Elvis Presley Blues

The day that he died I was just about entering fourth grade, nine going on ten years old. I was riding seatbelt-less in my mom's brown Chevy Malibu station wagon on the way back from a school clothes shopping trip when we heard about it on the radio. I remember feeling silly for crying, embarrassed that my cousin had to see me. I climbed over the seat to put my head on my mom's lap.

I know all the clothes I bought that year: navy floral cords, polyester "Levis" that mysteriously never faded, an orange t-shirt with navy top-stitching in the shape of a sun, and a blue nylon jacket that just wasn't cool like the satin ones that everyone else had; the ones that looked like you were in Grease. I wore Birkenstocks and desert boots and had a Dorothy Hamill. It was the year I gave up wearing homemade clothes.
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I always thought my dad looked like Elvis. He was a rocker, *not* a mod. He used Brylcreem on his black hair and knew a lot about cars. He smelled like solvent and grease — both, the car and hair variety. I used to listen to my mail-order Elvis record and think that he was my dad, or maybe vice versa. My dad would sing Elvis songs like Elvis. It all blended together.

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Dead Elvis has been a part of my life, too. I've made a couple different prints of skeleton Elvis, also known as, Skelvis. A friend made me a paper maché Skelvis with removable guitar. When my sister and I lived with another set of sisters, back in the red house with the green kitchen, we dressed as Dead Elvises for Halloween. We carved huge pompadours out of foam blocks with an electric knife. I went for the 50,000,000- Fans-Can't-Be-Wrong Elvis. Lacking the funds for a $10,000 gold lamé Nudie, I decided to spray adhesive glitter to a suit instead. Some of the glitter stayed on the suit, but a large amount ended up in my car, my bed, and my eyes. Metallic tears were shed that night. Actually, it was more like shred.

Please, do *not* try this at home.

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