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Sunday journal

One night with Elvis

By KIM CROSS
Published March 12, 2006

Somehow I've convinced our friends that it's a good idea to let me draw sideburns on their cheeks with a black eyeliner pencil. Maybe it's the margaritas. But it seems like the right thing to do when you're going to see Elvis in a north Georgia dive. The sideburns look a little odd on Laurie and me, but they suit the guys.

We've been talking all weekend about going to see Elvis. On the way to our cabin on Lake Lanier, we spotted an intriguing sign at the Lantern Inn, a roadside restaurant and nightclub: "Elvis: Live Entertainment." The sign features a photo of someone impersonating the king in his better years. Apparently Elvis leaves this building several times a week.

Thoroughly sideburned, we arrive to find Elvis prancing around on a small stage. His white, chest-baring jumpsuit sparkles with silver studs. He looks to be in his late 20s or early 30s, and appears to have grown real sideburns beneath his gold-framed glasses. His singing voice is more than respectable, though he doesn't sound quite like Elvis. When he talks, he sounds like Jeff Foxworthy with an Elvis accent.

"This suit's like a cheap hotel," he says, tugging at the fabric around the crotch. "Ain't got no ballroom in it."

Elvis sings classics like All Shook Up to a karaoke machine. He flirts with the audience and drapes red sashes around the necks of fawning women. He makes jokes mostly at his own expense, and with a redneck bent. We roll our eyes, but we're laughing.

Elvis bums a cigarette from the audience, lights it on stage, and positions it in a rafter so that a tiny curl of smoke wafts down. "This right here's a redneck fog machine," he says. "Elvis had a six-piece band. I've got Pops."

Pops is his dad. He DJs the show near an amp case covered with stickers reading, "Who died and made you Elvis?" and "Honk once if you're Jesus, twice if you're Elvis." Pops is earnest and sweet. You kind of want to hug him.

On this Saturday night, skinny biker dudes share the room with corpulent boys in camouflage ball caps. Crusty old men in cowboy hats sit a couple of rows down from clusters of sorority girls in tight jeans and tighter tank tops. A few families have brought toddlers. Coexisting peacefully in the land of Elvis, they're all seated at unadorned folding tables and chairs, finishing their meat-'n-three suppers.

"Nice a--, Elvis," someone hollers from the crowd.

Somebody else shouts, "Freeeeebiiiiirrrrrrd!"

Elvis flips the guy off. "That's a free bird right there," he deadpans.

Singing Burning Love (you know, hunka hunka), Elvis makes his way through the crowd, interacting with people and draping red sashes around women's necks. When he gets to our table, he does a double-take.

"Oh, I like them sideburns," he says. "Y'all are sick."

Up close, I notice his gold TCB necklace among the beads of sweat. He's actually kind of cute. Elvis drapes a red sash around Laurie's neck and mine. It's just a strip of polyester cut with pinking shears. It's stamped in ink with a sort of autograph: Best wishes & love, Mike - as Elvis.

When Elvis goes on break, we make our way to the bar. Our sideburns draw wary glances. People think we're making fun of Elvis. Then they smile, realizing we're just a bunch of goofs, and we're actually kind of into this.

We spot Elvis across the room in a tangle of fans and pick our way through the crowd to meet him. "You're awesome!" I tell him.

"Thank you," he says. Off stage, he's surprisingly shy. "I like your sideburns."

Our friend Mike invites Elvis to join us for a shot. Elvis thinks for a moment, mumbles something in Mike's ear. Mike returns to us, arms spread wide and triumphant. "He wants a Purple Hooter!" But when we turn around, Elvis has slipped away. We wait for a while, holding our Purple Hooters, hoping he'll come back.

"Y'all are going to be waitin' a long time," the bartender tells us. "Elvis don't drink."

She's right. Elvis has left the bar. The neon Elvis sign has been turned off and the stage overtaken by a proper roadside band singing Family Tradition and You Never Even Call Me By My Name. Our Purple Hooters taste like Kool-Aid.

On our way out we spot Elvis, out of his jumpsuit now. Dark hair combed back, he looks like a handsome greaser. The front of the restaurant has been remodeled to resemble a 1950s diner - black-and-white checkered floors, vinyl booths, art deco counter; Elvis completes the illusion that we've flashed back to Happy Days. A pretty, buxom brunette works behind the counter in a low-cut blouse. We later find out that's Elvis' wife.

We approach him again, and he's shyer than ever, almost embarrassed. His name is Mike and he's the fry cook at his parents' restaurant. Turns out I was all wrong about his age - he's 45. It was his father who bought the karaoke machine and convinced him to do an Elvis show. That was how he met his wife. She came here from Atlanta to see Elvis and ended up marrying him.

When he's not frying catfish or singing All Shook Up, Mike works as a trash collector. A story in the local paper says that Jeff Foxworthy's father happens to live on his route. When Mr. Foxworthy found out who collects his trash, he made a T-shirt that says, "You might be a redneck if ... Elvis is your garbage man."

Kim Cross, a former St. Petersburg Times intern, is a travel writer in Birmingham, Ala.

[Last modified March 10, 2006, 12:07:51]