Early Travels with the King

 

            Elvis Presley boarded my airline flights. Twice.

In the 1960s, most country stars, Johnny Cash, Roger Miller, Eddy Arnold, Jimmie Rodgers, Chet Atkins, the Everly Brothers, and more, were all professionally based in Nashville, the Music City. But Elvis lived in Memphis.

The first time we met, he boarded my morning flight from Los Angeles to Memphis. The down home boy, by then over 30-years-old, routinely traveled with two or three high school buddies from Memphis. They were his age, but in my mind, they were still juveniles. One step up from delinquent. On that particular full flight, “the guys” were seated in the coach section, Elvis was in first class.

Elvis was taller than I expected, slim and almost shy. His smiled quietly, sort of an “Aw shucks, Ma’am,” demeanor. He did call me ma’am. He settled in his last row seat, engrossed in a magazine as the crowd of passengers trudged onboard. An older businessman claimed the seat beside Elvis, exchanged polite pleasantries, and opened his briefcase for a morning’s work. I’m still not sure whether he recognized the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Maybe he lived under a rock.

Elvis stretched his legs after breakfast. “Ma’am, is it possible to get a Dr. Pepper, please?” That’s just how he was, incredibly polite. And I had to disappoint him. I don’t remember what he accepted, probably a Coke, but I could tell it just wasn’t the same. We chatted briefly about the film he had just finished. He couldn’t wait to get home.

There was no rude, self-important Hollywood star in that nice Southern gentleman. But there was still some boy left. I learned about that on our next mutual flight, more than a year later.

It was a night flight from Memphis to Dallas. He boarded with “the guys.” Their first-class seats were scattered through the four rows totaling 16 seats. The other dozen passengers were all executive businessmen, standard in those days.

After we were airborne, and everyone had cocktails and a snack, many men were still reading or working on their tray tables. Elvis’s guys were loud, yelling back and forth to each other.  A few passengers had turned out their light, hoping to drop a hint, I think.

“The groupies” all wanted another drink – stupid combinations like Scotch and orange juice, Bourbon and Bloody Mary Mix. Back in their seats, they began throwing their drinks across the aisle at each other, whooping and hollering. They wanted the drinks only as weapons.

            Flying in the first position, responsible for all passenger safety and comfort, I had to be the heavy. It was a good thing Elvis was with them, or I would have been meaner.

Trying to be both quiet and forceful, I demanded they cease their unacceptable behavior immediately. “Stop it! There are working and sleeping passengers in this cabin. STOP behaving like fourth-graders!” When they asked if they could refill their now empty glasses, I said no. They were lucky I didn’t demand that they get on their hands and knees with cleaning towels.

Elvis was embarrassed, but he didn’t intervene or chide them. The cabin was dark and quiet, his posse finally subdued. He came into our galley to stretch and chat. “Sorry about that, ma’am, he said.”

Dressed in jeans and a plaid sport shirt, he could have been any guy off the street, not a world-renowned mega-star. His shirt was unbuttoned twice at the collar and I noticed on his neck a large quarter-sized scab that he was scratching. I couldn’t imagine what disease produced scabs that big. Wondering if he was contagious, I said, “That looks sore…are you alright? Do you need a bandage?”

“Nope. This was just the guys and me horsing around again.” Seeing my reaction, he explained, “We were playing chicken.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What kind of chicken?”

Then a little embarrassed, he added, “We all get in the shower and hold lit cigars against each other’s skin until ya yell ‘Uncle.’ We got a little out of hand last week,” he added as he showed me others on his chest, stomach and inner arm. “They make sure not to do my face or hands.”

I was somewhere between horrified and amused. “Really? Is that fun?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he stammered. “Well, sorta.” And he laughed, behaving like the quiet country man I met on the first flight.

He put his arm around me and said, “Thank you, but don’t worry, it’s OK,” and he headed back to his seat. I was, by then, a married woman, but I can honestly say I enjoyed that.

His momma did a good job. He was nice. He was just himself. Elvis.

 

 

 

 

 

Fraud can be an early morning felon

             The phone call came at 6:10. In the morning.

I know there are people who are awake and have begun their day by 6:00 a.m., but I am not one of them. I especially didn’t like hearing the voice that was on the other end of the receiver last Friday.

“This is the fraud department at Barclay’s Bank Mastercard. Is this Marcia O’Brien?” Oh, rats. Victimized? Again? And is it really the fraud department? I was waking up faster than I wanted. My red flags began flapping.

            “Yes, this is she.” I mumbled, trying to come to. It was one of those sleepless nights and I had hoped to snuggle in until an 8 o’clock wakeup.

            The fraud specialist on the other end of the phone was the real deal. My card had been compromised the night before for the paltry sum of $15.95. I don’t know what triggered the alert, but I was glad the bank was on top of it.

            What I hate about this annoying scene – which has happened to me a half dozen times – is having to redo the information everywhere the card is on file. I guess it’s a small price to pay for security. I’m an experienced victim.

            The first time I had to clean up after a credit theft was a little different. Decades ago, it actually involved the physical cards. I was seated at a New York City lunch counter, inhaling a sandwich, fending off the midday nausea of pregnancy. Because there was no room between the expanded me and the counter, I had no lap to hold my purse. I plunked it on the footrest between my feet – sort of a double-ankle vise.

Mid-sandwich, I felt something touch my leg and looked down to see a teenage boy reaching between those ankles and grabbing my purse. He ran out the door and headed up Madison Avenue. My instinct was to chase him, but he had a head start. I couldn’t run out of the restaurant because I owed for my lunch, plus how fast was I going to run after the kid in my bulbous condition? Fuggedaboudit. The restaurant owner called the police for me.

The two detectives (!) came to my office across the street that afternoon. I had lost my favorite purse, containing that month’s paycheck, my passport, monthly commuter train pass, makeup and wallet. The wallet contained my driver’s license, social security card, and 22 charge cards. Today’s Mastercard and Visa replace all those individual cards we used to carry like Sears, Bloomingdale’s, Shell Gasoline, etc.

Two days later, New York’s finest were back with my empty purse. It was found in a hotel restroom. The kid left my makeup bag and my wallet containing only my Turtle Club membership card. I had already called the 22 companies, the license bureau, my employer’s payroll office, and the passport bureau. American Airlines, my employer, paid the emergency replacement passport fee because I was headed to Toronto the following day on business.

That traumatic experience led to my carrying only the cards I might likely use on any given day. When Visa and Mastercard arrived, life became much simpler.

About 15 years ago, I made a rookie mistake. My best friend had driven us into Manhattan for a theater matinee. After the performance, I intended to pay for her parking. The city garages are so expensive that charge cards are necessary. I gave my American Express card to the attendant who took it to the window for processing while we chatted. I should have taken it myself.

Back home from the weekend whirlwind, I crashed, exhausted, hoping to sleep in. American Express had other plans. They called before 6:00 a.m. After verifying that I was me, the fraudmeister asked, “Have you purchased any international airline tickets or computers in the past two days?” Stunned, I told her I hadn’t. “We have eighty-nine hundred dollars in charges, including two tickets to Valparaiso, Chile and two to Madrid. Two computers with many accessories, and one piece of jewelry for $1200 dollars. Are any of these your purchases?” Nope.

That conversation was literally a wake-up call. Thankfully American Express took care of everything by not putting the charges through. It intrigues me that they know my buying habits so well. And they also knew I wasn’t in New Jersey, where the charges originated. The fraud agent said that all the purchases were made during one hour from the same Hoboken computer.

Beginning 20 years ago in Europe, sales people and waiters brought the machine to you – not the other way around. Your card never leaves your hand as mine had in that garage. As much technology upgrading as we have done in the U.S., most restaurants still take your card away to process.

Protecting that little plastic rectangle is always at the top of my paranoid list when I travel. The thought of losing it makes my blood run cold. Almost as chilling as having the phone ring at six in the morning. Again.

 

Curtain going up

 

 

Annie, the musical, is coming to Erie. We probably won’t be buying tickets this time around, but Annie holds a special place in our family’s memory. My two grown children probably don’t often think back to their first theater experience, but I’ll never forget it.

My son, Bart, was five years old on our first foray to Shea’s Buffalo theater. Alix, his big sister, was nine. We had purchased four front balcony tickets to make sure they could see well. The children were seated on either side of me. Separating them was always a good idea.

When the theater lights dimmed for the overture, Bart leaned over to ask if he could sit on my lap. Oh, no, really? I so wanted to enjoy this afternoon. But then I realized that he needed to be comfortable in the strange, new setting. “Okay, come on up,” I motioned.

Bart, my skinny little boy, all pointy elbows and knees, climbed into my lap. When the overture ended, the curtain rose on the girl orphans, singing and dancing across the stage. “Mom!” he turned toward me, all wide-eyed. “They’re real!”

“Yes they are,” I said.

“It’s not a big television set!” He was wowed.

“No. No it’s not,” I said. “Shh.”

As he pushed back a bit and nestled himself into my chest, Bart said “Oh, I think I’m going to like this.” And he did. Loved it actually. I have never forgotten what he said.

For days afterwards, both of my little jabberjaws talked a lot about what they had seen. That exciting and fun show was the beginning of a lifelong interest for both of them.

Over the next few years, we worked some theater into our vacations. We managed to see My One and Only in New York, the national road show company of “Evita” in Washington, and Phantom of the Opera” in Toronto,

It is easy for me to remember back to my first theater outing – when the bug bit me. It was soon after I graduated from high school. An acquaintance (a college man!) invited me to see “Showboat.” The music was so beautiful, and I’d never seen anything like the dancing, costumes, and sets. It was magical, transportive, truly a part of my early education. It was later that I learned about Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II, the team who wrote the musical. And the beginning of an additional lifelong fascination with composers. I was lucky.

My late husband had never been to any kind of theater when we met. And yet, it was he who suggested that we attend the Olde Globe Shakespeare Festival in San Diego. During our first year of marriage, our budget for entertainment was divided between the San Diego Gulls hockey team and the Bard’s plays.

The woman who became my best friend for life is a native New Yorker – and a theater goer. When we were stewardess roommates together in New York, we had no bucks for theater tickets. But in the years that followed, it was from Ginger that I learned about the important Broadway singers, dancers, and even the directors whose shows would be terrific.

Ginger knows the Theater District inside and out: where the reasonable nearby restaurants are; where the nearest subway stop is; the closest church so she can attend a mass between a matinee and an evening show. I went to mass with her once at St. Malachy’s and was stunned at the quality of the singing voices around me. It took a few hymns to realize the parishioners were from the musical Broadway stage, also being faithful between Saturday performances.

Ginger has kept every PlayBill from every performance she has attended in the last 60-plus years, her seat ticket stapled inside each cover. The large cabinet containing the collection is stuffed, but it is a wonderful reference library when we begin discussing shows – like which play Julie Andrews was in after she starred in My Fair Lady. She has often taken me to the half price TKTS booth in Times Square. Those bargains help a lot with today’s Broadway seat prices equal to groceries for two weeks.

It was Ginger’s encouragement that drove us to want the theater experience for the children. Today, Alix takes her children to the theater – another generation bitten by the Broadway bug. And Bart still goes when he can. He went often during the years he lived in London and New York, including having theater tickets waiting for me when I visited him across the pond.

I don’t get to go much anymore, but the promise of a few hours of delight still has the allure: suspending reality, tickling your funny bone, putting a new song into your ear, and best of all, appreciating breathtaking talent.

When I’m in my theater seat, awaiting the curtain going up, my little brain is repeating “I think I’m going to like this.” The excitement has never faded.