Fat Elvis

Fat Elvis
by Robert Aquino Dollesin

My grandmother lives with us. This morning she sits across from me at the breakfast table, repeating her story of how when she was just sixteen, while watching Elvis Presley on stage in Pearl harbor, she went into labor and gave birth to my father. The story has changed a million times. In earlier versions, from where my grandmother had sat at the back of Bloch Arena, she could hardly see or hear Elvis performing. Later versions have my grandmother standing right up against the
stage, six months pregnant, frantically screaming and weeping. But this morning when my grandmother tells us of that spectacular night, I have to lower my face, smile, and busy myself by pushing the sausages on my plate away from the scrambled eggs.

Of course my grandmother never, as she had just claimed, stripped her panties off and hurled them onto the stage. And of course it's highly unlikely that Elvis Presley himself got down on his knees, grabbed the pink panties and used the silky fabric to swipe his sweaty face before cramming the panties into one of the back pockets of his tight leather trousers.

Without turning from the stove, my mother chuckles and says, "Oh, Irma. That story never gets old."

After taking a sip of coffee, my grandmother smacks her lips a few times and sets the cup back down on the saucer. Then she goes on to add that she had tried to ignore the labor pains, which had begun in the middle of the concert. If it hadn't been for Elvis's personal bodyguard carrying her out of the arena and transporting her panting and pantyless to the emergency room in a gold-plated limousine, she swears that my father would have been born directly under the bright lights of the stage.

"Eleven hours later," she says, gazing across the table at me, "your father was born, screaming like his namesake -- Elvis. The bodyguard stated by my side the entire time. In the morning, Elvis sent a bouquet of flowers."

My parent's bedroom door opens, and my father steps into the hallway looking spiffy. Okay, maybe he looks more odd than spiffy. He's got on the silly Elvis costume he keeps in the closet, alongside costumes that you might have found on other entertainers or high-profile personalities. Seeing my father in the Elvis costume always makes me smile. The black polyester trousers are too tight in the rear. The straight hems barely reach his black loafers. Beneath a tight white blazer with three silver buttons that won't close, he's got on a yellow ruffled shirt. The two buttons of the shirt nearest the neck are undone, revealing a patch of wispy gray chest hair.

My grandmother glances up and claps her hands. Then she brings two fingers to her lips and shrieks out a catcall. Having turned from the stove, my mother plants her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes. Trying not to laugh, I push the food around my plate some more. I've pretty much memorized this skit, and I wait for my father to sing.

When he reaches the table, he shuts his eyes, places one palm over his heart, and begins his beautiful rendition of Are You Lonesome Tonight.

My grandmother bites her lips, quietly watches. When the song ends she says to my father, “They're going to love you at the concert tonight.”

From across the kitchen, my mother wipes her hands on her apron and says, “Elvis, you've forgotten your gold rope chains.”

When my father tries to fling his arms into the air, I cover my mouth with my palm so no one can catch me laughing. The blazer my father's wearing is so tight it doesn't allow him to get his arms above his shoulders. "Oh," he says. "I'll get the gold chains now."

But then something different happens. My grandmother turns a stern eye toward my mother and snaps. “I don't remember anyone asking your opinion.” She turns back to my father and adds, "She's just worried that your fans won't be able to keep their hands off you."

My mother shakes her head and says, “Well, I don't think you should wear that outfit to the Sands tonight.”

"Mom," my father says, "check this out." He whirls, tries to do a silly shoulder shuck and drums the air in front of him with his fisted hands. "The King is back," he says, laughing.

“That's enough Elvis for one day,” my mother says. She crosses the kitchen, reaches out and takes the sleeve of his blazer. “Come on. Let's get you changed and off to work.”

My grandmother grumbles. “That overbearing wife of yours is afraid of losing you. Afraid women at your concert might throw their panties at you.”

While my mother silently returns to the stove, my father brushes some imaginary dust off his blazer. He struggles down onto one knee. I bite my lower lip and watch. I love this part. He begins to serenade my grandmother by singing a few bars from Unchained Melody.

He really does sing well, and when he gets to the part that goes 'Time, goes by so slowly. And time can do so much' some tears come to my grandmother's eyes.

“Oh, Christ,” my mother says, rolling her eyes. “Come on, honey. Seriously, Elvis. You need to get ready for work.”

My grandmother slams a hand on the table and I jerk back in my seat.“God damn it, Priscilla! Leave Elvis alone!”

I lay my fork down on the plate and glance away to my grandmother's closed bedroom door at the end of the empty hallway. My father quits singing. “Mom?” Then he looks to the stove where my mother stands wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Honey," my father says. "She didn't mean that. Connie, please. You know she doesn't know what she's saying.”

“Doesn't your father look stunning, Lisa-Marie?" my grandmother says, glancing across the table at me, smiling.

I shrug, turn my face down and stare at the eggs on my plate. Beneath the table, my hands tremble in my lap. She does that sometimes, my grandmother, addresses me as Lisa-Marie. She calls me lots of things, really. Yesterday I was little Caroline Kennedy.

My father stands up and runs his fingers through his thickly-gelled hair. “I should change,” he says, “get ready for work.”

When my grandmother picks her coffee cup up and takes a sip, I notice the cup trembling in her unsteady hands. She blinks a few times, then sets the cup back down on the saucer. She smiles across the table at me and says, “The dog got ran over by the ice cream truck.”

Glancing over her shoulder, my mother says, “Is that right, Irma?”

My father sighs, clears his throat and says, “I have to get ready for work.”

My grandmother looks up and says, “You're not going outdoors dressed like that, are you?”

“Well, I had a concert. Don't you remember?”

Shaking her head, my grandmother calls out to my mother, “Connie,” she says. “I hope you're not letting your husband out the door dressed like that.”

“Ricky thinks he's Elvis today,” my mother says.

She laughs, my grandmother, then she slams a palm on the table so hard some of the milk in my glass spills out and trickles down the side. “Elvis! You don't mean as in Elvis Presley, do you? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard.”

“Mom,” my father says. “Remember . . . you went into labor at an Elvis concert?”

She shakes her head again. "No son of mine is stomping around in public masquerading as Fat Elvis.”

After crossing the kitchen with the coffee pot, my mother refills my grandmother's cup. She says, “Irma, I picked up some of that red wool you wanted from Wal-Mart.”

My grandmother smiles and takes a sip of her steaming hot coffee. Her eyes grow big and she says, “I can't find my hula-hoop, Mommy. Have you seen it?”

“I haven't,” my mother replies. “But I can help you look for it, if you like.”

When my grandmother begins to cry, my mother crouches beside her and caresses the back of her hand. I don't say anything, just sit quietly and push the food around my plate. My father says, “Everything's all right, isn't it?.” He and my mother exchange worried glances.

A moment later my grandmother raises a hand and points a finger past me. “Oh, Carl,” she says. “You can see Alcatraz from here. Is it true no one has ever escaped that island and lived to tell about it?”

My father grows silent. My mother says, “It's true, Irma. Once you're locked up inside, there's no escaping that place.”