The boy is nervous as we drive to the studio.
“Don’t be,” I tell him. “Remember, I’m here, and you were born for this.”
“Thank you,” he says. “I don’t know. I just hope it’ll…”
“Breathe in. Slowly. Then out.” I guide him through it. “Centre yourself. Find your core before you walk in. I’ll be just outside, waiting. Alright?”
“Alright,” he says, and in he goes.
***
It feels like forever before Bill steps out for a cigarette.
“Oh, hi,” he says, surprised. “Didn’t know you’d be here. Good to see you again.”
“How’s it going?” I ask.
He exhales a thin stream of smoke into the early evening air.
“To be honest… not great. We can’t seem to find our groove.” He frowns. “I dunno. I better head back in.”
“Good luck,” I say.
“Thanks. Good seein’ you,” he says, and disappears back inside.
An hour later, the boy comes out looking cheery.
“Yes?” I ask.
“We finally figured out what to play,” he says. “It’s gonna be a while still, though. You don’t have to wait, I’m sorry for keepin’ you here all afternoon.”
Sam sticks his head out the door.
“Hey,” he calls. “She can come in, Elvis.”
He waves me in, and I blink. “You sure?”
“Come on,” he says. “We can’t have a pretty little lady like you sitting out here on your own.”
That night, Elvis, Scotty, Bill, and Sam record the A-side of their first single at Sun. That’s All Right is in the can. Two days later, Sam brings two full-sided acetates down to Dewey at WHBQ.
***
The boy and I are at the movies when his mother storms in, her usual way, to drag him out. This time, she’s in a hurry.
She swats him with a rolled-up newspaper.
“Jump for your life, King Kong is in town!” I chortle.
Neither of us has an ounce of impulse control, we have that in common. But then, to my surprise, she aims the paper at me too.
“Don’t you sass me, Miss Birdie. You’d do well to learn some manners.”
I apologise immediately. I know she thinks Dixie, his little girlfriend, is more suitable than me. Dixie is traditional and sweet. I’m not. I have the same temperament as her unruly son.
Mrs P is a force when she needs something done. Apparently, That’s All Right is getting played nonstop down at the station. Dewey’s been spinning it all evening, and people are calling in, even turning up in person, just to hear it again.
The boy is needed at the Hotel Chisca, where WHBQ is based. We rush over, and, hey presto! –he’s suddenly on air, being interviewed without even knowing it.
His world’s caught fire. He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
In the next few days, they record a full single with Blue Moon of Kentucky on the B-side. Rock’n’roll history is being made, all because of the genius of Sam Phillips and Marion Keisker.
***
I’ve never seen anything move so fast.
Thursday, he’s on the radio.
Monday, he’s signed a contract.
Saturday, their first gig.
The next Saturday, another.
Two days later, Sam’s booking shows.
The boy has a proper contract now, signed by his parents, since he’s still under twenty-one and can’t sign it himself.
Tuesday, he gives his first newspaper interview.
Wednesday, he’s in the paper, though they’ve spelt his name wrong.
“I ain’t no Ellis Presley,” he says, flipping through the Press-Scimitar, laughing.
Friday, another gig.
Dixie’s back from her holiday and shows up with her parents, making things slightly awkward.
He decides to go all in. He’s nervous, legs shaking, but he covers it by bouncing onstage like he’s seen Big Chief do. The girls go wild. I watch the crowd, I watch him, and I think, I’m seeing something the world’s never seen before. He comes back for an encore, and when it’s over, we look at each other in that quiet way and smile.
This is it.
This is it!
***
“I have to go to Newport soon,” I tell him. “Will you be alright?”
“Can I telephone you up there?” he asks, pleading.
“Of course. I’ll write the number down for you.”
“I guess you gotta go live your life now,” he sighs.
He doesn’t say it aloud, but maybe it’ll be easier for him with me gone, now that Dixie’s back.
I think about that book by Kahlil Gibran, how we’re meant to fill our cups apart, then return to share. The point is, I’m fine.
He has to live his life. I have to live mine.
We’ll come together when we can, as we choose.
There’s an inherent security between us, something forged in childhood and deepened by growing up together, by being together and by being apart.
***
On Rhode Island, Topper points out that my old boyfriend is mentioned in Billboard.
“They’re calling him ‘a strong new talent,’” he says. “Did you know this?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I actually brought the single up here. I was there when they recorded it.”
Topper looks surprised, and impressed. “Brilliant. Let’s hear it.”
I put the record on, and as his voice comes through, blue moon, blue moon, then the song kicks in properly, and Topper taps the rhythm on his thigh.
“I get it now,” he says. “I actually get it.”
That evening, Cornelia hosts a party at the house. Topper puts the record on again.
“That’s so good, what is this?” someone asks. A small crowd forms, Radcliffe girls in pearls, Harvard boys with cocktails in hand.
“This is a new sound,” one of the boys declares.
“Is he black?” asks a girl with a clipped accent.
Topper glances at me for a cue, but I shake my head ever so slightly, and put my index finger to my lips. He doesn’t say a word about my connection to the boy, and everyone scribbles down the name, planning to look for it at the record store next week.
Back in Memphis, the boy is playing regular gigs at The Eagle’s Nest. He’s doing radio spots with Scotty and Bill, handing out promo records, and riding the wave.
He calls me now and then to update me on his news.
“We’re playin’ almost every night now,” he says. “It’s wild. You wouldn’t believe the crowds.”
“I bet,” I say, smiling into the receiver.
“Are you comin’ home soon? I want you to see us. It’s a riot.”
“I’ll think about it. I’ll try.”
“Good. I miss you,” he adds.
But I’m not sure he really does. What matters is that he’s exactly where he needs to be, and he’s found something that gives his life shape.
I suppose I ought to feel conflicted. But I don’t.
I see it clearly.
I’ll always be connected to him, whatever happens, that won’t change. But our lives may go in different directions.
I think his life will be bigger than mine.
And that’s alright.
That kind of life isn’t for me.
But it might be his fate.
My World of Interiors 