THE NIGHT I MET ELVIS

I had just turned eighteen one month to the day before Thanksgiving. It was 1957, the last age of innocence. I was a freshman attending the University of Alabama and had been invited to share the holiday with my roommate Harriet Goldstein along with my high school classmate, (also my roommate), Judi Gross. Harriett lived in Memphis; Judi and I were from Miami Beach. My parents were not able to afford for me to come home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, so I opted to take the invitation to visit Harriet’s home for the Thanksgiving holiday. Harriet invited us to a Thanksgiving party sponsored by her synagogue. I brought my favorite cocktail dress with three horsehair crinolines, a brasalette and a white fox shrug my parents had bought me for my high school graduation. The shrug had been the only thing I wanted since I saw Elizabeth Taylor wearing one in a movie.

We were poor. I lived in South Beach before it became an international resort. Everyone who lived in South Beach in the 50’s wasBottom of Form

poor. Both my parents worked hard to buy me such a lavish gift, especially for a teenager; nevertheless, they wanted to surprise me. I had been a good student, the homecoming princess of my high school, Miami Beach Senior High, and had played the accordion, which I despised, just to please my father. In exchange, the white fox shrug was my reward.

When I entered the synagogue wearing the Swiss dotted cocktail dress, (Swiss Dot, is a sheer cotton fabric embellished with small dots). and the 3 horse hair crinolines donned with the shrug, silence fell upon the room. I guess I stood out like a sore thumb because no one else in the room was dressed like me. Looking back, I think Memphis was about 30 years behind fashion than Miami Beach. Although six hours away from Memphis, Dolly Parton was only ten years old, so glamor had not yet shown itself.

My long dark hair cascaded down my shoulders. I felt conspicuous, however, very glamorous and loved the attention. In the room unbeknownst to Judi and I were two young guys scouting women for Elvis. He had just returned from the service, and was already a super star. Unable to go out and meet girls himself, he had his buddies, George Klein and Alan Fordyce scout them out. George was a disc jockey that spoke in rhyme and Alan was the son of a well-known Memphis developer; both were Jewish.

The guys approached Judi and me. They were friendly and asked if we wanted to go for a ride after the party or to cut out early. Bored with the date Harriet had arranged for me, I jumped at the offer along with Judi. We left with them on the way back to Harriet’s home to change into something more casual. I put on my red corduroy pedal pushers and a black turtleneck jersey. I refreshed my lipstick and Judi and I slipped out of the house without anyone noticing.

After about a half an hour driving, I asked the guys where we were going.

“You’ll see. We’re almost there.”

I relaxed and gave it no thought. Remember, it was 1957 and the world was still innocent; no muggings or rapes had I ever encountered or heard about. After another 10 or 15 minutes passed, I asked again,

“Hey guys, where are we going and when will we get there? We’ve been driving for almost an hour.”

“Stay tuned, we’ll be there soon”, George replied in rhyme.

A few moments later we arrived at the gates of Graceland. I saw the guitars, musical notes and other melodic objects that garnished the gates to the entrance, but my mind could not compute that I was arriving at the home of Elvis Presley.

“Do you know where you are ladies?” Alan asked.

Judi and I looked at one another quizzically., “No idea. Where are we?” I asked.

Before he responded, Alan flashed the headlights a few times and the gates opened wide to allow us entry. We traveled up a long driveway reaching a large edifice with two stone lions that bracketed the walkway leading to the front porch steps with green and blue flood lights projected from the ground up. There were six pillars at the top of the stairs as a gateway to the front doors. The stair case was bordered by two large planters filled with plants that reminded me of Tara from Gone with the Wind.

“Well girls, do you know where you are now?” Alan asked with a grin while George smiled accompanied by another rhyming response. “If you don’t, we will show, and in time, you will know”. To say the least both Judi and I were perplexed with a mixture of wonder and curiosity. Neither of us could ever imagine that we were at Graceland.

“The library”? I responded with uncertainty. Alan and George burst into laughter, but reminded us that soon we would know where we were. The mystery prevailed with no recognition of where we were or what we were about to see.

I had never seen a mansion that size in my life. I lived in a one- bedroom apartment, sharing a room with my younger brother until I went to college. Although I had seen many mansions in Miami Beach, I had never been as close to one like this one. Miami Beach was bursting with impressive mansions along many streets like Pine Tree Drive, Allison Island, LaGorce Dr. North Bay Road and more. I lived in South Beach, in an apartment building built in the 1930’s on first and Jefferson, an address that always brought shame when asked where I lived by my peers, most of whom lived above Lincoln Road, the perennial “Mason Dixon” line of Miami Beach. Everyone who lived north of Lincoln Road came from wealth. Everyone living south, were poor. The class distinction was palpable and I hated when I was asked where I lived. Shame filled my limbic brain, and I refused to say 1st and Jefferson, because first street was next to the projects which housed the poorest of residents in the city. I would say, “second and Jefferson” as a way of protecting my fragile ego, because the apartment building was closer to 2^nd street than 1st. I carried that shame all through high school and felt a fear of scarcity all my life.

“Let’s go look at the car parked in the driveway”, Alan said. George responded with another rhyming sentence. “You might get it right when you see this sight.”

Still no connection. I could never imagine that I, Joni Gilbert, could ever be in the home of Elvis Presley. I was one of those millions of teenagers that screamed their heads off in front of the television set, writhing with adolescence sexuality, watching Elvis gyrate his hips while singing “Blue Suede Shoes on the Ed Sullivan show. He was making history that would become a legend and legacy to rock and roll. My parents tried to convince themselves that it was a passing fancy and would move on like polio or a pandemic. Elvis took us out of the Victorian Age into the Sexual Revolution. He started a movement and changed the world; not just with music, but with giving us permission to express ourselves like never before. Once the genie was out of the bottle, there was no returning.

Alan opened the passenger door of an impressive Cadillac that looked more like a limousine. There were large letters, EP monogramed on a mouton rug. I remained clueless. The Cadillac stood proud like a modern-day carriage waiting for a king to arrive. The king of rock n’ roll was living in the estate just a few yards behind. About JOAN E. CHILDS, LCSW

To be continued! Stay tuned! Next blog! Next month!