MANILA, Philippines - It is the beginning of the year so what am I doing? I am cleaning my house, my life, I am clearing everything. I better get this all done before I turn 70. All right, that’s a few years down the road, but nevertheless it feels like it is there, a shadow hovering over me like a mysterious scarf. When God let’s go it will become a shroud and I am gone.
But until then I am cleaning my house myself. Oh sure, I have someone who comes to clean for me regularly but every once in a while I have to clean the house myself, removing the light undetected dust from inside cabinets, using so many rags and sponges, so many basins of water initially crystal clear but dense and muddy soon enough. My nails are lined with black. It is horrible and not yet over.
To bring some joy to the drudgery of cleaning I turn on my TV set. That’s how I found out that recently it was the 78th birthday of Elvis Presley. 78! I said out loud to myself. Then flashes of Elvis filled the room. Oh, what a good-looking guy he was! He looked so tall on the movie screen. I remember watching him in Jailhouse Rock when I was a freshman in high school. My gangmates — Buki Richardson, who now lives in California, Ting-ting de los Reyes, now running for public office, Chingbee Kalaw, who I still see for lunch these days, and Josine Loinaz, who I have not seen since we graduated high school — and I went to see him.
We were very innocent then, only 13 years old and unaware that our hormones were working overtime. We went to the first showing. If memory serves me right it was at the old Ideal theater. I think the first showing was around 8:30 a.m. and we did not leave the theater until 5 p.m. We loved watching Elvis Presley move. We loved his songs. We couldn’t have enough so we stayed and stayed and stayed. He was the musical idol of our era.
He was the singer of my first theme song with my first boyfriend. I’m sorry but I am giggling hard as I write this. Baby let me be your lovin’ teddy bear. Put a chain around my neck and lead me anywhere oh let me be (dramatic pause) your teddy bear. Don’t want to be your tiger, tigers scratch too much. Don’t want to be your lion ‘cause lions ain’t the kind you love enough. Just let me be, your teddy bear. . . That was the theme song. We thought it was so-o-o-o-o romantic. How naïve we were!
At our jam sessions — that’s what we called our parties then — Elvis reigned. They played his songs and we got up and danced the boogie in our three-inch high heels. Jailhouse Rock, Don’t be Cruel, Blue Suede Shoes, Hound Dog. Those were the songs of my era. And, who can forget the Elvis version of Are You Lonesome Tonight? You danced it with that moment’s love, who took your hand then twisted it over his heart so you could feel it beat — thump, thump, thump. You danced forehead-to-forehead or cheek-to-cheek, close. Your hand was not at the tip of his shoulder, where it was when you danced with someone you did not know or did not like. You didn’t put your elbow in the crook of his arm to prevent him from pulling you too close. Omigod, it was heavenly.
Remembering it all is heavenly because you erase the red tiles on the terrace floor, the sweat, the heavy breathing, the loud thumping of the heart, the desire to kiss but ... the effort to hold back. It was romantic to be young and innocent and restrained. We all loved it.
I love it now, thinking about it, remembering it. In my book nobody could move like Elvis Presley. He moved his hips circularly so smoothly. If I had met him in my 30s, when I had a whopper of a mid-life crisis, he would have driven me mad. He had MOVEMENTS that woke up something we could not identify then. Now I know what it was but I won’t tell. It would remove the mystery of Elvis and his Magical Pelvis.
Since then I have seen innumerable Elvis look-alike contests. Nobody moves like Elvis did. He was young and vital then. Those were his really sexy years. I think he was in his 30s. Then he matured, put on a lot of weight, lost his magic. His figure got too pouchy for his glittery outfits. He lost his appeal.
Now if he were alive he would be 78. Can he be as graceful and sexy with a cane? No, no, no. Let me just keep him alive in my memory, there to rock and roll forever. I can air him again maybe at the same time next year when I’m cleaning my house. I can shuffle — the boogie’s basic step — again on my way to the kitchen to throw out the muddy water.
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