Chapter Text
Elvis arrives in LA by train in April 1960, back from the Army with ambitions to be a serious acclaimed movie star.
May 5, 1960
The blur of skyscrapers came into focus as the train slowed down, it struck me that the San Francisco skyline was more crowded than Memphis’, but I only got to take it in for a moment before the blackness of the Oakland train station enveloped us. Wiping and straightening my striped, black shirt and black slacks, I looked up at the other passengers preparing to disembark. The older white women across from me pursed her lips and frowned, her brown dress was wrinkled. She clearly disapproved of young women travelling across the country alone. And taking my shoes off, that seemed to have particularly offended her sense of dignity. The trained pumped slowly as it came to a complete stop, and I stuck my tongue out at the old goat as she got up to leave.
“Humpfff…. Well, I never.”
I grinned and took my time putting my black oxfords on and tying them up, the cold leather was somewhat comforting. Something about standing up in these shoes gave me a sense of steadiness and I was ready to walk off the train and into my new life. The hard shell of my blue suitcase glinted in the light at the bottom of the coach, and I took a deep breath of fresh, California air, only to gasp as I looked up and saw my brother Art leaning against a lamp post further down the walkway. He was wearing a grey suit and tie, and his face was cold. I froze as he walked up to me and grabbed my suitcase before turning around back towards the exit. I stood still, shocked to find him waiting here for me. I had actually thought I had gotten away with it. He turned back.
“Are you coming or what, Midge?”
“Ahhhrg.” I grunted, and stomped my foot. I didn’t need to say anything, the anger in my eyes was pretty clear.
“Ok, I’m the bad guy. I just drove 9 hours up here from LA to find you, but sure, I’m the bad guy…. you know, don’t say a fucking word. Not a single word, you’ve always been a brat.”
What could I do? I followed him. We walked through the station, the smell of hot pretzels wafted through the air and Art bought us three to share. I began shoving them in my mouth and when we got to the car I asked my brother with a full mouth.
“How did you find me?”
“Peggy gave it up. Here’s a clue, if you are going to run away, don’t tell any other 15-year-old girls. She cracked in two minutes. Mama has been in hysterics.” He paused. “You know I am up to my eyeballs in work, we are just about to wrap on this G. I. picture, then we’re going to start on another. I didn’t even tell the boss what was going on, I just drove up this morning and now we have to turn around and drive all the god damn way back down to LA overnight.”
I stopped chewing and looked up at him. My voice quivered.
“I’m sorry Art. I just couldn’t do it anymore. You know how Mama is. After Dottie got married, it was worse, I was the only one around.” A tear drop ran down my face, but I fought the onslaught and kept it in. I’m not the kind to sob and cry. “I hate school. Ugh. I don’t know what’s wrong with me or why I feel like this. I just had to get away.”
My brother was silent, thinking of our sister Dorothy, married at 19. It wasn’t exactly like an arranged married in the old country, but it wasn’t that different either. Dottie had two suitors vetted by my mother, one after the other, and was engaged to the second one after three dates. Married within another month. For Dottie, marriage was freedom. Not for me. A different beat hummed in my blood, and it called me to California.
Art looked forward, and then put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. He had joined the army after high school to get away, he understood.
“Ok, ok. I get it. Fuck. You know I get it.” He breathed deeply, I could see the wheels in his head turning. “This is the plan. We’re driving down to LA, the boss is renting a big house up in Bel Air and I’m staying in the guest house. But you can’t stay there. I got this tomato I’ve been seeing, Shelley, I’m gonna stash you at her apartment. Then we’ll figure out what we are going to do.”
It was pitch black driving to Los Angeles overnight, which made it seem longer because there was nothing to look while Art flew down the 101 as fast as he could. We stopped for something to eat at an all-night diner outside San Luis Obispo, and Art made a few phone calls. I ate all the pancakes and eggs I could stuff down my mouth and washed up in the bathroom. I had been wearing the same clothes for three days now and was starting to smell. Bad.
Around 6:30 am we pulled up in front of a two-story tan pinkish stucco apartment building with a name in cursive: La Mariposa. Art jumped out and walked me up to an apartment on the second floor, where an annoyed petite blonde opened the door. It was a cavalcade of pink. Pink lipstick, pink linen dress, blonde hair teased into a French twist with a pink bow. So this was the shiksa my brother was seeing.
My dark brown hair hung down, dirty and stringy, my bangs were so greasy they parted in several places. She frowned.
“I didn’t expect you to be wearing so much black….”
“Hey Shelley, don’t mind Miriam, she’s just getting ready to audition for the role of Miss Beatnik 1960. Miriam say hi to Shelley.”
“Ha, ha ha,” I said to him, before muttering a “Hi Shelley” and shuffling forward.
Arthur pushed us into the apartment as Shelley smiled sweetly and told me to “Make yourself at home.” Then she pulled my brother into the bedroom. I couldn’t hear exactly what they said, it sounded like hushed fighting, but they emerged 10 minutes later.
“Ok, so Shelley works in the casting office over at Paramount, and that is where we are heading now. The big man is shooting on set there today. She is okay with you crashing here for the day. So go ahead and shower, take a nap on the couch. There is some bread and peanut butter in the fridge. I’ll be back later. If the phone rings, pick it up. It’s probably me.”
“It was nice to meet you, Miriam.” Shelley said, giving me that fake smile again.
Arthur grabbed his suit jacket, and led Shelley out, turning one last time to bark “DO. NOT. LEAVE. THIS. APARTMENT.” I nodded my head obediently.
It was 6:30 that evening when Shelley’s jingling keys opening the door woke me up. It was dusk, and she was alone, already stepping out of her heels – if you guessed that they were pink, you’d be right – she was rolling up and down on her toes as she tried to regain feeling in her feet. She glanced at me. I sat up in my night dress, grateful I had been able to wash off the grime of travel with her very pink soap.
“You look almost human.” She said, her tone decidedly less upbeat than this morning. “Artie went back to his place with the rest of the guys after the shoot. He’s going to send someone over to pick us up in about an hour. They’re having a casual shindig or something.” Then she stood up and went into her bedroom, emerging about 20 minutes later wearing a tight satin red A-line off the shoulder cocktail dress. I felt under dressed in my black pencil skirt and tan cashmere sweater. I had pinned my hair up in a bun, brushed my bangs straight, and added a dragonfly broach to seem a little more polished.
She turned toward me. “Is that what you’re wearing to meet Elvis for the first time?”
“This is the nicest thing I have.” I said, straightening out my sweater. “It’s not my first time meeting him, though, I knew him back home in Memphis.”
“Oh.” Shelley looked me over. “Well come here, let me put some make-up on you at least.”
She beckoned me into her bedroom, and sat me down on her bed, across from her at the vanity. Eye shadow, mascara, and red lipstick. I looked up, and Shelley seemed pleased with her work. She had just doused me with perfume when a car horn beeped loudly and we hurried out the door.
It was a different car, a long white convertible. I looked over at Shelley as she pushed me in back. “This is Charlie, kid.” She flopped down, and we drove off. After about 15 minutes, we were climbing a hill, and pulling into a white house with flat roof and ivy growing over the walls, about five to six cars parked in front. A few people were smoking outside, and then people were also smoking as we walked into the living room. Loud music emanated from the record player. There must have been 30 people or more milling around, glasses clinked, their voices mixing with the smoke and music wafting through the air. Shelley walked in through the door first, and Charlie looked at me, sensing how nervous I was, he put his arm around my back and guided me in. “It’s ok, honey, Artie’s around here somewhere.” I smiled up at Charlie and mouthed a quiet thanks as we walked in.
I had never been to a party like this. I’d been to the holiday gatherings at our synagogue, Bar Mitzvahs, parties at the Memphis JCC. But nothing like this. Here, though, almost no one was over 40, people were laughing, loudly, several seemed tipsy. The atmosphere was carefree, and I was intimidated and giddy all at once.
Charlie looked at me, “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just a Coke.”
Charlie walked off, and I moved toward a small open area against the wall where I could lean back, fold my arms over my chest, and scan the room more closely. I did not recognize anyone, but I knew several other guys from Arthur’s class at Humes were living out here working with Elvis. Then I noticed a pair of cold blue eyes looking at me across the room from the open kitchen. That was when I locked eyes with Elvis himself, staring at him for what seemed like forever. It was probably no more than thirty seconds. Long enough, though, for the blonde talking to him to notice, stop, and look over her shoulder at me. She squinted, staring as well with a quizzical look on her face, before turning back. And then the spell was broken, Elvis smiled, almost shyly, and returned his gaze to the woman. He was tapping his fingers almost uncontrollably on the kitchen counter, keeping rhythm with the music. He was skinnier, leaner than the last time I had seen him, the baby fat around his cheeks had melted away to reveal a rugged jaw line.
I shifted, and stared at my shoes, tapping one then the other nervously.
“That’s Anita, the big guy’s girlfriend.” Charlie said, looking at the direction my eyes had been, and handing me a Coke. “There’s a bunch of grub in the dining room, kid, c’mon.”
I nodded, and followed him through the living room, past the opening to the kitchen, to a room with a table covered in party food: club sandwiches, potato salad, melon, shrimp, ham and cheese pin wheels, a big iceberg lettuce bowl filled with egg salad, cake, several Jello molds – orange, cherry, lime. I had never had shrimp before, so I started there, grabbing a bunch and putting them on my plate. Charlie winked.
“I’m fine, if you want to mingle.” I said, smiling, he gave me a little bow and went off back to the living room, where most of the people were.
I put some more food on my plate and proceeded to wander the house, walking through several hallways and other rooms before I opened a door into a dimly lit library with sofas, a large television and a hi-fi set. This room was on the back of the house, where a sliding door opened onto the patio and a large pool, and the house made a U-shape around it. The pool was dark, no one was out there. Most people probably wanted to be near the host, and I didn’t blame them. Elvis looked even more handsome in person, more handsome than he had as a teen back home, and there was a kinetic energy just being in the same room with him. I felt it the second I noticed him after walking in. But I felt so awkwardly out of place, I was eager to just be alone back here. Looking out at the pool, a lawn ran out from the patio and a guest house was visible a few yards back, I figured that must be where Art was living.
I stepped outside, sliding off my shoes and went to sit on the edge and dip my toes in the pool. It was cool and refreshing, and I kicked my feet a little to feel the water rush around them. I thought about how stupid I was, running away from home. I had pictured myself living in North Beach, writing poetry, and drawing sketches in the beat coffee houses. Maybe working in one. But I hadn’t even put up a fight when I saw my brother, all the courage it took to leave home three days ago had vanished. What was I going to do now? Bunking with my brother or his girlfriend wasn’t exactly the utopia I had been looking forward to. I must have been lost in my thoughts for a while, I noticed my toes were wrinkled, so I stood up. After I pushed myself up, I noticed Elvis leaning in the dark of the sliding door frame. Startled, I gasped and stepped backwards almost falling into the pool. He ran over instantly and grabbed me by shoulders.
“Whoa Nelly! Watch it there,” he said softly, his hands lingered on the side of my shoulders, then realized he had been holding me several beats after I was steady and took a step back sheepishly. I looked up, blushing.
“Thanks, I think you just saved my life.” I joked, smiling.
“Uh huh, well, I didn’t want to ruin my hair diving in after you, so we’re, uh, even.” He said, his lips forming half of crooked grin as he joked, his voice was soft and low, it was a strange mix of wry bravado and humility. I began to walk around him toward the sliding door, and he followed.
“Say, I saw you come in with CH,” he said slowly as we walked. I stopped and turned toward him, watching as he ran his hand up through the front of his hair. Some of it flopped down towards his eyes, and he put his other hand through, nervously pushing his hair back again. “Are you, uh, here with him?” he asked casually. It was then I realized Elvis did not recognize me. To be fair, I had been eleven or twelve the last time we had seen each other. Now I was almost 16.
“CH…Is that Charlie?” I asked. “He just gave me a ride, I’m staying with Shelley.”
“Oh. You’re Shelley’s friend. Ya don’t seem anything like her.”
“Friend is not exactly the word I would use….” I said coyly, looking up into his eyes again.
He stepped closer to me, and I felt a tingling mess of butterflies begin to rise in my stomach, continuing as he got closer. His face was about two inches from mine. I had to look up to meet his eyes, he was tall, at least six inches or so above me, and he wore a a pair of grey dress trousers and a black, short-sleeve dress shirt with a wide collar. His hair was growing out from the Army, shorter on the sides, and a little wilder tonight, less perfectly coiffed, less pomade than usual. I tried to summon the courage speak.
“You really don’t recognize me?” I said, breathy, girly, I could feel some of the hard outer shell I usually had towards the boys at school, or, actually, people in general, disintegrating.
“Ugh, I’m sorry, must be that brain damage from, uh, from listening to all that rock ‘n’ roll.” He was cracking himself up slightly with his little witty replies. “I usually have a pretty good memory.” He whispered, looking in my eyes, then back down at my feet, lingering on them, before meeting my gaze again.
I stepped closer, feeling ridiculously bold, and impulsively ran my finger down his nose.
“Your nose looks different from the last time I saw you…. prettier.” I whispered in his ear.
An uneasy chuckle escaped Elvis’ mouth. “Huhhhh…. That’s just that Hollywood beautification project, you know. Something in the water out here straightens, uh, a, straightens out your nose.” Yeah, so does plastic surgery I thought. I could hardly judge him, he looked amazing.
The low vibrato of his voice sent a shiver down my spine and I stepped back, almost hitting the sliding door frame now. I had not felt this way before. I had never flirted with someone. Never been alone with a boy, or a man other than family. All I knew about flirting I had learned from the movies, especially the older ones on TV, which I watched more often than new ones in the theatre. I realized I had been trying to conjure up the attitude of Lauren Bacall asking Humphrey Bogart if he knew how to whistle. I hadn’t even meant to flirt with Elvis, it was just an instinctive reaction to being in his orbit.
Growing up, he had lived in one of the two downstairs apartments in our two-story apartment building on Alabama Street. Art and Elvis had been the same age at school, and run around together a bit, although they had gotten closer after Art came back from the Army in 1956. He had told me once that after Elvis was famous, he had started to surround himself more and more with older friends he felt he could really trust. I always thought Elvis was handsome, long before the frenzy that surrounded him after “That’s Alright Mama” was a hit. Memphis was ground zero for lovestruck Elvis teens, but mooning over him like my classmates seemed silly, he was my brother’s older friend, was reportedly dating other stars like Natalie Wood.
This dizzying nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach when I was near him was something new.
I tried to channel cool, flippant aloof Lauren Bacall, and turned to walk back into the house slowly. He followed me through the sliding door into the dimly lit TV room, grabbing the back of my hand to twist me towards him. He held my hand for a moment, his thumb lingering on my palm, as I edged back against the wall and he followed me in step and ran his other fingers across my shoulder, taking me in. All of me, just with his eyes as he glanced over at my sweater, my skirt, my bare feet.
“Hey, now, don’t be like that.” Elvis mumbled.
He leaned over me, one arm on the wall above me, looking at me directly, then almost immediately back down at my chest. I had never known anyone who seemed so confident propelling themselves forward, while also so nervous and unsure at the same time. It was unsettling and completely charming. The tingling feeling in my stomach started to vibrate to lower parts of my body, below my waist, between my thighs. Places I didn’t want to think about, feelings I didn’t understand.
“What’s your name?” He whispered, the words falling off his bottom lip like drops of molasses.
“Miriam. It's, I’m - um - Miriam,” I breathed out softly, my voice trembling, my lip followed quivering a little.
Any cool attitude was gone, wisped away by the LA breeze outside and the heat coming off of Elvis. He smiled, I could tell he became more confident at my blithering. He liked this reaction, liked the powerful sensation of seeing how just a few slight touches and baritone words could knock the wind out of a girl like me. He leaned in now, taking the opportunity to whisper in my ear as he pinned me against the wall, his hand just barely touching my sweater at my waist.
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it now.” His breath was warm and sweet, tingling my ear. Then he pulled back a little, speaking to himself. “Miriam….. Miriam….” Then he stepped back, a look of realization washing over his face. “Miriam …. Cohen…. AC’s little sister….Midge…”
I raised my eyebrows and wiggled my nose, smiling.
“I’m not little anymore, I’m almost 16.” I said, trying to go for a lower, sexier, sultry voice.
Elvis took another few steps back, and put his hands on his in his pockets, looking me up and down again slowly.
“Well, well, well. Yeah.” He exhaled slowly. “All growed up.” Elvis continued, smirking, the left side of his lip twisted up again in that crooked grin. “Well. Welcome to Hollywood.”
My mouth bottom lip opened a little as I tried to think of something witty to say, but before I could he turned and walked back towards the music and the party and the sound of people talking. I leaned into the wall.
“What was that?” I muttered out loud to myself, looking up at the ceiling. “You are such an idiot.” Then I went back out to the patio to find my shoes.
An onslaught of thoughts crowded my mind at once. Do not be attracted to him was the third thought. I didn't who I was trying to convince, but I knew he always liked flirting around. I was certainly not naïve enough to think that someone like Elvis would be monogamous with any girl, it would be like staying chaste in a brothel. Arthur had made a few quips in passing, but mostly, I just knew. I knew girls chased after him. How could I be attracted to someone like this? I certainly had no business talking to any boys, let alone that one. I had no real-life experience with men, but I already knew, intellectually, that I didn’t really want a boyfriend, I had acquired a pretty jaded perspective on relationships just watching my parents fight it out until Papa died. I reminded myself I had not run away looking for a boyfriend, or any man, even flirting should be verboten if I wanted to forge a new life on my own out here. I slapped my forehead in frustration, mad at myself for turning into just another speechless simpering fool around him. Elvis was probably laughing about how he made me blush right at this very moment. I found my shoes, put them on, and went to hide back in the TV room, closing the door and sinking into the sofa. I picked up a copy of Screenland movie magazine and flipped through it, sometimes looking at the photos as my mind wandering back to the fleeting touch of Elvis’ fingers on my shoulder. Stop it.
I heard people cheer, as they goaded Elvis into singing a few songs, the sound of his voice and guitar filtered back from the living room. I recognized the tune for a Roy Hamilton song that had just come out. Art found me about an hour later, alone, and he plunged into the couch next to me with a sigh.
“Oy vey, Miriam…Why are you hiding in here?” He paused. “Never mind. Ok, so, Shelley’s shack is a no go, kid. Looks like you are going to have to hole up here with me in the guest house. This is only temporary, Ma would kill me if she knew you were staying here, and not to mention, what goes on here. I’ll level with you, EP gets mobbed if we go out, so he’s got a bunch of us staying here with him and its basically an ongoing party when we get back from the studio. So your job is to lay low, stay out of people’s way, especially EP if you see him…. you haven’t run into him yet, have you?
“No.” I lied.
“Ok, good, maybe he doesn’t even know that you’re here, the last thing I need is him finding out I’m housing my 15-year-old runaway delinquent sister here. Or worse, the Colonel’s spies go tell him. At least before I figure out what we’re going to do, and I get a chance to talk with EP one-on-one. Come with me, I’m showing you your new hideout.”
Art walked me out to the guest house, showed me around, and gave me his bedroom to sleep in while he made up the couch. I dozed off that first night in LA thinking of Elvis’ eyes looking into mine, shuddering briefly as I remembered the way they seemed to penetrate my body, even as they only lingered for a few fleeting moments at a time. I tried not to fixate on him, but his voice was still reverberating in my ears, and it made the hair on my arms stand up straight. He had awakened a hunger for something I didn’t even know I wanted. Instead of ending up in the San Francisco beat scene that I had imagined when planning my getaway last week, here I was in Los Angeles, looking up into the ceiling wondering what Hollywood had in store for me.