It’s an unusually hot and humid Wednesday. Already, at eight o’clock in the morning, the sweet fragrance of magnolias hangs heavy in the air. I pull my car up to the mortuary gate, and after a security check, two policemen escort me to an office. Then six others flank me and Charlie Hodge, Elvis Presley’s longtime friend, and all of us make our way to another building several hundred feet away. I don’t lift my eyes from the ground, but I can hear hundreds of people wailing as they press themselves against the chained fence. There is the whir of automatic-camera shutters and overhead the buzz of helicopters bearing newspeople, all training their cameras on us, hundreds of feet below.

The eyes of the world are on Memphis, on Graceland, on Elvis.

When we reach the second building, another pair of police officers parts to allow us in. Inside, another group of policemen and several somber men, each dressed in a dark, conservative business suit, await our arrival. As Charlie and I pass, each man nods-a silent gesture of sympathy. The quiet is finally broken when another police officer approaches and says softly, “Mr. Geller, will you please follow me.”

The sounds that echo in the long passageway are my furiously pounding heart and my footsteps reverberating against the cold stone walls.

As I enter the grim, sterile room at the end of the corridor, the foul odor of chemicals assaults my nostrils with their ungodly smell. All I can see is the stark white sheet that covers the earthly remains of Elvis Presley. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

I slowly make my way to stand at his side, choking back a wave of inexpressible emotions. I suddenly feel weak, clutching the table to maintain my balance, paralyzed before him. The reality of his lifeless presence forces me to accept the inevitable, and yet…how is this possible, and my own heart goes on beating?

As I stare into Elvis’ face, I am trying to convince myself of what I know. Elvis died yesterday. As I look at that perfect aquiline nose, those famous curled lips, the visage of an Adonis - the unnatural stillness of his face reminds me of the unthinkable: that his voice will never sing again. Now, my friend, you have passed through the gates of the immortality of the soul, whose inviolable secret only death itself possesses. No, this is not possible, this is not happening, this can’t be real. I want to shout, “Open your eyes, Elvis. Sit up, grin, look at me, and tell me this is just one of your practical jokes and that you want to get back to Graceland. C’mon, man, please.”

How long have I been standing here; five minutes, ten, twenty? I’ve lost all concept of time. Thank God Charlie came along; he thought I’d need the support. I’m glad he’s here, but I still feel unbearably alone.

A torrential rush of memories floods my consciousness, a momentary consolation to bolster my spirits and get me through this. I hear Elvis’ words as vividly and clearly as if it was yesterday. “Lawrence, I’m going to make some dramatic changes, man, I have to; I’m talkin’ about my damn life.” It was just five months ago, in March, as we were getting ready to leave Hawaii after a long overdue nine-day vacation between tours.

Elvis and I were sitting on his balcony on the twentieth floor at the Rainbow Towers Hawaiian Village Hotel in Honolulu. For most of our time on Oahu, Elvis stayed at his rented beach house in Kailua Bay, but he loved this hotel’s spectacular view of Diamond Head and the clear aquamarine water of the Pacific Ocean below.

Elvis was relaxed, enjoying the rare break from his grueling schedule; more importantly, the seeds were being planted for something even more significant. “I’m gonna to get off all those damn fuckin’ pills they give me. I know I can. Especially if we’re here. This place is paradise, and this is where we’re comin’ back to. Maybe we can get that house again in Kailua Bay; it’s the perfect place. Only this time we’ll come over here for a lot longer, maybe even a year. It doesn’t matter how long it takes; all I know is that I have to rejuvenate myself from the inside out. I want to get on your diet, an’ exercise, get in the water; man, we’ll have a good time on this island, laying back. Hey Larry, look; I’m not kidding myself. I know it won’t be easy, but I know I can do whatever I put my mind to. An’ believe me man, I know exactly what I have to do.

“When we come back here, I only want to have four, maybe five guys at the most with me, that’s all I need. It’ll make my daddy happy, that’s for sure; he’s been tellin’ me for years to cut back.”

There were more significant changes in Elvis’ mind. During the last year of his life, he spoke to me often about his desire to find his soul mate and have more children, and how much having a family meant to him. From changing management to sweeping changes in his career, Elvis was adamant about a complete turnaround, a new beginning. The stakes were higher than ever, and Elvis was painfully aware of it.

Elvis’ deepest desires concerning his life and career rose to the surface. “The only thing I regret in my career is that I haven’t shown the public the actor that I know I really am. I know for a fact that I can do so much better. I owe that to my fans; hell, I owe it to myself. The Colonel and Hal Wallis both promised me that they’d find me some real dramatic roles, movies that I could really act in. And I went along with them, waiting for them to give me a chance. An’ all they really wanted to do was package my ass; it’s all about the almighty dollar.”

Speaking with heightened determination, so excited and optimistic about his future that I really felt he would act upon his convictions.

“All I know is that I’ve got to get back and make movies again, only this time it’s gonna be different. Lawrence, I have to stop touring, that’s all I’ve been doing, and I’m plain bored; it’s the same damn ol’ routine for years now. My batteries are drained; I need to recharge. When I’m ready, I’m going back to Hollywood an’ act in real, dramatic movies. Who knows, maybe we can even produce our own movies someday, movies that matter and that help people. I’ve always wanted to have my own production company, you know like Paul Newman and Clint Eastwood have. Lawrence, we’re goin’ to do this. Just keep this to yourself for now; I’m going to wait until sometime in September to make the big change. I have contracts until then, and a lot of fans have already planned to come out and see me. I can’t disappoint them.

“And it’s not just my career where I’m gonna make changes. I have so much more inside of me than what people see up there on that stage or on the screen. I know I’m just an entertainer, an’ I give them everything I have, everything. But there’s a whole lot more to who I am, and Larry, I know I can help people. That’s what I’m supposed to do. One thing I know for sure, we gotta start a foundation, our own charity. I’d love to do something for kids who are suffering; I just can’t handle that. I want to use my name and my influence in ways that go way beyond anything I’ve ever done before. This is what I’m really all about.”

My heart is overflowing with unbearable pain but no matter what, I have to prepare Elvis’ hair. I’m struck by the intimacy of the attendant cosmeticians as they apply pasty makeup to his hands. Suddenly he has no entourage, no management to keep strangers at bay. “No, no,” Charlie cries out, “You have it all wrong, that’s the wrong color!” Nothing is right here.

I stand there frozen, overwhelmed by the unfathomable shock of Elvis’ death. I do my best to appear calm and professional, as I prepare to do the job Vernon asked me to do. My quiet exterior belies the confluence of emotions within. I hear my own angry voice in my head, but no sound emerges as I scream, “Damn it, Elvis! Why didn’t we just stay in Hawaii? You knew exactly what you had to do: just call the Colonel and tell him to cancel the next two tours, tell him what you’ve decided about the future. Damn! You were so concerned about disappointing your fans. Now it’s too late; they’ll be disappointed forever. They’ll never see you again!”

I wish I didn’t feel this anger. Elvis wanted to live; he had so many dreams. I’m convinced that he would have followed through with his plans and his world would have kept spinning, this time in a positive new direction. That’s the tragedy of Elvis’ life right there. If only he had acted immediately, if he hadn’t procrastinated.

The only way I’m going to get through this is to think of Elvis as he was: vital, alive, working and dreaming of better things to come. He could be such a kid; he really knew how to enjoy life to the fullest and wanted to share that joy with everyone.

What a blessing that I’m able to conjure up the image of Elvis as he was on his last birthday in January. He was energetic, happy, optimistic, and looking forward to the coming year. We were at his house in Palm Springs, one of his favorite places to kick back, relax, and breathe in the clean desert air. It was an oasis for him, a contrast to his demanding life of endless touring and concert performances in city after city.

After I styled his hair in his bedroom, Elvis put on a black suit with a beautiful blue silk shirt. He looked particularly impressive that night, rested and in a buoyant mood. After we all gave him birthday presents, which he opened with an almost childlike joy, he asked all the men in the group to leave him alone with the ladies. My wife told me later what ensued.

Elvis spent the next ninety minutes reading aloud passages from a couple of his favorite books, as well as sharing with the women some of his own thoughts on spiritual matters. When he finished, he took out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, handing one to each of them, with the admonition, “This is just for you, so please buy yourselves something special. I don’t want you to spend it on your guys; it’s my gift to you. As much as I like receiving gifts, what makes me happy on my birthday is giving to you all.” He winked at a couple of the wives, “Be sure and keep an eye on Ginger. The store’ll let her spend more, so make sure she doesn’t go hog wild.”

Late in 1976, with less than a year to live, Elvis’ physical condition and deteriorating health didn’t dampen his optimism about his life and future. Nor did it diminish his love affair with the idea of perfect love. Fate had brought into his life a twenty-year-old runner-up in the Miss Tennessee contest, Ginger Alden. At first blush, Elvis really felt that he had finally connected with his soul mate. “When I look into Ginger’s eyes, I see my mom’s eyes.”

Elvis was in love with love. Over the years, while the names of the women in his life changed, the emotional charge was always the same in the beginning. Yet he was never really sure of his feelings for any woman but his mother, not even Ginger. Not long after he had met her, Elvis and I were standing on the balcony of his Las Vegas suite, watching the grandeur of daybreak over the distant desert mountains. With our topsy-turvy schedule, sunrise was not the beginning but the end of our day, and we hadn’t yet been to bed.

After a few minutes of drinking in the cool air and the magnificent view, Elvis turned to me, continuing our earlier conversation about his personal life. “Lawrence, I have feelings flowing through my veins just like everyone else. I’m human. I’d love to get married again and have more children, especially a son. Don’t ya think that I’d love to find my soul mate?” His voice and the look on his face reflected a heart full of sadness and passion. “I want you to put yourself in my shoes and think about it. How could I ever know if a woman is in love with me…or Elvis Presley? Think about it. How could I ever really know for sure?”

His point was well taken. I studied his face for a moment. The hood of his blue robe framed his face, as the early morning light danced across his classic features.

“Elvis, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve only had one, real lasting love affair in your whole life.”

“Who, who is that Lawrence?”

“Your fans, Elvis, the public. That’s your great, lasting love affair.”

A smile slowly stole over his face. “You’re right, you’re right. And I’ve paid a heavy price for it. But I wouldn’t change anything in my life.” Then, with a big grin, “You know, Lawrence, they say that it’s lonely at the top. But I’ll tell you what…I love that lonesome feeling. But man, I do still want to find my soul mate.”

Elvis had played the Pygmalion role with Priscilla and others. He was older now, twice Ginger’s age; he fit the role better than ever. As with most of us, his relationships followed a pattern, a series of stages. With this final relationship, he was moving through the stages at an accelerated pace. Everything in Elvis’ life seemed to exist in a different dimension of time in 1977.

It wasn’t long before the first glow of infatuation began to fade with Elvis’ doubts and fears rising to the surface. He tried to bridge the gaps between them by bringing her into his spiritual world, reading to her from one of his favorite books, The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. He loved The Prophet so much that he had memorized whole sections of it.

“When love beckons to you follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.”

Ginger listened to Elvis read from Gibran’s writings, but he knew in his heart that her interest would never go as deep as his. They were worlds apart in so many ways and the routine on the road was not easy for a young girl. He quoted emotionally from the “Love” chapter of The Prophet, “For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.” He continued, “I needed to love somebody so desperately that I read something into the relationship that just wasn’t there.”

Reality intrudes harshly as I focus on the job at hand. I’m shocked to realize that Elvis has a half-inch growth of white all around his hairline! We’ve been on hiatus for six weeks, so I haven’t been dyeing his hair. What to do? I had brought my bag with its brushes, combs, scissors, and spray—but no dye. I’m at a loss until I notice a female mortician in the room. I ask her if she has some mascara; luckily, she has exactly what I was hoping for: a little plastic container with a cake of black mascara and a tiny brush. She kindly lets me use it; I spit onto the cake to moisten it and color Elvis’ roots with it. I’ve never done anything like this before, but it does the trick and that’s the only thing that matters right now.

Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea, to the open arms of the sea.

Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me,

wait for me.

I’ll be coming home, wait for me.

God, Elvis, I keep hearing you singing in my head. The last time I heard you sing ‘Unchained Melody’ I had the strangest feeling that you were singing to your mother. It was as if somewhere deep in your soul you knew you’d be going home soon. Maybe something within you did know, Elvis, and your mind couldn’t face that reality. I don’t know; maybe that’s why you were so concerned about Lisa Marie understanding who you really were. You must have sensed that you wouldn’t be around when she grows up, and that’s why you asked me to tell your story—not just for the fans, but even more importantly for your little girl.

There was an indescribable aura around you, something I’d never experienced before, something I know was felt by everyone in the audience. A lone spotlight beamed on you in the darkened concert hall. The only sound was your voice and the piano you were playing. The musicians were silent; the whole audience seemed to be holding their breath. Everyone was transfixed. I never heard your voice so vibrant, so resonant, as if your very soul was crying out.

I can’t believe how long it’s taking me to do Elvis’ hair. I’ve worked on this head of hair thousands of times, but this is different. The life force has left his body; he’s lying down and I can’t get the hair to respond properly. No matter what I do, it falls limply. This is the last time I’ll ever do Elvis’ hair, and Vernon has given me this solemn responsibility to prepare his son for the final viewing by his family, his friends, and the thousands of fans who will come by.

Finally, using all my skills and tricks - and lots of teasing and hairspray - Elvis has the classic hairstyle everyone expects to see.

My work is done…but I can’t bring myself to leave him. This transcends anything I’ve ever experienced; I can’t even form the words to express the emotions and memories that churn in my head and my heart. As I look at Elvis and study his face, serene and almost beatific, a calm begins to encompass me. I feel a quiet presence in the room, as if he’s reassuring me that he’s OK now. He’s home.