Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (28 page)

He knew deep in his heart that his mama just feared for
him out in that big, funky, weird world. She grieved for
him
so. And it killed
her. He knew that. In some ways she was
right. It was way more dangerous out there than he had
thought.
But
it was dangerous in here, too, Mama,
he
told her
for the hundredth time. He talked
to her sometimes, yeah, but
it was like talkin' to a dead twin. Kinda
natural, after all, to
talk
to someone who was that close for that long. You'd think
people could understand his losses. Uncles and aunts and cousins dyin'
left and right. He always said
please
and
thank
you,
like she taught him, and
sir
and
ma'am.
These were words
of respect, and you got to respect other people no
matter who
you are. Or were.

Ma'am
is just Mama moved around.

The
King sighed. Mama had moved around plenty in her
lifetime. From Mississippi to Memphis, Tennessee. From one mean little
house to another. There was no phone or running
water in the house where
he was born and Jesse Garon had
died, or
maybe had been born dead. He wasn't sure which. He
just knew that he
sometimes could hear Jesse's voice, so far
away
it sometimes seemed inside himself. He had a lot more
inside himself
than anyone gave him credit for, even when they were heaping praise or blame on
him.

There were many times when he got tired of it all, when
the music seemed the farthest thing from the center of his
life.

First they couldn't say enough good things about him.
Then
they couldn't say enough bad. He just
never really got taken seriously. They even made fun of his fans. And it was
worst after his ... collapse, when he had to leave his world and disappear.

Then
all the books came out saying how strange he had been, from what he ate to how
he slept with girls to how he played, even his spiritual aspirations. He was
the butt of the whole world. And they never saw, never could or would see
that everything he did, everything he became, came
about because of the life he lived, because his fans loved him so much they
could have almost torn him apart. And, in the end, maybe
they had.

But
they were keepin' the legend alive now, for good
or
ill.
Whether he wanted
to get up, get dressed up, and go out and
do it again, or not. Whether
he could carry around this ole body anymore, or not.

They
kept him movin', that's the truth.

The
King got up from the bed, went to the wall of closetsand began sliding mirrors
away from his own image, until he confronted racks of pale ghosts: an endless
row of empty, glittering jumpsuits.

Which
one tonight? Which one was fit for a King?
Which one was fit for a King to go out and die in?

Chapter 28

Don't
Be Cruel (to a Heart That's True)

(Elvis fell in love with this 1955 Otis Blackwell
song; it was the first of three of his recordings
that were number one on all three charts:
country, pop, and
rhythm and blues)

Matt was beginning to hate
his new job.

Every Midnight Hour was now a suspense show:
Would
"Elvis" call or not? And when?
Matt
couldn't help bracing himself for each new
caller, breathing relief when it was just some ordinary
person on the line, yet feeling a frisson of
disappoint
ment deep within. Was he
becoming hooked on celebrity
too? Or was something else going on here?
He understood that he had a cohost now. A ghost
cohost.
Everyone in the studio mimicked his own cool excitement. Pros under pressure,
loving and hating it. All
performance was a
two-edged sword that way, and El
vis's
weapon of choice had been particularly sharp be
cause of his extreme fame
and fans.

Matt now kept a cheat sheet
in front of him. A list of
questions for
Elvis, with names attached. His fingertips
spun it on the tabletop. This move turned the counseling
game into a quiz show. How could he claim any pre
tenses to serious counseling when his client had to
play
games to prove he was who he
implied he was? Of
course, Elvis had
always loved games, arrested adoles
cent
that he was. Still, Matt's ministerial past demanded
that he do more
than play media games. Was this bizarre
charade
damaging or helping the man who called on him
for help? Maybe, Matt hoped and prayed, exposing El
vis's dysfunctionalism via a voice in the night
would
help everybody: the caller, Matt himself, the audience. Everybody,
of course, except the dead man talking.

Poor Elvis! The weight of his family history and his fame
had become as massive and ungainly as his dying
body. Elvis had stood on a slippery mountain of uppers
and downers, thousands of pills, and ultimately hypoder
mic
injections, a year. His favorite reading was books on
spirituality and medical textbooks. He knew the
Physi
cian's Desk Reference
better than most doctors; armed
with
erroneous authority, he hooked his entourage on the
same pharmaceutical seesaw of manic depression that he
rode.

Another
call was waiting.

Matt
punched the button to release a voice. It took a
heart-stopping moment to realize it wasn't the one he
expected
every time he answered.

By then, the caller was well launched, eerily echoing
his
conscience.

“
—you've got a nerve. Playing with the reputation
of
a dead man. I hope all the Elvis
fans out there get to
gether and protest. Can't you do something on your
own, without riding on a dead man's coattails? Elvis means
something to a lot of people, and this cheap radio
trick
doesn't fool us, no, sir. You oughta be shot."

“
Wait a minute. We just take the calls that come
in,
like yours."

“
Yeah, and some of 'em are
put-up jobs. Come on!
This actor you've hired is so cheesy, my twelve-year-
old kid could do a better Elvis imitation. And
don't think
we all don't know that a
bunch of these imitator guys
are in
town for the Kingdome opening. Hell, we Elvis
fans just might boycott that big opening—how'd you
like that, Kingdome people?—if you don't cut off
this
corny gimmick with that phony
Elvis. Leave the man to
rest in peace. Show a little respect. Get a
life!”

Matt gave Leticia a stunned look through the glass.
She was as shocked as he. But this was a show, and it
must
go on.

“
Obviously," Matt commented into the
foam-headed
mike that had begun to
feel like a friend, and maybe an
only
friend, "this caller is more in the mood for giving
advice than
asking for it.”

Another call. "I've been listening all week, and
that
last guy is right.
That Elvis thing is taking the air time
away from normal people. We got problems with bills
and
kids and all sorts of things superstars wouldn't know
anything about. I never liked Elvis when he was alive,
and I don't
want to hear about him, or from him, now."

“
Believe it or not," Matt answered wryly,
"Elvis grew
up in a house—several houses, because the family was so
poor they kept losing places—that was full
of problems
like bills and yelling parents, just like everybody else."

“
Yeah, but he ended up with money to burn. That's
sure
not like everybody else."

“
He ended up with dozens of people—family and
friends who worked for him—to support, including
the
federal government, which is all
of us, because he never
took business
deductions. For most of his career, he was
in the ninety percent tax
bracket. And he paid it, without complaint.”

That floored this caller. Matt blessed Electra's supply
of
Elvis tomes.

“
I love Elvis," came a faded, female voice
next. "I'll
take every chance I
can get to see or hear him again,
even if he's not real. You keep
talking to that man, Mr.

Midnight. He seems like he could use a friend. Elvis
always
had more friends than he knew."

“
Oh, I think he knew. That's why he was able to per
form when he was really ill. He kept going despite
a lot of physical problems, and enough psychotropic drugs to
stop an
elephant."

“Psycho-what?"

“Heavy
mood-altering medications."

“
They all came from doctor's prescriptions, didn't
they?"

“Yes,
but Elvis manipulated the prescriptions. He had feel-good doctors in L.A. who
would write him what he wanted."

“
Elvis wasn't the first one. Look at Judy Garland. I
took diet pills when I was in high
school, back in
the . . . well, back
when Elvis was doing it. Our family
doctor
gave 'em to me, these pink-and-white capsules.
Made my mind race, made me think so much, think
about all the things I was going to do. And I
never
wanted to eat. 'Course, I
couldn't sleep a wink for the
first
month I was on them. And, then, after I lost ten
pounds, I could sleep better, but they didn't work to stop
my
appetite anymore."

“What
did you do then?"

“Nothing.
Stopped taking them."

“
That' s the difference. Elvis and his entourage
never
let the party stop; they just
increased the dosage."
"But the pills were legal."

“They
aren't anymore."

“
Why did Elvis do it? Why didn't he just stop when
they
wore off, like I did?"

“He
came from a family with a tendency to chemical
addiction. He led an upside-down lifestyle as a per
former that was hard to maintain without artificial
en
ergy. He thought they were
harmless if a doctor
prescribed them."

“
So did we. Then. We all thought Doctor Knows
Rest
"

“
Doctors didn't understand the many faces of addic
tion. Oh, they knew morphine and heroin were bad,
but
other stuff ... And Elvis was coming into the sixties and
seventies, when a lot of people started
experimenting
with all kinds of drugs. He was a man of his time."

“
You know, that's what really bothers me. It was the
drugs. I don't understand why nobody stopped it.”

Matt shook his head, even though his caller couldn't
see gestures. "You can't stop a person who's addicted
to drugs. It's truly the hardest thing
in life to overcome.
It's
the last thing in life that person has, and so often the only exit from
addiction is death. Elvis may have
been a
superstar, but when it came to drugs, he had no
edge over anybody else. And that's sad, no matter who
it
happens to."

“
I'm just so glad I was smart enough to quit taking
diet pills all those years ago." Her voice paused. A deep, trembling
sigh. "I'm still fat, though."

“You're
still here," he said gently.

The commercial break gave Matt time to contemplate
his unexpected—unwanted—new role as an Elvis apol
ogist.
From a lifestyle point of view, the man had been everything he wasn't.