Robert Wells - Elvis - The Siege of Graceland and Other Stories

“Blubber? Blubber?” he hears a woman muttering. “Why would anyone be called Blubber unless they are a whale?”

He bends down again to get his face as close as possible to the letterbox to say that his name is actually Bubba and they want her to star in a musical remake of one of her old films. He reels backwards when he suddenly sees a large pair of black sunglasses confronting him from the other side of the letterbox.

“I don’t do musicals. I was a serious actress and now I am retired.”

Remembering the Colonel’s instruction about whatever it takes, there is one more thing he can try, so he tells her that he is going to slide a blank cheque through the letterbox and he wants her to fill it in with a number that has a lot of noughts. And that will be her fee for making the film.

There is a long silence and then the door of the apartment begins to open slowly.

“Do come in Mr. Blubber,” she says and he enters a huge pine-panelled room with big windows and spectacular views of the East River. The Colonel said that although it was a long time ago, Greta Garbo was once the queen of Hollywood and that she is still revered; certainly, her apartment is a palace and she looks regal as she sits poised on a sofa as if waiting to have her picture taken for Vogue. He glances at a painting on the wall signed by someone called Renoir that looks a bit rough and ready in contrast with the cool elegance of the rest of the room. Perhaps a nice pale pine frame might help it blend in better with the rest of the décor.

She explains that she has been out of the movies for many years and would be grateful if he would help her with advice. “I’m very naïve how things are done nowadays but,” she smiles as she wags her finger at him, “not so much that I won’t notice if some noughts begin to disappear from that cheque you gave me. Is Jefferson Davis a new bank? I’ve not heard of it.”

Bubba decides that caution is the best course and, rather than give some blanket assurances about integrity and honesty, he confines himself to saying that Hal Wallis and Colonel Parker are very experienced businessmen who have made many very successful movies together.

“Like ‘Casablanca’,” he adds and receives an approving nod of the head from Miss Garbo.

Seeking to quickly change the subject, he comments on the remarkable similarity of Elvis to the former movie actor John Gilbert, not letting on, of course, that he was believed to be Greta Garbo’s lover. It is a carefully planned throwaway line that he hopes might help clinch the deal.

“Hmm, I’m intrigued. Tell me more about this Elvis and the new film.”

Colonel Parker touches heaven and hell within the space of a five-minute phone call with his assistant. He roars with delight, like a stag that has seen a mate on the other side of the glen, at the news that she wants to do the movie. But next, he is roaring like an enraged gorilla that has just missed out on a bunch of bananas at the news that Miss Garbo has asked Bubba to be her advisor. “You worm, you traitor,” he yells down the phone. “You’re supposed to be working for me and Elvis!”

“That’s what I’m doing, Colonel, sir. And I clearly recollect you telling me to do whatever it takes.”

He decides not to mention at this stage how many noughts Miss Garbo has put on the cheque.

Several days later Elvis, considerably cheered by the news that Greta Garbo has agreed to do the movie, is walking with a spring in his step down the corridor towards Colonel Parker’s office to talk with him about setting up a meeting with his new co-star. As he goes to open the door, he hears Bubba declare with some emotion, “But sir, you can’t do that! I’m sure the best years are still to come.”

“I’m a businessman and sometimes you have to make tough decisions,” retorts the Colonel heatedly.

Elvis knocks on the door and immediately senses the tension; he asks what is going on. “Surely, you can’t be arguing about Miss Garbo?!” he demands. “That’s what this meeting is all about, isn’t it?”

“I wish it was, Elvis, but what is happening is that the Colonel is planning to get rid of his dancing chickens like he is the grim reaper,” says Bubba, waving his arms, as if reinforcing his feelings by semaphore. “He says they are old and past it. And what’s more, he’s going to hold auditions to recruit a whole new troupe of Dixie Chickens.”

Elvis tries to rationalise how someone as old as Greta Garbo, who retired more than 30 years ago, is suddenly back in demand as a hot property, while the Dixie Chickens, who always draw big crowds whenever they perform, are probably destined for some fried chicken fast food restaurant because they’re too old. He supposes the relevance of age depends upon who you are and how you are perceived. It is a philosophical conundrum he must discuss later with his hairdresser, Larry Geller.

“Colonel, sir, please remember these chickens gave you your first big break in show business. How can you do this?” pleads his assistant.

“Well, not exactly these chickens. But yes, ones like them. Dancing chickens was my first act when I started out in carny. And nobody can deny what I’ve done for the cause of chickens in entertainment over the years. But from time to time, you’ve gotta renew the act.”

The Colonel pushes back his yellow straw trilby and mops his brow with an old ‘Loving You’ handkerchief. “It’s like this, boys. They are getting too old and their routines lack snap and sparkle. What the Dixie Chickens fans want, and what I intend to give them, is a younger, better looking, and higher kicking line-up of dancers.” (What may not be apparent to the audience at their shows, since they are never allowed to get too close, is that the act consists of the chickens being put on a hot plate covered with straw. This causes them to hop about to various tunes, always beginning with their theme song ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’.)

“How old is Greta Garbo? Yet she doesn’t get recycled.”

“Well, yes, but she lives a lot longer than a chicken.”

Elvis tries to put it as delicately as possible – why does he need an audition. Don’t all chickens look the same?

“Forgive me for saying this, son, but that’s an amateur talking,” replies Colonel Parker. “To a professional like me, and also their hard core fans, we can spot a Ginger Rogers straight away from a clodhopper. We need new blood. We’ve got to regenerate the act.”

“But, Colonel Parker, sir, what will become of the existing Dixie Chickens?” asks Elvis.

Bubba, still clearly affected by the situation, interrupts. “He’s talking about giving them to Minnie Mae for the stewpot. I do declare, can you imagine anything more hideous. One night soon we might all be sitting around the table at Graceland and fine dining on the Dixie Chickens. Eating our old friends. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Elvis wonders why they cannot be sent to one of those retirement homes for showbusiness people in the Catskills. There they’ll be able to scratch around and roost in comfortable surroundings with other retired fellow performers, and from time to time people like the comedian Jackie Mason will come to entertain them. It all seems so simple and sensible to him.

“No No No No No,” says the Colonel decisively, shaking his head for emphasis, and causing his chins to ripple like waves breaking on the seashore. “It’s a question of economics, son. Those places are very expensive and we don’t want a drain like that on our resources.”

In the end, Elvis and Bubba get him to agree not to do anything too calamitous until he has spoken to them again.

“That heartless brute!” declares Elvis’s wife, Priscilla, when she hears what is happening. “I’m going to tell that callous Colonel Parker we’ll make a home for them right here at Graceland. It’s the very least they deserve. Why I believe they’ll be so happy they’ll be laying lots of eggs in no time at all.”