The name does not feel apt. Surrounded by sweaty, mutton-chopped worshippers in shiny polyester jumpsuits, women with wrinkly tattoos, and little boys in capes, I gulp down hot, syrupy banana glopped with peanut butter on smashed Bunny Bread to condition myself, then set out to meet the fans who keep a dead man alive as an engine of consumerism, a weird religion, and an inexplicable to me lifelong obsession.
Flo Shaw, who comes every year from Manchester, England, wears a sundress printed with black-and-white Elvis portraits and has his profile on her forearm. She lights up brighter than her raspberry hair as she describes loving Elvis for sixty-seven years far longer than her marriage. A character, I think happily. Yet as she fields my questions, I sense a toughness and acumen in her worship.
The range is incredibleβfrom hillbilly to ballads. Vinyl, picture booksβI spend all my money that I earn on these things! He was different from other entertainers.
He wasβand we have many people confirming itβhe was humble. Elvis was a fan of Judy Garland, too. I ask if there is a common denominator. Both men nod vigorously. You can touch their voices. Different types of music, but the same heart. In a sea of kitsch, I have managed to land a few intelligent fans. Who can spin a story from that? Somehow this escapade has already gotten away from me, turning oddly serious. I cast about for what ought to be easy, something colorful I can make fun of.
Ah, over there, sprawled on a sofa in the Graceland Guest House lounge: a young woman in a hot pink jacket, black pants, hot pink pointed-toe shoes, and an Elvis haircut. Her boyfriend performs as Elvis; they met online in an Elvis group. Elvis superfan Sarah Hanselmann, twenty-three, at Graceland. I was always a tomboy. I flip open my notebook. I love my momma, and he loved his. You cannot, I am warned, understand twentieth-century America without Elvis Presley.
