The Elvis Obession, or, Queen Of The Rink

For as long as there has been an Elvis, my family has been obsessed with him. We have turned out two professional Elvis impersonators and one artist who makes Elvis statues out of painted trash. He's very good at it and sells quite a few of them. We have Elvis vinyl collections that would rival any collector anywhere and Elvis memorabilia. All of us who play the guitar had better have a few Elvis songs in our damaged brains ready to deliver at any family function or the backlash is torturous. I do a pretty good version of In The Ghetto, the only Elvis song I could ever stand. It lets me be free to eat some fried chicken in peace while the rest of them play the other five thousand Elvis tunes. This obsession with all things Elvis has extended to cover anyone ever touched by The King.
*
I hate Elvis, I hate that fucker so much it isn't even funny. He was forced on us by our obsessive Mothers and Aunts from the first time he shook his hips on the Ed Sullivan show on our black and white fuzzy two channel television set. My cousin RosaLee took the brunt of it from my Aunt Juanita. Juanita LOVED Elvis with an unbridled passion and she has, to this day, never let go of it. She also loves Jesus, but, I think she loves Elvis more. I really do. If there was a church of Elvis she would join, get on her knees and give until it hurt.
*
We were living in the old mansion when the Elvis craze hit my Aunt. I was raised with my cousins, so in a way, I have two brothers and a sister. RosaLee and I shared a room only because she was, though she won't admit it, afraid of the gigantic old house. She's three years older than me, which made her a sophisticated teenager at this time, while I remained a dorky child. The truth of the matter is, she was always dorky and I knew it, but, I didn't care because she was usually kind to me. She was a very good older sister, never abusive and only teasing in a gentle way. She is nothing like her Mother and it would hurt her to read this because she is so good inside that she can't see what her Mother and her Mother's sisters really are. She refuses to see it. Maybe she does, but, she blocks it out, believing Jesus really does save and you should only look to the good that everyone has inside. I, however, decided long ago that I was tired of getting my ass kicked in the name of Jesus and if he wants my Mother and her Sisters I don't want any part of him or his Heaven. It's probably boring and filled with piped in Elvis music anyhow.
*
I loved living in the big mansion even though it had no plumbing. No one knew that and when the school bus would drop us off I would proudly walk up the driveway, never feeling embarrassed because this was the only house we ever lived in (in my childhood) that wasn't horrible and trashy looking. I never had many friends when I was little because it was impossible to find anyone who lived in such disgusting conditions and you couldn't invite anyone home for fear they'd tell everyone how you lived. It's a good thing I had a few skanky cousins who's families were dirt poor too or I would have been very lonely. My cousin RosaLee and her family weren't skanky, as in dirty, her Mother kept the house tidy because she always wanted to impress everyone with how wonderful and normal they were. Like Donna Reed or June Cleaver. They were anything but normal, but, the house pride thing worked out for me when we all shacked up together. I was sick of the filth and fleas and trash. And the smell. I didn't hate her Mother back then, I just didn't trust her. I wasn't sure why because I was just a child. I hadn't figured it all out.
*
So, pretty boy Elvis hit the world and my Aunt went into a swoon that's lasted for decades. She was a grown woman with a husband so she couldn't very well cream her panties in public over this young hip swaying boy, so she did the next best thing. She forced it on her Daughter. As the Elvis craze grew, so did the Elvis shit in our shared bedroom. We'd come home to find articles from Tiger Beat glued to our antique wallpaper and our yellowed second hand lamp shades. It grew until entire walls were covered and then these strange three legged contraptions started appearing. The were homemade easels, an object I'd never heard of in the fourth grade, and she must have been ordering her husband to construct them. He was a poor sot who just did everything he was told and never set up a fuss or asked questions. He always kept a bottle of rot gut hidden in the enormous cellar the Sisters were afraid to venture into and that cellar had many secrets. Uncle Albert's bottle is only one of them and that wasn't much of a secret anyway. The sisters still talk about him like he was the worst person on Earth and went to burn in their Jesus-less Hell, but, Uncle Albert was always decent to me. He gave me my first camera, a Brownie Box, with no strings attached. Believe me, I always looked for the strings, even at that age. Anyway, these easels had cork boards attached and they held yet more Elvis pictures when the wall space ran out. She ruined our pretty faded rose wallpaper that was a hundred years old and I still hate her for that. I knew that wallpaper was very special even back then. Elvis took over our beds too. Somehow my crazy Aunt found Elvis pillows and Elvis bed spreads. She must have sent off for them, because the town only had six houses in it, and none of them was an Elvis store. I was so tired of it. I was into monsters, that's what odd gothy ten year old girls were into back then, even though I had no idea it was baby goth. I just liked it. I liked monster comics and those monster models you put together, like The Mummy and Frankenstein. I had saved money and was desperately trying to talk Uncle Albert into driving me to the picture show. It was, of course, a monster movie and at that time I had never seen a real movie or movie theatre. My Aunt said no though, she said I needed Jesus and the only place Uncle Albert should drive a smart aleck little girl like me was to Sunday School. I passed on that offer, it seemed like there was more than enough of Jesus spying around our house as it was. Albert was scared of her and that put an end to that adventure. At least I had the cool models sitting by my bed. One day, I came home from school and my monster models had vanished and Elvis decanters showed up in their place. The ones where you could screw Elvis's head off and look down into a void. They smelled like Pinesol. What the Hell? I bought those monsters with my own money I'd earned haying, which is damned hard work, and I was already sleeping with fucking Elvis. (I said "fucking'' only in my head back then.) I was told the monsters were in the Nursery and if I wanted to have the silly things, I should move to the Nursery.
*
The Nursery. The dreaded haunted horrible Nursery. In Victorian times it was popular to build a tiny nursing room off the master bedroom, where women could nurse their babies without fear of their horny bastard husbands seeing their bare breasts and getting excited, I guess. This was not a real bedroom. It was weird because the nursing rooms were only big enough for a crib and a dressing table. It's odd if you think about it, because the Victorians built these huge gigantic houses and only tiny temporary spaces for their babies. I suppose they had a lot of babies. Someone in big families is always sucking tit, that's for sure. Even if it's metaphoric tit. Our Nursery had one long window and it looked out over the dark banks of the heavily forested river. The ceilings were higher than the length of the small room which gave it an odd cathedral effect. The doors were double dark wood monstrosities, with birds and flowers carved in them, I suppose to allow baby buggy access. The carved flowers could never be identified, they were vining and looked mean and had faces in the middle. Cherubs maybe? To match the faded cherub wallpaper? The effect was creepy as all get out. I always use a capitol N when typing it, because the Nursery was an entity. A living entity. We were all afraid of it and no one used it, not even for storage. My Grandmother said many babies didn't live back in Victorian times and the Nursery held nothing but sadness. She had the master next to it and she said she could hear the babies cry sometimes at night and the adjoining door would open by itself. The heebie jeebie inducing ghosts in the old mansion, real or imagined, gave us kids many good scares and we loved them and the telling of them. But, dead miserable babies was too much for us. We hated the place. The terrible room was dubbed The Bloody Nursery by my cousin Joe, he was the oldest, and he would scare us all with tales about that terrible room. Now it held my prized possessions and Elvis held my room hostage. Damn, I hate Elvis.
*
RosaLee begged me not to move to the Nursery at first, she thought the ghosts of the poor dead babies would smother me in the night and then come after her. I almost relented, for RosaLee's sake, that's what I told everyone anyway. Truth be told, I was scared shitless of the Nursery. But, RosaLee had a friend in the tiny town. No one else did, what with there being only six houses in town and a long ride to real town, it was a pretty dusty nowhere. Her friend was a third cousin of ours named Linda. Linda was the real dork of all dorks, I couldn't stand her. She couldn't ever stay the night because she still peed the bed even though she was fifteen and always saying how mature she was. We knew this was a fact because our house sat on a high hill and you could look down and see her mom hanging out her sheets every single morning and she used to pray to Jesus with our mothers to let Linda stop wetting her bed. You can't get a husband if you pee the bed. Everybody knows that. Linda's room always smelled like piss. She was an only child and her Mother went all out decorating it, even making pretty curtains and a matching "teen' bedspread she'd seen in a McCalls magazine, but, she couldn't get rid of the pee smell. Her Mother even whined to Linda's Daddy that all they needed was a modern bathroom to help Linda get over her problem and they were the one of first one's in the town to have one. But, even after they got a toilet, Linda still peed in her bed. Linda..ugg..she had stringy greasy hair and thin bangs always cut way too short and dressed in homemade plaid jumpers, bobby socks and penny loafers with a real penny stuck in them. And she wore these ugly glasses, they were transparent pink plastic and swooped at the edges like some demented cat. They were supposed to correct her crossed eyes. She had a barrette collection I envied though, she had barrettes for every occasion and season, two love birds on a stick in every color and some American Bandstand barrettes that were out of this world. They were black and shaped like little 45 records and they said Rock N Roll! right on them. Linda said Elvis was a sinner because of the way he shook his hips, but, she admitted he was terribly handsome. I mostly ignored them and went fishing when Linda came over, but, the few times I stayed in our room and spyed, as little sisters are apt to do, I was told I was a mere child and knew nothing of the great teen world they shared. I know RosaLee, dork that she was, thought Linda was an idiot, but, beggars can't be choosers and they shared two passions which bound them like twine in a box. Elvis and Roller Skating. At that last sentence a heavenly light should shine and angelic music should be heard. Nothing, and I mean nothing could make them swoon like roller skating to an Elvis song. And so with that shared passion in mind, and no one else to share it with, is it any surprise that RosaLee listened to Linda when she told her that she should "make me" move to the stupid baby Nursery and have her own room? I never held it against her, it wasn't her fault, but, I had to do it. Not because she told me too, she wouldn't even look at me when she said it, she was so scared I'd do it. And I had to. It was a pride thing. I never did anything anyone ordered me to do, willful child that I was, but, I wouldn't stay where I wasn't wanted! My feelings were deeply wounded and as RosaLee and Linda watched I grabbed my few things that didn't have stupid Elvis on them, and I moved to the dreaded Bloody Nursery. Much to the delight of bed pissing Linda and much to the horror of poor RosaLee.
*
The Nursery turned out to be just as haunted as the rest of the house, meaning it was, but, not in any horror novel way. After a few sleepless nights sitting up in the small single ornate iron bed that had been left there by the previous tenants, and clutching a baseball bat, I simply learned to live with the noises which never sounded much like miserable dead babies to me. I later found out my Grandmother had had a baby boy kidnapped when he was two and she never saw him again until he was middle aged. He was her first child and his name was Paul and he had blond hair, like me. All the babies after that were girls. That tragedy is really what haunted her, not the Nursery. And the Sisters should never have had her take that room, but, none of them wanted to sleep on the same floor with us annoying children. I found all that out after I was grown up because no one talked about it. Ever. I guess Grandma went out of her mind when it happened and I don't blame her. She never did get over it, but, she was a good Grandma, though she was obsessed with baby tragedies. No surprise that she heard dead babies in the Nursery. The only voice I ever heard was a strange woman singing a lullabye. How bad can that be, right? The tall double door DID open and close by itself, but, it just led to Grandma's room and most of the time she was in there. Once I did see something in there, but, it confused me more than scared me. I had my monsters, Nancy Drew mystery books and fishing poles back and no Elvis.. and no dumb old pee smelling Linda. It was a sweet deal.
*
Two years passed and Elvis had some serious competition from some long haired hooligans from some crazy place called England. They named their band The Beatles and my Aunt Juanita said they'd never catch on. Back to my cousin RosaLee. Dorky RosaLee. She was only dorky because she truly believed everything her crazy Mother told her and her crazy Mother made her a dork. RosaLee to this day believes that Jesus wants us to make our Mother's happy by being and doing what ever it is they want. If you don't mind your Mother and listen to your Mother, Jesus will be mad and he won't let you into Heaven. RosaLee loved John Lennon in secret, even when it was cool to love only cute Paul McCartney. Paul was everywhere, but, it was John's stuff that RosaLee coveted. I realize now, that was a progressive attitude since John is, in my opinion, the only Beatle who really mattered and the heart of the bands true writings. Jon was also married, which meant RosaLee had to worship him in private. And also there was Elvis to worry about. She was cheating on Elvis! The only man her Mother thought was good enough for her! God, what a mess it was in her head to have to follow her Mother's wishes and worship Elvis and hide John Lennon under the bed in my Nursery of horror. It was probably the only time she's ever gone against her Mother's final word. She liked Elvis, but, she truly loved John. He was her one and only. And the only thing pee smelling Linda ever did that I admired her for, was to keep her mouth shut about RosaLee's obsession with John Lennon. I loved The Beatles too and I decided I should marry Paul even though I liked John better. RosaLee was my sister and I was sure there was no God, but, just in case, I wasn't going to smooch with her John Lennon. I didn't really care about sin, I just wouldn't hurt RosaLee's feelings even if John Lennon showed up in our six house town in a shiny blue convertible with signed divorce papers in his hand and professed his undying love to me. No sir.
*
And so, I was twelve, still skinny as a rail and RosaLee was fifteen and filled out nicely. She was, at that time, an ordinary looking girl. She had long thick dark hair that was naturally curly when it wasn't in fashion and she spent a lot of time trying to tame it and make it look straight. The result was kind of a pulled back dried out mess. She also had a lot of pimples which she caked pancake makup over in an attemp to cover it. She looked like if you touched her she'd crack. She had a flat nose that kind of took over her young face at the time, that was the Cherokee in us. You have to grow into a nose like that and she has now, but, back then, for a couple of years, it just looked odd. Her Mother taught her to shave off her eyebrows and pencil them back in arches, which I thought was really weird, but, it reminded her Mother of old movie stars like Joan Crawford and Rita Hayworth, and RosaLee did everything her Mother told her to do. She was of average height about 5'6'' and weight. In other words, she was average. Not inside though. She was always a thoughtful girl. She was always called "the good one" or "the good girl." And she was, I had no problem with it, no matter if it implied I was the bad one. Her Mother bought her all the latest "good girl" fashions. RosaLee would have shared them all with me, but, I was too skinny and dinky. I only weighed in at about 65 pounds so I was stuck in my patched up yard sale crap, but, at least I'd learned to wash it by that time, so I was no longer the laughing stock at school. People didn't notice RosaLee a lot at school, she kept her head down and was quiet and brought home average grades and studied. I brought home excellent grades and never studied which gave me time to think up things to do to get myself noticed. Outrageous things, like declaring myself a Communist or wearing two different shoes and saying the F word out loud. People noticed alright, they either loved me or hated me. But, most of them never knew me. I hardly got to go anywhere but school and our town had no other kids, so how bad could I have been? As for Linda, she was seventeen by then and still pissing her bed. It was ridiculous. She was in love with Ringo, she loved him to pieces. She took to wearing gum ball machine rings on every finger, she said it made her look "mad mod", whatever that was. She related to Ringo's big nose and said it meant he was intelligent. I wondered what pissing your bed at seventeen meant? Dumb old Linda.
*
There was ONE place we always got to go to. The skating rink. The magical place where all the kids in the small neighboring village and all the six house towns around it went to socialize. Uncle Albert was enlisted to drive us there every Saturday night after supper and pick us up at 10:00 pm when it closed. Five hours of freedom. Five hours in a place I was pretty damn sure Jesus didn't know about.

To be continued..