As always we took ELVIS’ people wherever they wanted to go in our Travelodge van and a lot of them were staying at the Howard Johnson’s, including Ricky, so I went over there as I concluded my night . . . Just like at the Travelodge, there were reporters hawking around like buzzards looking for the people that could give them a story, so the place was a madhouse. I went to Ricky’s room and found him there with our old friend Debbie. Needless to say he was inconsolable . . . she wasn’t holding up much better . . . He had a faraway look in his eyes and seemed dazed. I wanted to know what had happened, but I wasn’t going to start pumping him for answers to appease my curiosity; I was there for him, for whatever he needed . . . He would speak intermittently with disjointed phrases and we just let him get it out without much comment. He was in shock and it was the first time that I’d seen anyone so traumatized. He became very emotional at one point and blurted out; “The pain is over . . . He’s with God now, that’s what he always wanted . . . He’s meeting Jesus Christ and he’s happy . . . I know it.” Debbie and I both agreed with him and we bowed our heads for a minute. I had never heard him make any kind of religious references before and it was shortly thereafter that he turned his life around by committing himself to the worship of God . . . which no doubt would’ve made ELVIS pleased and proud . . .

After awhile some reporters came in and he spoke of ELVIS and his career in general terms without dishing any dirt, which didn’t hold their interest very long. They snapped a few pictures of him with Debbie, and I moved out of the way. A picture of the two of them together taken in the room that night was first published in The Star and I’ve seen it a hundred times since then and I’m sure most of you have as well.

After they left, Ricky went back into his shell and one of the last things he said that night to me was that he was worried people wouldn’t understand and would think that ELVIS was a bad person; then it hit him that Lisa Marie would have to grow up without her Daddy and that really hurt him . . . Pretty soon the phone rang and it was Vernon asking him to come up to the house and help out because everything was crazy. I offered to take Ricky up to the mansion and we rode down the packed street in silence. Someone I’d never seen before was at the gate and Ricky rolled down the window so that he’d know who was in the van. Ricky got a small taste of the guff he’d have to swallow from the fans for the next few decades when some began cussing at him. It was disgraceful! We shook hands as we pulled up and I said a casual “See ya later, man,” as he went in . . . it was the last time I ever drove up the hill and the last time that I ever spoke to Ricky . . .

As the world got through a fitful night, coroners performed the most infamous autopsy in history and must’ve spent a lot of that time coming up with the best way to say in medicalese that the reason ELVIS died was because his heart stopped beating. Cardiac Arrythmia was the term that they settled on and the controversy erupted . . . His body was released to the funeral home that morning and preparations began to make him look lifelike. The family sent the clothes over to the funeral home for ELVIS to be buried in; a rather subdued outfit given ELVIS’ penchant for sartorial splendor—a white dinner jacket, black slacks, a pale blue shirt and a silver necktie. Larry Geller was sent to work on his friend’s hair one last time and as deeply as Larry cared for him, I can’t imagine how he ever got through it without falling apart . . .

ELVIS’ corpse was in poor condition. He had lain face down in the carpet for a long time and so the lividity gathered in his face leaving it discolored and swollen. He had taken codeine the night before, which also made his face swell and he had bitten down hard on his tongue as he died, so his teeth had been smashed in order to get tubes down his throat hoping to revive him, so his mouth was misshapen. The embalmers and morticians did all that could be done and compensated by using an inordinate amount of materials on his face, which accounts for people describing him as looking waxen. You can bet that stuff was melting in the stifling humidity that day . . .

Overnight billboards went up along the boulevard, the most famous of which was the In Memoriam sign at the corner of E.P Blvd. and Craft Road where the Godfather’s Pizza was—which is where the Graceland Outlet is now . . . the billboard is still there . . . Naturally souvenir hawkers worked the crowd—many sent by Parker, who was not going to miss out on this golden opportunity to cash in.

Since the day before, people had been gathering at the gates, so more security was dispatched. The police had to stand guard over on Dolan and Charles streets, because fans were trespassing trying to look over or hop the back fences of ELVIS’ neighbors. Those arrested for the infraction were not charged, but they were held until after the funeral . . .

I was awakened the next morning by the sound of a thunderstorm and I immediately thought of the thousands of fans that were in front of Graceland and had been there all night . . . I got up and went to work like it was any other day, but it was hardly that. I was a comparatively moderate fan and had a small connection to the man and his life, so I felt sad, but I could feel the sorrow of the half a million people around me and it was as suffocating as the humidity. By late morning people in front of Graceland had begun to succumb to exhaustion, heat, dehydration, sorrow and hunger . . . but they wouldn’t budge . . . A state of emergency was declared and the Red Cross set up aid stations inside of Graceland to dispense water and salt tablets. Some local merchants sent food staples, but with 80,000 people out there at times and that many more on the way, it was more than the city could handle and disaster was practically inevitable . . .

The size of the crowd practically doubled in the early afternoon when it was announced that ELVIS would lie in state inside Graceland, so that his fans could come by and pay their respects. All day a steady stream of recognizable people rolled up the hill. Priscilla arrived just before Ann-Margaret got there. Burt Reynolds, was there and so was James Brown, and then there was a long list of those rumored to have attended ranging from John Wayne to Howard Hughes, but the person whose presence struck everyone as odd was Caroline Kennedy, who rushed to the scene so she could cover it as a journalist . . . but she was probably compelled by deeper reasons to be as close to this tragedy as possible . . .

At first there was a collective murmur then a wave of crying broke out as everyone in the crowd saw the white hearse pull into the church next door to Graceland, to enter through the side. If anyone was still holding onto their disbelief, it was squashed in that moment . . .

I made my first trip of the day over there in the late afternoon. I was in the Travelodge van and I had to go to Graceland to pick up the wife and children of one of ELVIS’ entourage, who had to fly home . . . I’ve racked my brain trying to remember who, but I just don’t know, because I never was able to pick them up . . . I slipped into the parking lot of the Meadow Oaks Apartments and parked the van, because I could get no closer without a police escort. I was only a couple of hundred yards away, but it took me nearly half an hour to get there. Uncle Vester was still holding down the fort at the gates, wearing a dark suit with an armband, and when he saw me he waved me over. He needed someone to help carry a prostrate man inside the gates to the aid station. I readily agreed to help anyway that I could then looked around for someone to help me. Standing a head taller than most I saw 6’5 Jeff Gaines from Ingomar, Mississippi and knew that I’d found my man. He kindly joined me and, with some effort, we carried this guy up the hill and handed him over to the nurses. I headed up the hill to the house to let them know that I was there and Jeff went along with me. I was that amazed when I got to the front door and saw that ELVIS in repose in the foyer and I stopped short, uncertain of what to do. The security people stepped forward to find out what we were doing there and so I told them. They didn’t know anything about it and directed us to leave. I looked past them over to where ELVIS was and I was crestfallen to see him like that. Maybe it was because of the look on my face, but the man relented a bit and asked if we wanted to pay our respects. I nodded and we stood there silently. After a moment ELVIS became a watery blur and I had to step away. Jeff and I walked down the hill sniffling and I went through the gates without inquiring further about the people that I was supposed to pick up. I retrieved the van and returned to the Travelodge where I promptly gave them my two-week-notice. What had once been such a happy place would always remind me of how close I was to this tragedy and I wanted to distance myself from as fast as I could . . . 12 years later during ELVIS Week ‘89 I bumped into Jeff and, having shared such a significant moment in life, we struck up a close lasting friendship.

After allowing brokenhearted fans to file by his coffin for a couple of hours, the gates were ordered, closed. The disappointment must have been audible all the way up the hill, because the gates were reopened for another hour-and-a-half . . . Still only 25,000 or so laid eyes on him at peace and the other three quarters of the growing crowd would not get to say their last farewell in person.

Parker barreled into the mansion some time that day wearing one of his patented loud Hawaiian shirts and true-to-form he boisterously declared, “This changes nothing; we’ll go on like nothing happened!” He stayed long enough to get the beleaguered and befuddled Vernon’s executor signature on a new contract then chugged out in a cloud of cigar smoke without so much as a sideways glance at his sole client for 22 years over in the coffin. Actually everything had changed, for Parker would make nearly four times what the estate was making in the next five years until the court put a stopple to it . . .

By nightfall the mood in the exhausted crowd was somber and respectful. Despite the crush of jostling fans there were no fights and no ugly scenes and their behavior was lauded as exemplary . . . but at about 4:00 a.m. on August 18 a tragedy of the highest order occurred when a drunk plowed into the crowd and slammed into three women sending two of them flying and dragging a third until his slow moving vehicle was stopped by police and fans. Memphian Treatise Wheeler had seemingly gone out of his way to smash into the crowd, observers recounted later. He was all over the road as he approached the crowd and then he stopped, turned around and floored it. It was apparent that the young woman he had dragged was dead on the scene and the two others were barely alive. The police rushed in to save the drunken murderer from the crowds that hollered out racial epithets at the Black man and, since he was obviously the guilty party, they wanted to take matters into there own hands and perform his execution on the spot—unfortunately the police got him out of there in time. 17-year old Tammy Baiter of St, Claire, Missouri ultimately survived her injuries, but Alice Marie Hovatar and Juanita Joanne Johnson, both 19, from Monroe, Louisiana were killed, and the thousands that were there wept for them as well and prayed that their souls would accompany ELVIS’ into the hereafter . . .

In the oldest of Southern traditions, ELVIS would lie in state in the parlor of his home for the private ceremony that overflowed the smaller front rooms. All of the gospel singers that had performed with ELVIS were there, singing his favorite hymns; many of his lovers were there consoling each other; his loved ones and true friends surrounded him, and his favorite preacher, Rex Humbard, delivered a frank eulogy . . . then it was time for ELVIS to leave his beloved Southern manor forever . . .

As the procession slowly cleared the gates and headed north up the boulevard, waves of hysteria began to grip the audience and their sobbing could be heard for blocks. From the gates of Graceland to the doors of the mausoleum where he was to be entombed, the fans were lined up ten deep. The cortege was stopped several times by fans; who just wanted to touch the hearse that carried the body of their beloved King. Many hollered out loving missives and others fainted from grief. All along the route police and fans saluted this patriotic American who had served his country so well and had given so much to humanity . . . others fell to their knees in prayer . . . On the west side of ELVIS PRESLEY Blvd. traffic was at a stand still as his neighbors not only pulled over, they got out of their cars and stood as he rolled by. At least a hundred other cars joined the parade and it took them over an hour to go less than 5 miles . . . Forrest Hills Cemetery was swimming in a sea of flowers; in fact it was the largest delivery day in FTD history. After a private ceremony inside the mausoleum, the funeral party disbanded and the fans were allowed to come up and take a flower as a memento . . .

The mausoleum where ELVIS originally rested was not far from his mother’s grave. There were other bodies at eternal slumber inside the chamber and ELVIS had his own wing where fans could walk up and view his plaque from behind a gate. Then, just weeks after ELVIS died, the F.B.I uncovered credible information that there was a plot to steal ELVIS’ body, so plans had to be made for special security. (In fact a few months later grave robbers snatched the body of Charlie Chaplin.) After two men were arrested making an attempt to remove ELVIS’ remains, Vernon quickly made arrangements to bring the bodies of his son and his wife back to Graceland, so that they could be interred in ELVIS’ favorite outdoor spot on the grounds.

On October 2, 1977, two white hearses entered the gates of Graceland led by a squad car and flanked by motorcycle police . . . Though Gladys had lived there barely a year, her presence was always felt inside the manor. From his heart ELVIS kept her spirit alive at Graceland; he probably never went a day where he didn’t invoke her name or memory. He had followed her out of those gates nineteen years before in sorrow and thought that she would never return, and now he would lead her back through the gates, along the winding driveway, up the tree lined hillside where they would rest in peace and never again be separated from each other or the land that they loved . . .

Years later Cousin Harold told me a story about that day. He and Uncle Vester accompanied Vernon to the cemetery to make the arrangements. Vernon had to show the special license he was granted by the City of Memphis and present the court ordered exhumation papers and interment permits. Once they got the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed, the director asked Vernon if he wanted to view his wife’s remains when they unearthed the casket. Well old Vernon about jumped out of his skin and cried out, “Oh Lordy, don’t open up that good woman’s casket for Heaven sake!”

The next day, October 3, 1977, the much- anticipated posthumous television special, “ELVIS In Concert,” aired and we all flocked to see it. I remember being mad that they cut away from ELVIS to show fans and souvenirs in the middle of his songs. It was really “The Parker Special,” and it was disappointing. In their attempt to hide ELVIS’ bloated appearance, they robbed his fans of some magnificent performances that could be heard on the album, ELVIS In Concert. Worse still, is that they never replay that special and only ancient Beta Max run offs exist. A re-cut and repackage of his precious last concert tour is long overdue . . . I was touched to note that in the last footage shot of ELVIS, he is driving away after the show and Ricky is walking along side the car with his hand on the roof escorting him out of the garage . . .