To me, they are the most frightening three words in the English language: Elvis impersonator performing. I have avoided that hideous sight all my life. Oh, there have been close calls. I have been in the same building. I even heard the growl of "Hunka hunka burnin' love..." in the distance, but like a rat sensing a ship's impending doom, I have always scurried away quickly enough to avoid having to vomit or suffer a stroke.
I know, that seems a bit harsh. But you’re not me. You don’t know how the neurons fire in my head: those odd connections that my emotional, intellectual and subconscious scars have formed over the years. My brain is a screwed up series of causes and effects. I do stupid things that I will never be able to explain to social workers, judges or confused relatives.
I'll try (just this once) to figure out my damage -- if only so you will understand my pain. I achieved musical consciousness in the seventies. And Elvis in the seventies was a frightening thing. No really. Don't give me that crap. Look at that bloated, sweaty thing on stage in a white jump suit. Judy Garland could claim to be cooler as a mess -- an amalgam of glamour and damage. Not Elvis. He was one-hundred-percent corn-fed American damage. I was just a little kid and he scared me. I mean REALLY scared me -- you know, the way clowns terrified the normal kids. If I wasn't good, I'd grow up to be like Elvis. I have always thought of Vegas as hell where bad entertainers go to die. Think Celine Dion. Think Cher.
Even scarier, for a music lover in embryo form, was that there were millions of Elvii all over the place (those damn impersonators -- they were be-jumpsuited, glitter-encrusted, bad-rock Santas (but these freaks were out year round), those black velvet graven images hanging for sale at gas stations with a eerie Christ like devotion.) And I honestly don't recall the day Elvis died. Odd, I was old enough. Dang, I recall Karen Carpenter's death, when Pee Wee Herman was caught in that theater... But Elvis croaking, nope. He died on the toilet for our sins, right? If we have Christ on the cross, shouldn't we have pendants of Elvis dead on the toilet being worn by the true believers? That would be cool. Tongue sticking out, head cocked to one side.
As you can see, this whole Elvis thing is an emotional Grand canyon gaping in my subconscious. So imagine my horror today, if you will. I sat down next to Kerry in our city's largest venue. It was National Cancer Survivors Day and Kerry wanted me to be there for her. I didn't hesitate. The theme this year was the Fifties. (I should have seen this coming, right?) Kerry picked up her place mat and read the schedule: "Hey, Vincent -- Elvis impersonator performing!"
Oh, no! Not THAT! But maybe she'd want to leave early. There might still be a chance. Then I heard a chilling announcement: "The door prizes will be given out AFTER Elvis performs." The bastards!! Kerry didn't win anything last year and had her heart set on a big honking basket of Jack Daniels and Dark Chocolate.
We ate, we chatted, I went with Kerry to have her picture taken with the hundreds of other cancer survivors. It was hard getting back to our seats. So many people and we were at the front of the venue. I froze as an old childhood fear sauntered towards Kerry. The crowd parted in the creepiest fashion, and surprisingly didn't toss down palms at his feet -- or even White Castle hamburgers.
I fell back, Kerry turned in puzzlement. "Watch out!" I muttered, as I pointed at the thing in the white leather jumpsuit she was about to bump into. Turning, her face lit up like a child seeing Santa or the Messiah -- or a clown. (Kerry is fond of circuses, cotton candy and clowns -- so she was dazzled by this sideshow attraction.)
Elvis jumped up on stage and launched into "Hunka hunka burnin' love..." Our table was right next to him. He had that whole Elvis-the-pelvis thing going. I felt the crushing weight of my flaming heterosexuality rise up as he thrust toward me. This was even worse that I thought. I was not feeling at all well. Through a haze of bad childhood memories, the sugar high from three pieces of coconut cake, and an intense sexual unease, I heard Kerry ask, "Are you gonna be okay?" Nope, I would never be okay again.
I nodded and gave a dorky fake smile. I knew how much winning a door prize meant to Kerry. I loved her that much. I'd tough it out. I closed my eyes and began counting.
Elvis jumped off stage and worked the crowd. A new fear gripped me. "Lord," I began to pray, "don't have it stop in front of my table. Don't make me shake its sweaty hand." I might get a virus that would make me fall asleep. When I awoke, I would love Elvis, normal people and deer hunting.
Senior citizens pushed away their walkers, grabbed each other and danced. All sense was gone. We were through the looking glass or in a David Lynch film. I expected to look over and see Sting prancing around in a leather thong next. Then it hit me. These ancient dancers were screaming teenagers when Elvis was in his hay day. The Elvis impersonator looked at one of the elderly ladies and smiled, "Hey, darling... my scarf matches your eyes."
He undid if from his neck and put it around hers. She beamed -- she was a teenager again. I heard myself whisper, "Awww..." In recent weeks, I had despaired that I would never look at a singer again and get week in the knees. My girlish fainting days were through. As the woman smiled, I realized that I may have judged a lot of things too harshly. He was bringing so much joy. It wasn't about him. What he was doing wasn't fake, not at all. It was as real as Amanda Palmer and unshaven arm pits.
He (real name Brad Boice) launched into an amazing version of "Johnny B. Goode." And than I remembered one Elvis song that I always loved -- but I couldn't recall the name or even the lyrics, just the realness of it. I struggled to remember. Brad sang his last song (dedicated to all the cancer survivors in the room): "Ta---ake my hand, take my whole life too. For I can't help falling in love with you..."
Oh yeah, that was it. I slipped my hand into Kerry's and smirked, the dopey way I do. She sighed. I got weak in the knees. One last thing, Kerry didn't win a damn thing -- again. But I didn’t go away empty handed.
"Can’t Help Falling In Love"
(words & music by george weiss - hugo peretti - luigi creatore)
Wise men say only fools rush in
But I can't help falling in love with you
Shall I stay
Would it be a sin
If I can't help falling in love with you
Like a river flows surely to the sea
Darling so it goes
Some things are meant to be
Take my hand, take my whole life too
For I can't help falling in love with you
Like a river flows surely to the sea
Darling so it goes
Some things are meant to be
Take my hand, take my whole life too
For I can't help falling in love with you
For I can't help falling in love with you
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