From the Summer 2007 issue

Her Knees Are Weak

Martha Crawford had gotten it on with just about every major Elvis impersonator in the country. Except, of course, that woman in Alabama, though Martha had certainly given the idea a passing thought. She decided against it, not because it was unnatural—what could be more unnatural than taking to bed a series of men with sideburns in glitter-decked jumpsuits—but because the farther you got from the real thing, the less it was worth the trouble.

As president of the Gulf States Elvis the King Fan Club, Martha could get free tickets to see Elvis impersonation shows. She made two or three pilgrimages to Graceland a year and stalked the streets of Tupelo, talking to strangers and searching for new tidbits about her idol. She limited her sexual encounters to the actual impersonators, however, because nothing turned her on more than an avatar of the King.

Martha’s daddy had loved Elvis. Elvis was a real man, Daddy said. He was good to his mama, served his country, read the Bible and wasn’t afraid to talk to or about the Lord. Daddy had loved Elvis the way women loved him, Martha thought, putting his picture in a frame, buying all of his records, never missing an Elvis movie. He had grown sideburns, which irritated the hell out of Martha’s mother, but there was no talking him out of it. Daddy had slow-danced with Martha in the living room to “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” and “”Love Me Tender,” and had held her tight and told her how pretty she was.

These days, Martha felt bored. Elvis impersonators had a limited bedroom repertoire and said things like, “I got a hunk o’ somethin’ for you, honey,” or “Wanna see my good luck charm?” She was a little tired of making peanut butter, banana and bacon sandwiches, too, and sometimes wished she could go out to dinner in a nice restaurant with a man who had normal hair and didn’t sneer when he looked at her cleavage. But such was Martha’s Elvis addiction that she wasn’t sure she could let a non-Elvis touch her, much less do the wild thing with her. “TCB, baby!” she would shout, as soon as she was ready to go for it. Once, in Baton Rouge, a Las Vegas-era Elvis wasn’t up to the task, leading Martha to point out that “the King really is dead.”

Martha’s only friends were fan club members, and try as they might, they couldn’t really talk about anything that wasn’t Elvis-related. Lisa Maria and Michael kept them going for a while, but once that was over, Martha became restless.

One night she was watching TV and a newswoman began talking about the failed war against drugs. She showed that famous picture of Elvis and Nixon, and then commented that Nixon must have been living in a dreamworld if he didn’t know about Elvis’s drug addiction. Daddy had never liked Nixon, so Martha hated him, too. Elvis’s heart was pure, she knew that. People took advantage of him because he was a money machine. The doctors gave Elvis the drugs. He didn’t know he was doing anything wrong.

The thought of Elvis as a drug addict haunted Martha. She didn’t really mind fat Elvis; she had even voted for the fat Elvis stamp, just to show support. But if he really was an addict, then he must have felt high and desperate a lot of the time. She knew he missed his Mama. Gladys had been everything to Elvis. Martha poured herself a bourbon and Coke and thought about Daddy lying in his casket, his sideburns shaved off because her mother had insisted on it. Martha had touched Daddy’s hands, and they were cold, not like the hands that led her through their living room waltzes. Daddy would give her a little kiss on the cheek before she went out on a date, and he would pat her behind and whisper, “You be careful, hon. You’re Daddy’s girl.” Once, he kissed her on the mouth and she smelled beer and Old Spice and Daddy’s sweat, and she felt weak, like her legs might not hold her up much longer.

Martha drank more bourbon and the tears came. Usually she could make them go away, but tonight, they controlled her. She got up and put on her Elvis love song collection, poured herself another drink and cried. She cried for Elvis, trying to find his way through life without Gladys, the only woman he had ever loved with all his heart. She cried for Daddy, dead from a heart attack—just like that—one afternoon before Martha had come home from school. Elvis sang, “I Love You Because.”

Martha, like most women, could cry only so much, and then she had to wash her face and apply teabags to her eyes. She decided to call the Elvis impersonator who lived at the edge of the next county, the one who had turned a pair of leather pants into a private floorshow for her in the casino lounge. He was young and firm, and he understood the moves, onstage and off. Maybe she could get him to have a drink with her, talk to her, take her to dinner.

Martha tried to picture the man without his sideburns. She tried to imagine him in a pair of khakis, shopping for groceries or wearing pajamas and reading the newspaper. But how could she relate to a man in khakis? She changed the channel in her head and saw the black leather pants, the tight red shirt and the diamond rings. She fingered her gold chain and felt the TCB pendant between her breasts. She started to feel weak in the legs. In the background, the King sang, “Baby, Let’s Play House” as Martha picked up the phone.

Diane Elayne Dees writes poetry, short fiction, essays, and creative non-fiction. She frequently writes about musicians and film stars, and is currently working on some poems about the Kill Bill movies. She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and when she isn’t writing, practices psychotherapy in Louisiana.

I was driving home from work one day, thinking about a story I’d read in the newspaper about a local Elvis impersonator, and I began to fantasize about what it would be like for a woman to have the odd proclivity of wanting to have sex only with Elvis impersonators. This led me to imagine how an unhealthy father-daughter relationship could be the origin of such a dysfunction, and “Her Knees Are Weak” was the result. This story first appeared in The Dead Mule in 2001, and in 2004, it was included in the anthology, -Women Behaving Badly.-