She’s a much better singer than I am.”

“Why don’t we all do it? I swear it will be a riot.” Virginia, who knows her voice is worse than terrible, insists that this will make it all the funnier.

Alice says, “You know, we should. Absolutely. I need wine, though, and fast.” She looks around for the bar. “We’d like four wines, Elvwayne.”

“Drinking is not allowed in this tent,” he says.

“What! You mean those people get up there and sing stone-cold sober?”

“I don’t know about that,” he says and opens his cape to show us his flask. “But as for me, I’m never unprepared.”