Wake Up Little Susie

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So Elvis leaned over to me and said, “You know what it looks like?”

“What what looks like?”

“That grille.”

“No,” I said. “What’s it look like?”

He grinned. “It looks just like a woman’s-” He whispered a word naming the most private part of a woman’s anatomy.

He wasn’t really Elvis, of course.

On this Saturday, September 14, 1957, in Black River Falls, Iowa, on the lot of Keys Ford-Lincoln, there were at least a dozen Elvises, maybe eight James

Deans, six Marlon Brandos, and maybe as many as twenty Kim Novaks. Everybody had to be somebody, so why not be somebody famous?

I suppose it’s kind of sad, feeling that you need to be somebody else. For a long time I wanted to be Robert Ryan. I really like that crazed Irish intensity of his. But he didn’t wear anything distinctive-l Elvis’s hair or James Dean’s red jacket or Marlon’s rolled-up T-shirt-s even when I walked down the street pretending to be him, nobody knew. It was real frustrating. Maybe Ryan will start wearing an eye patch.

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