July 18 1953

The chime above the door rings, alerting me to a new customer. I huff as I heft a box of records over my shoulder, turning to my father's assistant, Marion.

"Can ya get that please? I'll finish up in here."

"Sure thing."

The kind, older woman leaves the storage room to greet the visitor, who is a young man by the sound of it. His stuttering voice slips in through the open doorway, expressing his desire to record a song. Marion tells him the standard price of four dollars and the man must present it, for I hear the ding of the cash register.

As the murmurs of the conversation continue, I step curiously toward the other room, in time to hear him say "I don't sound like nobody."

He sounds cute, I think. He seems shy.

Marion ushers him into the booth and I focus back on filing. My concentration lasts all of one minute before the sound of his singing interrupts me again. He strums a guitar with the expertise of a beginner and his wobbly, high pitched voice would not impress my father. Not with the regular passionate, soulful clientele.

Granted, the man isn't a terrible singer, and is most definitely different from anything I'd heard on the radio, but his voice is thin and lacks confidence. His records wouldn't sell.

He sings another and halfway through he begins to talk, a low, rich voice, deeper than his singing one, begins to echo through the speaker.

"Brotha, yeah that's, that's when your heartaches begin."

Something about it puts a smile on my face. I couldn't help myself and risked a peek at the source of my silly grin. He's a scrawny boy, a kid still, seemingly the age of a local high schooler. His dirty blond hair laid in curls across his forehead, looking like he'd gotten a perm. He even sports a pair of sideburns, at least two inches long.

How peculiar! He's unlike any other man that stopped by Sun Records, that's for sure.

He is cute, as his voice predicted, with a pair of deep set eyes that are as blue as the summer sky when he opens them. He blinks as if coming out of a trance and fiddles with a string on his well-worn instrument.

"Would you like to do another take?" Marion asks through the loudspeaker.

I jolt; I forgot she was present.

The boy shakes his head and slides from the stool, emerging from the recording booth with his guitar neck clutched in his left hand. He's taller than I expected, long, gangly legs propelling him well over my own head.

"Thank ya very much, ma'am. I'll take this home and play it for my momma," he assures Marion with a shy grin.

"I'm sure she'll enjoy it," Marion smiles.

Intrigued, I step fully into the room and the boy catches the movement, his bright blue eyes capturing mine. Frozen to the spot under the searing gaze, I'm rooted to the ground and helpless to do anything but return the stare.

His lashes flutter and a red flush creeps up his neck and lands in his cheeks.

"Miss," he mumbles. Then, as if the devil himself was chasing him, he races out the door and into the Memphis heat.

"How strange," Marion wonders.

"Yeah." I glance at the ledger on the front desk. "What was his name?"

"Elvis Presley."

My nose scrunches. "Is that his real name? I've never heard Elvis before."

"I guess. I've heard it only once, an old man down in Alabama. It's an older name."

"Hmm. Just as weird as he is," I mutter.

"I thought he was a rather nice boy. Seemed to have manners, unlike some that walk through that door."

I can't argue with her there.

"Yeah."

Putting the strange boy from my mind, I finish filing as my father walks in, asking about the day's events. Marion mentions Elvis and, just as I suspected, he has no interest in the young singer.

It's the last I'll see of him, I think.

And I'm right. For three weeks. Again, I'm in the other room when a familiar voice tickles my ears. It's amazing that I recognize it, considering I've only heard it once before. But as it's unlike any that I've ever heard, it stands out. Paired with his adorable little stutter and he's unforgettable.

This time he questions Marion if he can speak with my father, but as usual, he's not in. Elvis, not one to be easily deterred, leaves his name and number before wishing Marion a good day.

Unable to resist, and surprisingly happy that I'll get to glimpse him again, I peer out the window, watching him scramble into a Crown Electric truck. He disappears down the street in a cloud of dust.

And doesn't come back for another week.

This time, when his lithe figure darkens our doorstep, I'm manning the front desk instead of Marion. The noise of the door catches my attention and when I notice who hovers over the threshold I smile.

"Hi. What can I do for ya?"

Elvis' eyes are as wide as saucers, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. As if facing a cliffside jump, he gathers his courage and steps into the room, his long legs eating the space quickly.

"Hi. I-I-I w-was wonderin', w-w-well I, uh, yeah." He clears his throat. "I w-wanted to know if ya needed a singer? I-I left my name and number last time I was here."

Harshly, I bite down on my lip to prevent a grin from spreading. The last thing I want is him thinking I'm making fun of his speech, but man, if it isn't the cutest thing.

"Oh?" I feign ignorance. "Lemme check. What was your name again?" As if I'd forget.

"Elvis. Elvis Presley, miss."

As I flip through the pages of the ledger, his heavy gaze lingers on my movements, causing my stomach to flutter pleasantly. Quickly, to prove his interest, I glance up and meet his electric stare. He does not turn away, but a hint of a smirk twists his lips. They're plump and smooth and—

Oh, Lord. Get a hold of yourself.

"Yes, it's right here. If my daddy's interested in ya, he'll be sure to give ya a call."

His face falls, losing that hopeful, playful gleam and gaining a heavy, forlorn look.

"Oh. Okay. Uh, thanks."

A dull pain tugs at my heart at witnessing his downcast, puppy dog eyes. A man had no right to look that bewitching.

In an effort to salvage the situation, I hurriedly skim the paperwork. Good ballad singer, Marion wrote next to the man's name. Unfortunately, that isn't what my dad's looking for.

"Do ya sing anythin' other than ballads?" I blurt.

Elvis halts, turning on his heel, stepping toward me once more. He nods, eager to please. "Yes'm. I-I sing all kinds."

"Really? Well, then I'll tell my daddy that you're available. I won't promise nothin', but I'll mention your name and maybe he'll need ya."

He brightens as a flower in the sun.

"Thank ya very much, miss. I-I appreciate it," he grins.

It warms my body to be the cause of his happiness.

"No problem, Elvis."

His grin widens to a lopsided smile that shows white, straight teeth. It makes my heart beat faster.

He stalks out the door again, an optimistic swagger in his peppy stride.

When my father walks in the door that very evening, I make good on my promise to Elvis, mentioning his name once again. To my disappointment, my dad expresses his disinterest in the boy. But this wouldn't dissuade me. For Elvis' sake, I would be persistent. I'm not sure where this loyalty for a stranger is suddenly sprouting from, but I harbor a hope that the next time he visits, I'll be able to say I convinced my father to give him a chance.

———~~♡~~———

It's a foolish hope. For each time I brought up the subject of considering Elvis, I'm shot down. At least he did listen to a record, but as I suspected, he wasn't impressed.

It's not as if my efforts make a difference anyway, since the man himself has been missing for a month. Saddened by his absence, I'm distractedly twirling a pen and craving a singer to enter and end my boredom. My wish is granted when I notice movement outside.

A customer!

Anxiously, I peer out the window, eager for something to do on the sticky, broiling afternoon. Low and behold the supposed distraction is none other than the missing boy, leaning up against his truck. The gesture is nonchalant and suave as he stares up at the Sun Records logo on top of the building. He thrusts his hands in his pockets and kicks a rock. But he does not come in.

Instead, he glances in the window and I pretend not to see him, scrawling nonsense on the notebook paper to avoid his eyes. I feel his gaze a moment longer before he hops in his truck and leaves.

To my shock and enjoyment, he does that again next week. And the week after that. This is his weekly routine now, a steady habit that he sticks to for the next couple of months. Embarrassingly, it's his seventh or eighth visit that I finally work up the courage to turn and wave to him instead of ignoring him as I usually do. His eyes fly wide, shyly raising a palm in my direction before spinning on his heel and speeding off.

"Who you waving at?" My dad's voice asks, right at my ear.

"That boy, Elvis. He came in to sing that one time. He's the one that left his number if ya ever needed a singer."

"Oh, yeah. The one that sings them slow songs. I ain't lookin' to put people to sleep. I need somethin' hoppin', somethin' that'll get real gone."

"I know. He said he sings all kinds."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"Hmm. Maybe I'll consider it if somethin' comes up. How often does he come by?"

I turn my cheek to eliminate his view of my blush, hoping my father won't dissect my reaction to the topic. I shrug with as much nonchalance as I can muster.

"Oh, about once a week. He hasn't been inside for a few months now, though." I stare at the dust cloud his truck left. "He must really wanna sing."

"I don't think so. I think he's stoppin' by to get a peek at a pretty girl," dad teases, ruffling my hair.

"Daddy!" I squeal, inching out of his reach and patting my hair back in place.

The next week, I find myself anxious, fidgety, and aloof. My ears strain for the sound of his truck, my eyes search for the flash of his uniform. Purposefully, I stage my paperwork by the window so I can see him arrive. Sure enough, around noon, the familiar rattle of his engine fills my ears and I sit up straighter in response. Boldened by my father's words, I wave once more at the man and he waves back, that shy smirk on his face.

He surprises me by leaping out of the truck and trudging inside, guitar in hand. My heart pounds as he stands in front of me, fingers drumming on his leg. He's handsome, but in a soft, almost feminine way. It has to be those lips.

"Hey," he blurts.

"Hi."

"What's your name?"

"Mary. Mary Phillips."

"That's pretty."

"Thanks."

He shifts, rocking on his heels. His body is moving but his eyes remain still and resolute on my face. I blush.

"I-I'd like to record another song, Miss Mary." He holds up the instrument.

"Alright. Three ninety-eight."

He produces the bills before I even finish saying the price. A giggle escapes me at his excitement and a flush fills his high cheekbones as he lowers his head and peers at me through lush lashes.

I nod him into the recording booth and he readies himself, standing this time. He sways as he sings, never still, moving with the rhythm of the music. He chooses two more love ballads, two more high-pitched slow songs.

It's impressive how he can scale to the upper register without any effort, but it's the low notes that his voice carries and sounds steady and firm. He has the raw talent, he's just untrained. I realize I made a mistake the last time he was in, thinking he lacked passion. Any fool could see it oozing out of every pore as he vocalized, his voice just hadn't caught up with his feelings yet. But if he ever figured out how to make his mouth the instrument to his fervent emotions, his records would top the charts.

He finishes and when he reappears into the room, a bead of sweat clings to his temple. I've never known somebody who can work up a sweat singing a love ballad in a recording studio. Caught up in watching its languid descent on his angled jaw, I jolt when he speaks again.

"Is, uh, Mr. Phillips in, by any chance? I-I-I, I'd like to talk to him if he's not too busy."

Unfortunately he's not in the studio, out checking out recording demos of hopeful pop hits. When I have to give him this news he deflates, as a disappointed pet when their owner leaves their view. After listening to him croon that beautiful love song, I feel connected to him somehow, like we shared a bond. I couldn't let him leave without giving him a chance.

"Come back next Tuesday. What time can you be here?"

"I take a lunch around noon."

"Good. You can talk to him then."

"Thank ya, Miss Mary. Thank ya very much."

"You're welcome, Elvis."

He smiles, shifting on his feet as if he wants to say something else, but then he thinks better of it and with a nod of his head, he's gone.

I stare after him, smiling at his odd nature.

He's punctual, the next week, and I peer curiously out the back window and giggle, noticing him combing his hair in the rear view mirror before he exits his truck. I've never known a man to fuss over his hair like a woman.

He enters the building and Marion greets him. Listening from the door of the store room, I hide from his view, hoping he asks about me. I'm not disappointed. He's casual in his questioning, wondering where I am and hoping I'm not under the weather. With a grin, I step out of the room carrying a box as my cover and pretending as if I wasn't staring at the man as he walked in.

"Marion, here are these—Oh! Hi, Elvis."

"Hi," he mutters, smiling like a loon. He remains that way, silly grin cemented on his face, until my father strides up, noticing the silence of the normally chatty room.

He spots Elvis and adjusts his posture.

"Son, what can I do for ya?"

"Oh, I-I'm Elvis, sir."

"And I'm Sam, nice to meet ya."

The two join hands in a firm handshake. Elvis gulps and begins his petition.

"I-I wanted to know if maybe, you uh, got a chance to listen to my record. I-I-I'd like to sing if ya need me sometime."

"Hmm. Elvis, ya say?"

"Yes, sir."

The lithe man leans forward toward the older gentleman, visibly hoping for a positive reaction.

"I think I do remember your record. I'm sorry son, but I'm lookin' for somethin' new and excitin', somethin' that'll wow the music industry. You're not a bad singer son, just not what I'm lookin' for."

It's painful to watch his eyes shatter, but instead of slinking away in embarrassment, a determination straightens his back.

"Okay. Um, thank ya very much for your time, sir." He nods his head at me. "Miss Mary."

My heart aches for the dismissal my father gives him as he once again disappears out the glass door. In a sudden rage, I turn to my dad.

"Y'know how many times he's been here asking for ya and ya can't even try him out? He says he can do fast songs," I huff.

This doesn't sway his opinion. "Look, honey, the music business, it's fickle. It's changin' all the time. Maybe somethin'll come along and I'll need him for it. But it's not now."

———~~♡~~———

Six months go by without seeing hide nor hair of Elvis Presley. It's due to my father's crass treatment of him, no doubt, and the lingering embarrassment he must harbor. It stings, this loss of his shy, familiar smile, and I realize how much I have grown attached to him if I miss him this strongly.

To distract myself from his absence, I gaze out at the busy street and fantasize about a good looking man walking through the door. He'd have blue eyes and full lips, be tall, athletic and lean. He'd curl his lips and smirk, leaning forward across the desk and say "hey, Miss Mary, I—"

"I think I'm onto somethin', hun. I just can't seem to find me the right singer," dad huffs. His voice jerks me right out of my imagination and plops me back into the dismal, rainy day. This must mean he's heard a demo of a new song and needs the proper singer to make it popular. Of course, one name comes to mind, one that's been swirling around my head for months.

"What about the Presley boy? Y'know, Elvis? Why not try him?"

The man stops his frantic pacing and tilts his head in contemplation.

"I hadn't even thought of that. It's been so long since I seen him at the store. Do ya think he'd still be interested?"

"Only one way to find out."

As luck would have it, he is. The very next morning, to my immense pleasure, a certain truck drives up the street and parks in its usual spot in front of the building. A lanky man jumps out and an audible gasp slips through my lips at the difference.

He's changed for the better these several months, filled out in a sculpted, athletic way. I'd forgotten how handsome he was, and I am reminded of his good looks now, in a vastly improved version. He's grown into his face shape with features that are more mature and manly. Even his hairstyle is changed, slicked back in ducktails instead of curled on his head. It suits him.

"Hey, Miss Mary," he pants, out of breath from his jog into the building.

"Hi, Elvis. It's good to see ya again."

"Yeah, I'm glad to see ya. I missed stoppin' by. I-I been real busy at work."

I nod in sympathy and gaze at the face I'd imagined seeing for months. He stares back, a smile tugging on his lips as he steps closer. My heart flutters.

"Ya can go on in, they're waitin' for ya," I mumble, my tongue a limp, useless thing under his dreamy-eyed scrutiny.

"Okay. Thanks for talkin' to your daddy."

"It was the least I could do."

There's that grin, same as always. Crooked and charming.

He disappears into the booth, and, not about to miss anything, I follow my dad into the sound room.

Elvis has requested musicians to back him up for this session, and so Scotty Moore and Bill Black are present and ready to begin. The boys have an easy rapport, joking and laughing as if they've known each other forever and weren't just introduced moments prior. Having good chemistry with the band members will make all the difference. That's another point for Mr. Presley.

"Alright, boys. Let's see what ya can do," my father instructs.

The song that my dad has chosen, Without You, is not to Elvis' strong suits. He sings it with a marked difference from others he's previously performed, feeling stiff and stagnant. Instantly, neither my father or Elvis liked his version of the song.

Dad sighs, but instead of ushering the men home, he prompts them to choose another song. Elvis nods and suggests I Love You, Because. He starts the song with his guitar strumming and impeccable whistling. Then a steadier, stronger voice emanates from the young singer's plump lips. He sings deeply, with rich, low tones and rises to higher notes in an effortless, seamless transition. I'm impressed. My father is not.

He simply asks for another song and once again, a slow ballad is chosen. As the trio begins to play the new suggestion, dad sends me a look.

"Thought ya said he could do all kinds?" he huffs.

"That's what he said," I shrug.

"So why's he only doin' ballads?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's nervous."

He sighs and leans into the microphone. "Go ahead and take a few minute break, boys."

I gnaw on my lip in nervousness, hoping Elvis decides on a more upbeat song choice to wow my father. The man himself seems bored of the singer's efforts and heads to the other room to pour himself