Revelations and Rebuilding. By Becca Sokolov (beccalov)

Elvis and the Ghosts

August 15, 2010 at 9:20 am (Atlanta music, death, divorce, family, humor, infidelity, music) (affairs, Atlanta, divorce, elvis, family, humor, infidelity, King Sized, marriage, Variety Playhouse)

Elvis died 33 years ago this week.  I was 7 and have no idea where I was or if I knew.  My new dad would for sure have known…he loved rock and roll, and Elvis was the King.  I don’t remember anyone telling me, and I can’t really remember dad ever playing Elvis for me the way he played Dylan.  But still, the King was dead.

Last night, I took friends to make tribute to the King.  Ben’s guitar teacher’s band is called King Sized, possibly in honor of the King, but more likely because the lead singer is the size of King Kong.  They’ve been doing an Elvis tribute show for years; I’ve been wanting to see Robert perform for years, too.  So, Caroline and Beau and I primped for the Variety Playhouse and hopefully some campy fun.

We started out in the balcony, where we were astonishingly the youngest people.  Beau has cracked ribs from a run in with the river, so we were looking for a place to keep him safe.  It was comfy, and the show was a true spectacle, with Big Mike doing Elvis proud.  We got sucked into the energy (and possibly Beau wanted to be closer to the burlesque dancers), so at intermission we weaved our way to the front of the floor crowd.

That’s when I saw a ghost, but it wasn’t Elvis.  Right in front of me, although I didn’t recognize him until he turned around.  For the first time in years, I was looking directly into the eyes of Justin, Tiffani’s ex-husband.  The last time I spoke to him, we were reeling from his daughter’s discovery that his wife and my husband were having an affair.  He was trying to win her back and told me how pointless my anger was, and how really she was a good person who had made one mistake.  I stopped calling him after that.  For God’s sake, did I really need two men telling me how great she was and how shitty I am?

Justin and Tiffani were part of my family for years.  They were my best and really only friends in Atlanta.  I borrowed their ipod player to use in the delivery room when Tillie was born.  Ben had his first sleepover (probably his first 50) with their son.  They came and went from my house like you would from your sister’s.  They were always there, even living with us for the better part of December of 2007, right before everything fell apart.

I think about Justin every day since we last talked in April of 2008.  I wonder if his life is more stable without Tiffani, how his plotline of what happened to us had changed, if he gets treated the way I do by the pair of them.  I always say that they can’t possibly treat Justin the way they treat me, or someone would be dead by now.  In my mind, Justin is angrier and more powerful than he is in real life.  Not that he couldn’t kill a man, though.

So, I’m looking in his eyes, remember.  And it is like a blow to the chest.  The feelings of loss of Brett, of my family, of our families, and even of his friendship wash right through my ribcage, and I’ve got tears streaming down my face while the crowd around me dances along with Dames Aflame.

Then, for reasons passing understanding, Big Mike breaks into an Elvis-inspired version of Bridge Over Troubled Water.  I know every word, every breath Art Garfunkel takes in this song, both the live and studio versions.  My dad and I sang Simon and Garfunkel together my whole life, or at least my whole life with him.  Which started the same year Elvis died and ended in July.  Without Brett, without Tiffani and Justin, without dad, who will comfort me when evening falls so hard?  How can evening fall so hard so often?

Still, I’m standing in the middle of a crowd of Elvis fans, who are singing along with some irony but with passion.  I still have this feeling of shame, like “who cries during a Simon and Garfunkel song at an Elvis show,” right?  And here’s Justin, and also Robert-the-guitar-teacher-martial-artist-motorcycle-riding-rocker, cool musician types with wallets on chains, and I’m crying.

Damn you, Elvis.  Give me a little Viva Las Vegas or something, maybe Nothing but a Hound Dog…then at least I could fit in with my crying all the time.

The next song, though, is a Sinatra classic.  “And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain.”  The words to this song are etched on my heart.  I sang them over and over again on July 6, the day after my dad died—our first day without him.  He wanted that song at his funeral–always had.  Rabbi Ann thought I should sing it; she would sing it with me if I needed her to.  We belted it out together as the closing of my father’s funeral.  And may I say, not in a shy way.

Big Mike kept going, sounding every bit Elvis.  Caroline snuck her arms around me from behind and held my shoulders while I sang loud with tears streaming.

Shit, who was doing this set list?  Is that you, dad?  Maybe I really did see a ghost.