In my dreams, I was the King.
Forty-five years ago today, Elvis Presley died a death unbefitting perhaps the greatest performer of our time. The King of Rock and Roll was found unconscious near the toilet on the master bathroom floor at Graceland — Elvis’ legendary Memphis, Tenn., home. He was pronounced dead at Baptist Memorial Hospital at 3:30 p.m.
I was 13 years old when a heart attack ended Elvis’ life at the much-too-young age of 42.
Sadly, doctors said Elvis’ death was likely brought on by his addiction to prescription drugs.
By the time Elvis died, the once lanky, handsome man without a wrinkle on his skin, was a shell of his younger self. Elvis was pale, overweight, and slept all day. His gyrations — which once sent women young and old into an all-out frenzy and caused network television executives to insist Elvis not be filmed below the waist — had turned into a twitch.
Growing up, I was infatuated with Elvis. Closing my eyes, I saw myself wearing his trademark jumpsuit with that very wide collar, and that larger-than-life belt which secured his swollen belly.
What a feeling it must have been, just walking on stage and having the ladies scream your name and lose their minds. And talk about being “All Shook Up!” If one of them was lucky enough to get a scarf from Elvis, wet with his sweat, she was indeed “Girl Happy” — and likely moved to tears.
I saw Elvis in concert twice — both times at Hirsch Coliseum. I remember in one performance, he wore a white jumpsuit with a gold belt. The other time, his jumpsuit was light blue, with a white belt. I wasn’t sitting close enough to get peppered with his sweat, but I was close enough to hear the range of his voice — from the opening, upbeat “C.C. Rider” to the closing, passionate “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Elvis’ voice remained strong until his last concert at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis on June 26, 1977.
Just 20 days later the King, hopefully, met the real King.
I once had an Elvis-themed brush with greatness. My mom, dad and I took a summer trip to Gatlinburg, Tenn. On the way back, I wanted us to drive by Graceland. So, we stopped at a gas station, filled ‘er up, and my dad asked someone if they could give us directions.
A middle-aged man said “Yes”. He was on his way to Graceland and offered for us to follow him. Then, my dad asked, “Why are you going to Graceland?” The man answered, “I’m Vernon, Elvis’ father. I live there.”
We had “Suspicious Minds,” until the car in front of us drove through the white gates decorated with black musical notes. Holy peanut butter and banana sandwiches! There we were, right in front of Elvis’ home. I was as stunned as that Hound Dog to which Elvis sang on the Ed Sullivan Show.
Oh, what it must be like to be the King — known the world over by your first name, living in what was then considered a mansion behind gates, and having people standing across the street — hoping to get a glimpse of a larger-than-life figure.
The first night I ever stayed awake the entire night was August 16, 1977. Earlier that day, news came that Elvis was gone. I could not sleep. I remember a vertical, blue and silver radio on the nightstand to my right. All night long, I twisted the dial ever so carefully, trying to pick up stations playing Elvis’ music non-stop.
Two days later, I was glued to the evening network news, mesmerized by the video. A white hearse led a long procession from the Memphis Funeral Home to Forest Hill Cemetery, where Elvis’ body was buried before eventually being relocated to Graceland. Thousands of people lined the streets — weeping as if they had just lost a loved one.
In fact, they had.
Many years ago, I won an Elvis impersonator contest. I also lip-synced an Elvis song on live, local television. I live in a gated subdivision. All of that is as close as I will get to being Elvis.
But almost 57 years old, I still dream of being the King.
Contact Tony at SBJTonyT@gmail.com