The Elvis Call...

She’d been placed on a 72-hour hold several times before.  Her passion for Elvis Presley was a religion, a cause she never wavered from.  Again, the speakers on each wall of the outside of her house, directed at all points of the compass, brought the Deputies.  Her neighbors, to a one, apologized and said they loved Elvis too, but …

The summer afternoon was warm; with my car windows lowered, I could her it about a quarter mile away.

… I don’t need no other love, baby it’s still you I’m dreamin’ of …

As I pulled into the driveway I got a hint of what was to come; the mailbox was a wooden shrine sporting a small oil painting on each side of Elvis.  The “flag” for mail pick-up was a small guitar. 

… so don’t be cruel, to a heart that’s true … 

The music snapped off as soon as my patrol vehicle pulled into the short driveway.  I let Dispatch know I had arrived and was waiting for my cover unit.  A stadium-sized speaker hung just below the visible eaves of the house.  The unmowed “lawn” had given way to weeds years, maybe decades, earlier.  A Volkswagen bus parked over part of the lawn was covered with bumper stickers, all Elvis related—“The King is not Dead,”  “Graceland is the real heaven”—most were titles of Elvis’ songs.  The windows were filled with old teen magazines sporting The King.  They were faded, nearly invisible, and had obviously been scotch-taped over and over again. 

When my partner arrived he explained he’d been out here on many occasions and that I was in for a real treat, referring to the inside of the house.  As my hand rose to knock on the door it opened quickly, revealing a tiny woman wearing an apron two to three sizes too big.  The entire front of the apron was a color picture of The King’s face, his dimples deep in a large smile and his greased hair shiny black below the small woman’s frown.  Before I could introduce myself she back-peddled and sunk into a large pillowed couch.  She picked up several CDs and held them to her chest.  My partner tapped my shoulder and edged his chin toward the wall on my left.  The crucifix looked like every other I’d ever seen, save for the Elvis head and the tiny guitar that hung around his neck, still swaying a bit from the vacuum the closing door made. 

“Rita, I thought you promised not to use the outside speakers.”  My partner’s voice was sharp and threatening; the warning hung in the silence and made her stare down at her knees. 

I raised a finger in the direction of my partner.  I had arrived first, so no matter how this had been handled or not handled before, this visit would be on my direction.  I slowly stared around the living room.  Decades of devotion were everywhere. The embroidered rug of Graceland took up nearly half the floor space in the living room.   The lampshade was a depiction of Elvis singing, his band behind him; they all looked like they were singing.  The drapes were orange and filled with different lines from his songs.  Small Elvis mementos were in every available space or stood on every flat surface.  Little Elvises were everywhere you looked.  He was framed on the wall or carved or embossed on tin or wood.  There wasn’t room for a 5 x 7 picture on any of the walls. A shelf held videotapes of all his movies and next to them were DVDs.  From what I could see into the kitchen it continued there too.  Place mats, salt and pepper shakers, little Elvises ready to tip over and spill their contents.  I had never seen anything like it.  The house was a shrine and she was the keeper of the shrine. 

“Are you going to put me in the hospital again?”  The small voice wasn’t intimidated or shy, more annoyed than anything else.  She had followed my gaze as my head rotated with amazement around the room.  She talked to me now, ignoring my partner and his tapping foot.

“I don’t know,” I replied.  “Are you sick?  Do you want to hurt yourself?” 

She lowered her head and spoke to floor, ever so slightly shaking her head. 

“You always ask me that, and then you always take me away in an ambulance, so it doesn’t matter what I say.”

I frowned and nodded my head in reply to her response and finally said, “It matters to me …”

I looked at my partner, who shrugged and shook his head.  So that’s how it was, no matter what, damn the criteria, she was “going.”

She looked up with an expression of tired skepticism and said,  “Right.”

I had to admit I was never an Elvis Presley fan.  Orbison was like opera, and Jerry Lee Lewis moved my knees like no other.  The only song I ever really enjoyed from the first time I heard it in the mid ‘70s to this very minute was “U.S. Male.”  It was a combination of story and rock, threat and promise.  The music just made the words fact and the beat emphasized everything.  You couldn’t help but nod your head in agreement—Elvis was telling this guy not to mess with his girl, and everyone who was ever jealous or had a girl spirited away by another knew how to dance to the words.

The smile that came to me as I was playing the song in my head and then absently humming it-she squinted her eyes and then threw them wide open; she placed the CDs on her lap and opened her palm to the ceiling.  I knew all words by heart.  I sang along with the song a hundred times.

“You have “U.S. Male”?  I could see my partner jerk a bit, feel him staring at me.

“ Yes, I have ‘U.S. Male.’  I have every song he ever sang.  I know every song, every line.  I know when the song came out and where it landed on the top 50.  I have ‘U.S. Male.’  He sang it first in 1974; it was written by Jerry Reed.”

My smile was one of admiration, not mocking.  I asked if she could play it for me.  She hesitated at first but then prodded by a big “please” from me, she rose, went over to the CD player, kneeled and began flipping through a black case with a black-and-white autographed picture of Elvis.

She rose and put the CD in the player.  She turned around and asked,  “Why do want me play this?”

“It’s my favorite song,” I replied, “and I haven’t heard it in a long time.  Do you mind?”

The first part of the song came on.  Elvis explains why he’s a U.S. Male, being born in a Mississippi town on a Sunday morn.

Something just set me off when the first lines came out.  Now, no self-respecting baby-boomer couldn’t “swing it” like Elvis—it was like … like manners.   You just grew up with it.  Mimicking Elvis’ hip gyrations was a ritual practiced about as often as the Pledge of Allegiance.  I couldn’t help it, and even if I could have, I had earned the right ‘cause I got to the call first to try something a little … different.

I flipped my collar up,  my left arm rose parallel to the floor,  the right side of my mouth retracted into that thing he did with his lip and my head sunk down so my chin rested on the left side of my collar bone.  The knees gave way as I rocked them left and right and I mimicked The King as I had done to this song so many times as a young man, only now my duty belt and all its twenty pounds of this and that retarded my performance.  I took out a pepper spray vial and used it like a microphone.

… now it’s a matter of fact, buddy, and you know it well, so I just call myself the U.S. Male,  that’s M-A-L-E, son. That’s me!

I signaled to her to increase the volume and pointed her back to the couch. I continued.

Now I said all that to say all this, I’ve been watching the way you been watching my miss …

My partner retreated to the door with arms folded and leaned back, afraid to make eye contact with me.  That was just fine with me.  This performance wasn’t for him. 

For last three weeks you been hot on her trail, you kinda upsettin’ this U.S. Male,  you touch her once with your greasy hands, I’m gonna stretch your neck like a long rubber band …

She was smiling now, shaking her head.  The years were dropping off her face; her hands clasped beneath her chin clapped and she rolled her eyes at my dark blue hip gyrations. 

She’s wearing a ring that I bought on sale, and that makes her the property of this U.S. Male …

She fell in perfectly with every chorus; I could hear her small voice next to mine.

You better not mess with the U.S. Male, my friend; the U.S. Male gets mad, he’s gonna do you in.  You know what’s good for yourself, son, you better find somebody else, son; don’t tamper with property of the U.S. Male.

When I glanced over to my partner I could see a smile in his eyes and the toe-tap was unmistakable.  But he turned to stone again just as fast.  Elvis was long dead when he was born, and besides, Deputies don’t dance—at least not on duty!

Through the rain and the heat, the sleet and snow, the U.S. Male is on his toes; quit watchin’ my woman for that ain’t wise, you ain’t pulling no wool over this boy’s eyes.  I catch you round my woman, champ, I’m gonna leave your head in the shape of a stamp … kinda flattened out, so you’ll do well to quit playin’ games with this U.S. Male …

Another chorus …

This part of the song is Elvis just talking.  I just nodded in agreement as he spoke.

All right now I’m gonna tell it like it is, son, I catch you messin’ around with that woman of mine I’m gonna lay one on ya— you’re talking to the U.S. Male, the American U.S. Male.

I needed oxygen more than the squeals I got from Rita and the golf clap from my partner.  I pushed my way to the door and drank the air in large gulps.  When I turned back around I told Rita I had a deal for her.  I walked over and fell heavily into the couch.

“Years ago I went to Vegas with my girlfriend to see …” (I pointed at the autographed picture on the CD case).  “At the show he came walking through the audience singing and he was sweating like crazy.  My girlfriend offered him her scarf and he wiped his head with it.  When we broke up a year later I somehow ended up with the scarf. You take down those outside speakers, and it’s yours.”

Her eyes widened and then became watery, then narrowed.  “Why would you give it to me?” 

“I think He would want a woman to have it, a real fan.”   I looked around the room.  “You are the fan, Rita.   You’re the real fan.  Deal?”

“Deal!  I’ll take them down tomorrow, in fact today—but I think my neighbors are really going miss him, his music …”

I smiled and looked at my partner who said,  “Maybe for a while, but I think they’ll buy their own CDs.”  I agreed, with a smiling nod.

We made a pact on the scarf.  I’d bring it on my next days on.

Outside my partner said,  “You do that in Menlo?”

To which I answered, “No way!  At least not Elvis …”

No, there never was an “Elvis Scarf” and I did feel a bit guilty about offering an ordinary scarf to her as one.  But we never had to go back, and I bet if we did, she’d be wearing it! 

I know, shame on me!