The record skipped mid chorus of the bluegrass song. Until that moment I’d thought nothing of the record I purchased earlier that day at an op-shop, other than the opportunity to expand on the record collection I’d inherited from my mother. Brushing the cover of it, I sneezed when a thick layer of dust rose into the air, tickling my nostrils. Under that layer two men in cowboy hats smiled at me. One held a guitar, the other a banjo. I turned it in my hands like a steering wheel to read the bold lettering.
“Keep Them Cold Icy Fingers Off Me”
Right-o! I thought, but as I went to put it back, a note fell out of the slip and cascaded down to my feet like a feather. I bent down to pick it up and read the rough black cursive scrawl.
“Don’t give up.”
Intrigued, I pocketed the note, walked to the counter with that one record in its dusty jacket, paid for it and left with it tucked under my arm.
That evening, I sat with my glass of Jack Daniels by the record player, turning the note over in my hands, still trying to decipher who it was addressed to, who it was from and what it meant. I found myself lost in the rhythm of the song as it moved from melodic picking of a guitar and banjo instrumental, to an energetic verse and chorus. Momentarily forgetting about the note in my hands, I belted the words out along with the Stanley Brothers.
“You may run me out of breath. You may scare me half to death but keep them cooooooold icy fingers off of m— off of m— off—” I stopped the player and gently lifted the needle to inspect the record and wipe away any lingering dust, only to find not a speck nor scratch to be seen. I shook my head and lowered the needle again to resume the song.
It wasn’t long before it reached the same chorus and as I blended my voice with their harmonies it skipped again. Covering my ears, I squeezed my eyes shut. When the skipping ended, I opened my eyes and found myself in a stark white school corridor with one hand poised to knock on a grey door and the other holding a note. I peered through the blinds into a bland classroom filled with students at wooden desks, all facing one olive skinned boy in overalls playing a guitar.
Instead of knocking, I slowly cracked the door open, letting his velvety voice fill my ears with song. Careful not to interrupt, I quietly slid in and sat on the first desk closest to the door, mesmerised at the display of confidence the boy showed as he amateurishly fumbled the chords. Everyone was enthralled with the performance, so much so that no one noticed my entrance. The stern-faced teacher, however, darted her eyes away from the boy to me, long enough to raise a quizzical brow, then return her gaze to the boy. She didn’t so much as offer polite smile.
Though it was evidently changing, there was a familiar ring to the boy’s voice. It was a little rough and pitchy in places, which I would expect of a boy that age. He sounds like a young—Oh my god! It can’t be!
It took only moments of staring around the room at the garish mix of collared shirts, torn overalls and curtain like pinafore dresses to realise I was not in the 21st century anymore. The boy with the crushed velvet voice and guitar-picking was a young Elvis Presley, singing to his music teacher, desperate to raise his fail-grade from a C to something closer to what he thought he deserved.
Could it be The King? I shook my head. I really need to stop drinking!
When the song concluded, the class applauded. The teacher politely joined, but her face remained stern. Her eyes bore into his eagerly waiting brown eyes.
“Raw, but then hillbilly music isn’t exactly something to aspire to, nor is it hard to play.” she said, sparking a heated discussion with the boy. “There’s no pace for it here, or anywhere. This backward unrefined fad will pass. Then what will you do?” The whole class laughed.
I could hear the frustration in the boy’s voice as he vehemently exclaimed, “You just don’t appreciate my kind of singing!”
“You’re right. I don’t really.” she said, turning away from him to resume the class, “Hick music is not music. The C remains. Anything else would be a disservice to you, and to the standard of music.”
Deflated, the red-faced boy sat starring at the neck of his guitar. I watched him shake his head and violently palm at his eye to wipe away a tear while a chorus of “Mama’s boy!” rang from the boys sitting behind him. He kept his eyes fixed on the tuning pegs until the bell sounded the end of the lesson.
It was only after the students left that the teacher noticed me still sitting there. “Who are you? How long have you been sitting there?”
“Long enough to hear that boy sing. He was amazing, wasn’t he?”
“Elvis Presley?” she scoffed. “Are we talking about the same kid? He’s got guts, I’ll give him that. You and I both know he’s got no business trying be his singer.”
“How do you know that? Who are you to know what that boy is capable of or what he’ll go on to do?” I asked.
“I just know that a bright kid like him, with a family like his ought to take his head out of the clouds and be more realistic about his future, or else he won’t have one. Now, who are you and what are you doing in my classroom? Are you a scout? I can direct you to a number of students in this class with actual talent.”
“Oh, I’m nobody you should be concerned about, nor am I a scout,” I answered. “I’m just someone who knows good music and talent when I hear it, regardless of who they are or what family they’re from.”
She turned away and began to tidy her desk. “Well, I suggest you leave if you’re not authorised to be here.”
I stormed over to the open door and glared at the infuriating woman. “That kid will go places you’ll never imagine. Just you wait and see. Elvis Presley is a name you’ll hear one day and kick yourself for beating him down.”
Later, I found the boy by his locker, hunched over with his arms covering his face and head. A crowd of boys gathered around him chanting “Mama’s boy! Mama’s boy!” One of them lunged at him, fist raised, and gripped Elvis’ collar. “Come on, Mama’s boy, take a swing! Come on!”
“Leave me alone!” Elvis yelled. The whole group laughed. I whipped my head left and right along the crowded corridor, hoping somebody would come to this boy’s defence, but nobody made a move to help him.
“Hey!” I cried, just as another boy took a swing. Elvis tried to duck but the other boy held him in place by the collar. The boy loosened his grip, sending Elvis crashing to the ground and his friend’s fist connected with the locker. “Haven’t you all got classes to go to?”
“Yes, Miss,” they all mumbled and scurried into a nearby room.
Elvis rose to his feet and wiped his hands on his trousers. He flashed a crooked bashful smile. “Good thang ma’ gi’tar was already in ma’ locker, huh Mam’!” he joked. There was still a youthful ring to his speaking voice, but he had that thick southern accent and manner of speaking I’d only ever heard in recordings and old videos.
“It sure is,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m dandy, Mam’. I’m used to the pummellin’. I saw you in the room when I was playin’. Are you a new teacher?”
“Uh… yeah I am. English lit,” I lied. “I loved that song you were singing in there. Stanley Brothers, am I right?”
“Uh huh! Thank you very much, mam’. The folks ‘round here don’t think much of their music or ma’ singin’.” He bent down to pick up the textbook and folder that were scattered at his feet and hooked the pile under his arm. A number two pencil fell out and the lead snapped as it landed on the ground. Before it could roll away. He plucked between his fingers and tucked it behind his ear.
“It sounded fine to me, and it’s only going to get better and better, you’ll see. Have you got time to show me the chords? I’d love to learn it.”
The kid’s face brightened with that same crooked half smile that now fronts posters and album covers, and without hesitation opened his locker and pulled out the guitar and handed it to me. “Now can you do a C chord? Now F, back to C…” I strummed the chords slowly as he told me each one. “You gotta’ strum it quicker, mam’ like this. One and two and one and two.” He shook his hand in a quick motion and I emulated his air-strummed pattern, while quietly warbling a few lines. “Sing it like you mean it, mam!” He belted it out the same as he had in class, not caring about the looks we were receiving from passing students. Ignoring the shrugs and slowing gaits of the more curious students I let go and matched his volume. Both of us were too lost to care where we were or who was watching.
“I’ll keep working on this one, thank you,” I said. Then I switched to an E chord and began belting out another song with him singing along. “Who’s the artist?” he asked, jolting me to realise he hadn’t heard Hound Dog yet.
“A duo called Lieber and Stoller wrote them. Big Momma Thornton recorded it though, and you eventually,” I blurted out not thinking. It couldn’t hurt him to know, right?
“Me? It’s different. I like it.”
“You’ve gotta record it,” I said. “It’s one of my favourites I learned of yours. Taught myself it actually and added a thing in the instrumental.” I played a run-down on the E string to the chord and back up to the A.” He nodded along.
“You really think so, mam’?” he asked.
“I know so, you’re going to be great, but you have to believe it,” I said. “Don’t let anybody, not a bully, not a teacher, not a record-producer, not no one tell you otherwise.” I paused. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen, Mam’.” Our eyes met and I shivered, realising the enormity of this conversation. I’m talking to Elvis, “the King” of Rock n Roll – he just didn’t know it yet.
Thinking back to when I was thirteen and how much I floundered not knowing what I could do or be in life, I wondered what would have been different for me with a little bit of encouragement or even a skerrick of belief in me from the people around me. This kid already had a dream and the talent, and I was making damn sure he had the belief he needed to be who the world needed. “It’s your destiny, I promise you.”
“I’m gon’ be late to class, man!” he said as a second bell sounded. He unlocked his locker and I handed him back the guitar. He gently placed it in there and slammed the door.
“Wait!” I called, as he picked up his books and started to run towards a nearby room. He stopped and I handed him the note. “Next time anyone gives you reason to doubt yourself, read this.”
He quickly stuffed it into his pocket. “Thank you, mam’,” he said then disappeared beyond a classroom door, leaving the corridor sparce but for me, my blurring eyes and my gaping mouth.
In a mere blink of those teary eyes, I found myself standing in front of that record stand, holding the Stanley Brothers record and the note, wondering if everything that had just happened was even real. I stuffed the note into my pocket, paid for the record and left.
On the way home, I googled the song to have a listen, to find the Elvis Presley song listed above the original. I clicked and began to listen. As the now familiar song faded, I began to scroll to the comments.
“Such a waste,” someone had written. Harsh.
“He could’ve been someone great. RIP.” He was though, wasn’t he?
It was when I expanded the description box under the video that my heart stopped.
“At 13, a young Elvis Presley sang this song for his middle school music teacher, in front of his whole class. The teacher who dismissed his talent as amateur and gave him a C for 8th Grade music, remains to this day anonymous. A bright and gifted child, it was ironically Elvis’ only ‘failed’ subject.’ He went on to record this on his debut album, along with the song, ‘Hound Dog’, a song rumoured to have heard from a mystery woman who showed up at his school the same day. By the time of his graduation, the hit record sky-rocketed to no. 1. Attempt after attempt at recording follow-up hits, Elvis Presley died from an overdose 16th August 1977. He was forty-two.”
Tears poured down my face as read those last twelve words, as I realised what I had done. I knew the theory of altering history existed, but that only happened in movies, right? What did those characters do? One thing I knew for sure was I needed to try at least to fix what I’d just broken in history.
Skipping the pouring of my nightly bottle of Jack, I headed straight for the record player, placed the vinyl down and lowered the needle, praying it would skip again.
When it did, I let it go, relieved and soon I was back at that classroom door, holding the note. Tears were pouring again as I stood listening to the picking and that crushed velvet voice. Seeing all I needed to see, I turned away from the door and headed for his locker. I slipped the note through the grill in his locker and crept down the hall to a spot behind a drinking fountain. I watched as the boy soon showed up at his locker, opened it and quickly put his guitar away, and pulled out his books for the next class. He only had enough time to slam his locker shut and secure it with the combination lock when his bullies showed up and the pummelling began.
“Be strong, you’ll get through this,” I whispered, though I knew he couldn’t hear me say it. I didn’t matter. I hoped the note wasn’t too much of an interference, just enough to get him through the next few years… decades… hits. He collapsed to the ground, with his books crashing around him and the boys scattered as the bell sounded. Hanging his head, Elvis crawled around on knees gathering his books and rose to his feet. He violently palmed at his eyes, wiping away tears and headed towards the classroom, leaving a familiar wad of paper on the ground. I wondered if I should pick it up and slide it back through the grill again, but before I made the move, a girl printed past, books tucked under her arms – late for class, I guessed. I shrugged just thankful I hadn’t been seen.
She stopped suddenly when she neared his locker, bent down to pick up the note, unfolded it, read it and stuffed it into the pocket of her plaid pinafore. She briskly continued her way, disappearing through the same doors Elvis Presley had only moments before.
I blinked away tears from my blurred eyes and found myself back at that thrift store, standing in front of the same stand holding the Stanley Brothers record and the note. Should I put it back?
Something told me I needed to buy it, even if just as a lesson about meddling with History. I took it home, slotted it into a shelf next to the first Elvis record in my collection. “Hound Dog” I read pulling that record out and placing it on the player. I lowered the needle, praying I’d done enough to fix time.
Cre8ive Flare 