Elvis Has Left the Building

Standard

IMG_3016People think I’m playing when I tell them about my up-close and personal relationship with Elvis. Its tiresome, but I press on, because Elvis is a true anthropological event, and for reasons unclear to me, I live in a state of deep, cheerful immersion in the zeitgeist. I breathe the popular culture, fascinated by all of it, particularly the soundtrack, and having survived the breakup of the Beatles in my very formative years, that’s saying something.

Elvis was in the building, and so was I, July 1975, the New Haven Coliseum. While it wasn’t my idea exactly, it seemed sort of kitschy cool to go see him, so we did. I was in a uniquely superior moment of my life, 17, just graduated from high school and pretty certain about pretty much everything. I knew way more then than I ever have since. And Elvis, he was all white-spangled jump suit and sweat-drenched red silk scarves, and women as old as my Grandma Sally were fainting in his presence. He was lean and loose-limbed and swivel-sexy, wearing crazy-ass white reptilian cowboy boots and that sublimely chiseled face. Elvis of the pouty lower lip, the dimpled grin, the hard line of man-chin and, of course, that voice. Smoking hot honey, molten, and I am serious when I say so. He was impossibly old–40– but I felt him straightaway, and though we were in the $10 seats, I was sure he felt me, too. That was one of Elvis’s gifts, his ability to emit a personal, pheromone-driven connection so strong that every girl-child and woman in the house was certain his gaze was laser pointing directly at her. It was really something. Most unexpected, but it is the truth.

Elvis was in that same building again, July1976, and while it wasn’t my idea exactly to repeat the adventure, I was definitely down for another spin of that album. A lot can happen in a year. I had just completed a wretched first year of college, and came home depressed and anxious and utterly unable to locate myself. Elvis sounded like a good place to start. And he was all blue-spangled jump suit and sweaty white silk scarves, and bloated to excess like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. A terrible parody of himself, that in some weird way mirrored my own bewilderment in a world that, just a year prior, had been resting securely in the palm of my dominant left hand. And he was stoned as fuck, careening around the stage, mumbling that he couldn’t help falling in burning love with me, endlessly elevating his buzz till he couldn’t remember any of the words. It was horrible to watch, and I am serious when I say so. Even from the $12.50 seats it was extravagantly evident that the magic had departed.

I came home ruined and sobbed for both of us. My Elvis was gone, and I could feel his confusion, watching him stumble around in a stupor, in a world where one short year prior he was The King. It was humbling yet strangely inspiring. Somehow, I emerged from that summer almost whole, found a path, and took a tentative first step in understanding that I, at 18, knew next to nothing.

Elvis left the building soon after. He died. And I mourned, because something epic had exhausted its nine lives in just 42 years. It would not come round again. And though I knew very little, I knew it was a tragedy that would pain me always, and it has.

I would brush up against Elvis once more, March 1997, now 39, and starting to know a little bit about a couple of things. Through no achievement of my own, I found myself in LA at the Academy Awards. At the Governor’s Ball, which is an obscene glut of excess, I found myself seated next to a woman who was reportedly among Elvis’ last loves. An elegant blonde, she was cool and warm and remote all at once. It was said she was living with Elvis shortly before he checked out of Graceland, and who knows? Maybe she escorted him out of the building herself. No one mentioned Elvis; no one dared. He was so present, so absent, and it was so reminiscent of the shit show I had witnessed back in the day. Having learned a few things by then, I slipped away to a gilded bathroom stall and wept.

About Allison B. Friedman

Allison B. Friedman, known to her friends as Allie, submitted her first manuscript to Doubleday when she was five years old. Sadly, it was rejected, but she did receive a personal note from an editor encouraging her to keep writing—so she did. Writing, like breathing, is essential for Allie, who has joyfully produced award-winning short fiction, prose poetry, years and years of newspaper and magazine columns, and original content for a weekly radio show called “The Therapy Sisters.” Allie’s work has been featured in a number of small literary presses, including the literary journal Beanskeeper, and she was a winner of the Poughkeepsie Journal’s “Tailspinners” short story contest. An active member of the Wallkill Valley Writers community, Allie has published her work in the group’s anthology. Her short story, “Sahara Affair,” was born in the Wallkill Valley Writers Workshop, and was published in 2013’s award-winning anthology, “Slant of Light: Contemporary Women Writers of the Hudson Valley.” A practicing psychotherapist, Allie wrote a newspaper column, oxymoronically entitled “Understanding Adolescence” and a monthly column about wellness in “Living and Being” magazine for a number of years. The voyeuristic observation of the intricacies of the human experience is endlessly fascinating to her. She has been a frequent contributor to a number of professional websites, including the Parent Resource Network, where Allie served as a staff writer and was on-call for the website’s “Ask the Expert” feature. Allie was honored to deliver a keynote address at the annual conference of the National Association of Social Workers on the subject of utilizing creativity in social work practice. Allie’s love of writing led to the creation of a therapeutic writing curriculum, which has been well received by her clients. Allie lives in New Paltz, NY with her wonderful husband and, at any given moment, some or all of their collective seven children. She wouldn’t know an empty nest if she was sitting in one. Current projects include a the completion of a novel which she swears will not defeat her, building a blog, and spending as much time as possible with her newly minted granddaughter!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s