The Day Elvis Died
Saturday, August 16, 2008 at 12:44AM 
It was the summer of '77 and I was twenty, working a throwaway job to earn a few shekels between my junior and senior years of college. I didn't drive yet and even if I had, I didn't own a car. I didn't have a boyfriend either. Stuck like a one-legged mosquito decorating a molasses spill in the cloying gardenia-scented heat and humidity of an Atlanta August, I boarded public transportation at eight thirty each morning on North Druid Hills Road where I occupied an apartment with my mother. I rode to Lenox Square on Peachtree because I sold footwear at a freestanding Pix shoe store across the street from the shopping center.
My daily routine was to walk from the spot in the Lenox Square parking lot where the bus disgorged its passengers over to an open-air portion of the upscale mall. I'd head for Walgreens and enjoy a big Southern breakfast of eggs over medium, grits, bacon, hashbrowns, toast, and several cups of fresh, hot coffee. If someone had left a newspaper in the booth, I'd read the funnies and attempt to solve the Jumble. If there was no paper I'd read a chapter in my library book. By then it would be nearly ten o'clock, time to walk across Peachtree and punch in at Pix.
How quaint the short-lived illusions of youth! How swiftly the dancing clear freshets of innocence become roiling murky rivers of experience.
I remember what I was wearing on Tuesday, August 16th: a midi-length ash-pink polyester gabardine skirt that buttoned all the way up the front, bought on sale at Casual Corner, paired with a white short-sleeved sweater that our jaded forty-something assistant manager maintained I "filled out real good." I recall that in the late afternoon, near quitting time, I was fiddling with merchandise in the back left corner of the store where the size nines segued into the size tens, standing right smack underneath the speaker that a radio station came out of. (All day we listened to a quasi-conservative cross between elevator music and pablum rock. Tepid tunes. No hard stuff and certainly no rockabilly; at least half our customers were genteel blue-haired ladies. No Elvis.)
By the way I rarely if ever gave up a brain cell to Elvis Presley. To people of my generation Elvis was as much a part of the landscape as the Vietnam War, Watergate, bell bottoms, the energy crisis, and the hippie subculture. Myself, I had been a diehard Neil Diamond fan since I was fourteen. Elvis was not on my musical radar. But who even marginally aware of their surroundings in the '60s and '70s was entirely immune to the multitalented, raven-haired Elvis Aaron Presley -- now brooding, now playful, generous to a fault, a cocktail of raw sexuality blended with holiness religion -- and his unorthodox romantic relationship with Priscilla Beaulieu, the quintessential beehived and bedroom-eyed child bride? Elvis the legend, not to mention his artistic repertoire, had saturated the atmosphere like oxygen. He was ubiquitous as rain and the roses it fell on.
But as I stood biding my time arranging shoes in their cardboard coffins on an ordinary Tuesday, wishing it was time to clock out because I had plans to spend the evening with friends, the radio announcer's voice came out of the speaker and what he said made me forget the soles and my job and my friends and our plans and for all I know, my own name. Honestly, a snapshot of that moment is framed in my mental "This Is Your Life" photo album; since that time when I think of Elvis Presley I smell shoe leather. Because what the announcer said was that Elvis, age forty-two, had been found dead on the floor at Graceland that very day. Then from the speaker over my head came the mournful Are You Lonesome Tonight and I remember that my throat closed like I was going to cry.
In the ensuing thirty-one years Elvis has become immured, lodged like a deep reservoir of unshed tears in the collective consciousness. It is as though time still cranes its lovely long neck for him, endlessly searching the horizon for his beloved and iconic form to reappear. Some say he never left at all. In reality he lost his way, became adipose and drug-addled, ending up a pathetic parody of himself before perishing alone and untimely. But in dreams he remains the virile symbol of a world in flux, the wholesome yet incendiary standardbearer of change as cataclysmic as it was inevitable.
I understood none of this when I was twenty. Forty-two might as well have been eighty; surely at such an advanced age one's life was over anyway. I did the math and realized I would turn forty-two in 1999 ... almost 2000. In 1977 to speak that year-number summoned images of a science fiction movie. It could have no impact upon what I was convinced would be my own exceptional foray through a charmed and age-exempt existence. How quaint the short-lived illusions of youth! How swiftly the dancing clear freshets of innocence become roiling murky rivers of experience.
The only Elvis album I have ever owned is none of the sexy stuff but rather, gospel hymns. I can't find it but I know it's somewhere in my 250-disc collection. When he sings of heaven I like to envision him there, young again and beautiful, pure and at peace, robed in the gauzy bliss of redemption, not broken down, sick and sad. In many ways I equate Elvis's truncated earthly journey with hazy halcyon time-drops, shimmering mirages that twinkle beguilingly at the edge of darkness when I glance in the rear-view mirror of advancing years, back toward long gone glory days. The days that came and went on silent feet before August 16th, 1977 ... the day Elvis died.
Reader Comments (17)
Ah, I remember that day too. I was between my freshman and sophomore years of college, and I was working at Burger King when a co-worker told me. She sounded really upset, and I remember wondering why because people my age didn't listen to Elvis. (Well, my 7th-grade boyfriend did but that was way in the past.)
It's very weird to think that now we are older than he ever lived to be.
Ruth, that is indeed a strange thought! And how can it have been 31 years ago that he died? Seems like yesterday.
Wow, Jenny! I remember exactly where I was the day I heard the news. My boyfriend and I had stopped at an auto parts store, he ran in while I waited in the car.(a 1968 Mustang, I might add! With air shocks even!) Anyway, when he got back to the car, I told him Elvis was found dead. Boyfriend didn't believe me until he heard it for himself. A weird day. It's funny... I wasn't a big fan of Elvis either. I mean I liked him ok, but not crazy for him. Boyfriend and I loved Neil Diamond! We had every album! Even saw him in concert twice! Only album I didn't like was Jonathan Livingston Seagull. What about you?
Darla, I didn't care for for JLS either! So lame, I couldn't believe Neil did it! My favorite albums will always be Taproot Manuscript, Stones, and Moods ... Play Me may be my fave Neil song of all time ... that and September Morn ...
I don't remember the day Elvis died. I wasn't particularly a fan of his athough I did enjoy some of his songs. I'm actually more of a fan now, and more appreciative of his talent and contribution to the development of music.
At the time, I think I was young enough to be very judgemental about his lifestyle and the way he'd let himself go. Now, I'm more compassionate and understanding of human weaknesses.
What a beautifully penned remembrance of a legend. Well done! I didn't remember how young he was when he died. It's such a shame his life ended so young. I remember Diana's death vividly, but not Elvis's.
@ Jay ... yes, I think poor Elvis was caught in a web of many circumstances beyond his control. It is a sad story and a cautionary tale.
@ Cheryl ... thanks luv, for reading. Hard to believe Diana has been gone 11 years.
I was 16, newly and secretly engaged, and working at McDonald's when I heard the news. I was sad, but I had been sad about Elvis for a long time before he died. My mom was such a huge fan, and my dad always resembled the younger Elvis, sneer and lopsided smile and charm and all. I hated seeing him become a parody of himself. I would resent the Elvis impersonators except he led the way by becoming an impersonator of himself first. Such a waste for such a sensitive, sweet, talented boy as he started out to be. However, I think all the Elvis worship is sooooo wrong, and always was. The funniest Elvis impersonation I ever saw is when a guy laid down, closed his eyes, and crossed his arms across his chest - sorry, ya'll, but Elvis did indeed die. Well-written post, tho, Jennifer.
@ Tracie ... so true, all you said. Thanks luv. And as I pointed out: I was not an Elvis fan. Far from it. Deification of any person -- celebrity or no -- outside of Jesus Christ, is wrong. This post was not intended as a tribute to Elvis but rather as a reminiscence of a memorable event in my youth.
When I was eleven, I went to my first Elvis concert in Las Vegas. I, along with my sister and cousins, were reluctantly dragged along with mom and aunts who were die-hard fans.It was incredible!
I saw him again a few years later with Mom in Los Angeles. I couldn't help but be drawn in, swept away, by his powerful voice and presence. His talent was immense.
Keli, I can't believe you saw Elvis in person! That must have been quite an experience.
Oh, no, Jennifer, no one could suppose you were deifying Elvis - the post was too well-written for such a misunderstanding. Unfortunately, I was indulging a bad habit of thinking out loud that does not translate well in blogland. Your post, by NOT idolizing him, made me think of all those who do, and always did, which I think helped destroy him. People have a disturbing habit of wanting to create idols they can then knock down, like temperamental toddlers with block towers - but so much harm is done when they do it to people. They won't let someone just be a talented singer, or whatever, and leave it at that. Anyhow, this is a very hectic day, so I better scoot. Thanks for your kind comments at my blog! I'll talk to you post-Fay.
Thanks Tracie ... I really didn't think you were accusing me of that, but I wonder sometimes if what is in my head comes out on the "paper" like I intended it to, or if I'm the only one who understands what I was trying to say! That would be my fault! Someone who read the piece said it was a "tribute" and I thought, Did they even read it? And then I wondered, does it sound like a tribute? Because that wasn't my intention at all! I know how to write a tribute and that weren't one, LOLOL! Oh well ...
Another good piece, my dear friend. I was 23 and working in the office of a pants manufacturer at the time. Our switchboard operator was a die-hard Elvis fan and took the news as you would expect. A guy we worked with there performed the same "impersonation" of Elvis that week. Hands crossed over his chest, and all. My sister, 11 years my senior and a big fan, was the reason I even knew who he was when I was in my early elementary school years. I've always liked his voice and some of his songs. My sister saw him in concert toward the end and said it was sad. Junie
Oh, I love the ice skaters, too. When I was nine, I had aspirations and even a once-a-week teacher to feed them. My mom, fearing perhaps I'd grow up to be Tonya Harding, stopped the lessons the day the teacher expressed real enthusiasm.But I still love ice skating, doing it and watching the Olympians.
Jennifer, I passed an Excellent Writer award on to you. Even if you don't post it or pass it on, meme-style, I wanted you to know.
http://www.diaryofaheretic.com/diary_of_heretic_memes/2008/08/friendship-exce.html
@ June ... I can certainly imagine what the reaction of a true fan might be to the early demise of her fixation! I shudder at the thought. What amazing memories these are.
@ Kathleen ... You would have been a lovely skater but would we then have been deprived of your lovely writing? At any rate I guess these things work out for the best. Thank you again for the undeserved but much appreciated award, which I have duly snagged and placed on display!