My Elvis Story by: Harden (Bull) Durham

When I was a little boy (and, really cute!) we used to go to Memphis a couple times a month. I had bunches of relatives there, and my daddy liked to buy his suits from a store whose name escapes me now. Anyway, it was quite a drive up 51 Highway, many years before I-55 was built. We’d load up in the car and Daddy would drive 100 miles an hour, passing every car on the way up. Mom would be wringing her hands and doing a lot of praying. Charles and I would be in the back, laughing our little asses off, yelling, “Go faster, Daddy!” The thought of wearing a seat belt never entered into anybody’s mind. Good times.

So, anyhow, we’d make it, miraculously. My girl cousins would all be there, and we played all kinds of games and stuff. My Uncle Bobby was one of the funniest people ever born and told great stories. My Aunt Annie Ruth was way cool and a great cook. My grandmother on my mom’s side lived there with her second husband (1st. one died of cancer before I was born) whom we all called ‘Uncle Joe’. He was the manager of Katz Drug Store on Lamar, I believe.

I didn’t give a damn about any of that. There were three things I wanted to do in Memphis: 1. go to Katz and get a toy. 2. ride the mechanical pony for a nickel that sat outside Katz. and, 3. ride by Elvis’s house. I didn’t care when we did those three things, and we really didn’t even have to stop at Elvis’s but, many times, we would. Once we finished doing those three things, I’d have just as soon gone back home. Usually, the Elvis drive-by was the last thing we did, as it was on 51 Highway-same street we lived on-now, Elvis Presley Boulevard, and on our way home.

One particular Sunday, as we were getting ready to go back to Durant, I am in the back seat alone (Charles is staying with Uncle Bobby and Aunt Annie Ruth for a week or so). I am like, ”Let’s go by Elvis’s! Let’s go by Elvis’s!” in my pipsqueak voice. Daddy has let Mom drive – a rare thing indeed – and, he says, “Take his ass by Elvis’s so he’ll shut up.” We pull up in front of Graceland and, there are 40-50 people – mostly women – standing at the gate, so we know Elvis is home. Daddy says, “Go up there and tell the guard you want to see Elvis.” I jump from the car and stroll up to the gate. I am six. I push my way through the crowd, but some big girl pushes me back. I walk back to the car, crying. Daddy rolls the window down and asks me what is wrong. “They won’t let me in!” I scream. He pulls a $50 bill from his roll and says, “You go back up there and tell that son-of-a-bitch you want to see Elvis.”

Back I go, worming my way through the screaming throng. I get all the way to the gate and one of the guards spots me, holding the $50 in my hand, with tears rolling down my cheeks. He walks over and says, “Can I help you, son?” “I want to see Elvis,” I tell him. He starts laughing his head off, and tells the other guard to open the gate for him. He takes my hand and says, “Where’s your parents?” I point to the car, and he walks me back to Mom and Dad, still sitting there. Daddy rolls the window down again, and the guard says, “This is the cutest little boy. I can’t stand to see him crying. Elvis isn’t here. He’s playing football over at Humes High School,” and gives us directions. He opens the back door for me, and takes the $50.

We drive over to Humes and, sure enough, there’s Elvis and a bunch of other guys playing a rough game of touch. There must be 60 -70 cars ringing the field, so we pull around to one of the end zones. We watch for awhile, and at halftime a van pulls up on the 50 yard line. All the players and Elvis walk over to the van. Daddy says, “Well, get your ass over there and see Elvis.”

I leap out of the car and take off running towards the van. Elvis had gone inside with several others, and there were many people milling about outside. I walk up, look through the side window, and there he is. Elvis. The King. I freeze. Can not move a muscle.

What I haven’t told you is, I idolized Elvis. I would stand in front of a mirror at 4-5 years old, holding my mom’s hairbrush and, pantomime Elvis for an hour. I made them play his records over and over. Even then, I loved all kinds of music, but Elvis music was special to me. I never missed him on TV – They would let me stay up late when he was on – and I knew the words to every Elvis song. To say he was my greatest hero would be putting it mildly. It was almost unhealthy, now that I think about it.

Back to the story. There I stand, looking up at my idol, frozen in place. No one hardly notices me, but he keeps turning and looking back at me. He says, “Every time I turn around, this little boy is staring at me.” One of his bodyguards comes over, picks me up, and puts my face to the glass. Then, he knocks, and when Elvis looks, he jumps, starts laughing, and says, “Bring him in here.” The guy carries me around to the back of the van and sets me down inside. I fly into Elvis’s lap, jumping all over him. “Watch your language, boys. We got little ears here,” he says.

Well, as we say in Mississippi, I’m in hog heaven. “You want something to drink, little boy??” he asks me.

“Nehi Grape,” is all I can say.

Elvis looks around and says, “You heard him. Get him a Nehi Grape.” Sure enough, someone brings me one. I sit there, listening to them talking. Some guy walks up to the back of the van and says, “Second half, we’re gonna’ kick ya’ll’s asses!” Elvis says, “Hey! I SAID watch your language!”

I’m sitting in Elvis’s lap, looking at his face, just inches from mine. “What’s your name, son?” he asks me.

“Bull Durham “ I tell him, and, the whole van just explodes in laughter. It is rocking, they are laughing so hard. Elvis has tears rolling down his face. “Why are you crying?” I ask him.

“No, no, no! It’s ok,” he says, choking back the laughter. After several minutes of everybody saying, “His name is Bull Durham!” Elvis says, “Well, do you have something to tell me?”

“Mr. Elvis,” I say, “I love you.” This, I know now, touches him, and he gets really quiet. “Well, I love you, too.”

I sit there in the van with them for 30 minutes. There are several hundred people trying to get a glimpse of him, and there I am, sitting in his lap with my Nehi Grape.

“Can I come home with you?’“ I ask.

He is shocked again and says, “Why do you want to come home with me?”

“I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” I say.

Again, the van explodes in laughter and Elvis can hardly catch his breath. Finally, through the guffaws, he says, “Where are your folks?” I point towards the white Cadillac sitting in the end zone.

“That’s just like my car!” he exclaims. “I’ve got to go win this football game but, you go tell your parents that when we leave here, follow me to my house. Then, I’ll fix you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

I jump from Elvis’s lap and spring out the back doors, running for the car. Mama and Daddy are sitting there, smiling, as I run up screaming, “We’re going to Elvis’s house! We’re going to Elvis’s house!” over and over again. I get in the back seat, and I’m bouncing like a rubber ball, just repeating, “We’re going to Elvis’s!” They just laugh and try to get me to tell them what was going on in the van. I tell them everything that was said, and that Elvis said he’d fix me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. They just continue laughing.

We watch the second half. I can’t be still. When it’s over, Elvis turns to our car and waves. His motorcade loads up, and, sure enough, we swing in right behind it. I’m in the back, bouncing, still singing, “We’re going to Elvis’s house!” over and over. When we get to 51, they take a right, going back to Graceland. It was the happiest moment of my life.

We take a left.

“Where are you going?” I ask. “You’re supposed to follow Elvis!”

Daddy says, “Elvis didn’t tell you we could come to his house. Now, we took you to see him. It’s time to go back home.”

“NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I scream, at the top of my lungs. “ELVIS SAID FOLLOW HIM TO HIS HOUSE! YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!”

“You hush, now, Bull. We can’t be going to Elvis’s. He didn’t say that, and you need to settle down.”

Well, I don’t. I scream. I pound the seats. I threaten to jump out of the car. At one point, Daddy makes Mama pull over, and he is gonna’ put me out. When he sees that I will get out, he locks the doors and tells her, “Punch it, Faye!”

I scream for 145 miles. They threaten to whip me, sell me to the gypsies, all kinds of stuff, but nothing they say or do makes me stop. They promise me toys when we get back home if I’ll be quiet, and finally, I do get a whipping on the side of the road, just about Grenada, Miss. Does absolutely no good. There is no stopping this train.

I fall asleep for the last 20 miles, or so, from sheer exhaustion from screaming. Next day, I wake up with my clothes on, on top of the covers. They had carried me into the house and laid me on the bed without undressing me, for fear I’d start up, again.

I wake up the next day, and walk to town. My daddy is sitting in his chair in the store. I walk in, and go straight up to him with my hand out.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“ Want my toy you promised,” I say.

“That was if you’d shut up,” he says.

“I WANT MY TOY ‘CAUSE, YOU WOULDN’T TAKE ME TO ELVIS’S HOUSE SO I COULD EAT A PEANUTBUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICH!” I yell, starting to tear up again.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls a $10 bill off the roll, and hands it to me. I walk around to the 10 cent store, buy $10 worth of plastic toys, bring them back to the store, and set them on fire out back in the alley.

A lot of nasty things have been said about Elvis over the years, but on that day, he was so kind, so gentle and protective. I can overlook all the bad things he might have ever done. To be that way with a child he never knew just blows my mind.

It was 20 years ’til I convinced Mama I was telling the truth. Daddy never believed me. Asshole.