PTERODACTYL GARY MEETS ELVIS PRESLEY
by DPR

Regarding Pterodactyl Gary's exploits, all I have to go on is memory of the stories he told me. So here we are two reminiscences removed from the event. Therefore, I am going to try to replicate Gary's voice as best I can from memory, and tell it the way (I remember) I heard it. Believe me, I've heard old men tell tall tales all my life, (I do live in the South), but Gary's were different. He was never obsequious like most bullshitters; in fact, we usually had to pry details out of him. He told these stories slowly and thoughtfully, in the manner of a man remembering. The way I usually heard them was from Gary as he sat in a lovingly tattered old burgundy barcalounger, an equally ragged checkered blanket over his lap. He was already in his seventies when I was seeing him most often, and, as old men do, he would get chills in his knees. I often thought there was something Rooseveltian in his disposition, especially when he would smoke these fat Ecuadorian cigars-- I think they were Ecuadorian-- and blow long gray smoke trails to punctuate some salty Garyism. Like the ones in possibly my favorite Gary story:

"I was coming out of a diner in Memphis-- I was visiting Marlene, a waitress I knew-- and there, coming from opposite sides of the parking lot, were Elvis Presley and the Colonel on one side, and on the other side: Sam Phillips and a couple of guys from Sun. So I had just heard this story from the cook in the diner-- black fella-- about some garbage Presley had said about colored people and jews. I don't know if this guy was pullin' my leg or not, but I never really liked that poofy-haired brat from the get-go. He dressed like a Branson street hustler and these stupid kids who should have been listening to Carl and Chuck or Chet and actually hearing rockabilly-- rock n roll, whatever- were wasting their musical education watching that wannabe pimp shaking his ass all over the place. So anyway, I come out [I recall a long smoke plume at this point] and there he is, right in the damn parking lot. Then Billy, this bass player from Nashville, waves me over. I start to go on over and say hello to him and Sam, and damn if I don't see that the little pimp is heading toward us, too, and he's got his big rubbery mug all twisted up into this mean face, and that fat bastard Parker waddling after him like a goddamn pet penguin-- course I guess we know who the pet was, really, outta those two-- but anyway, Presley comes over and starts right out yellin at Sam about some old business bullshit from the old days, and Sam was a hard-ass, but he was gettin up there at this point, and he wasn't gonna fight the kid, even though you could tell he wanted to. So I'm looking at this paranoid, racist drug addict wearing a halloween costume cuss out one of the greatest ears in country music history, and I step up, right between them.

[Gary stopped talking at this point, blew smoke, and waited for us to ask 'what did you say?']

I think what I said was, 'You little prick. All you did was rip off Little Richard's whole schtick and sell it to the white Baptists, and regardless of what your handlers and P.R. people tell you-- when they tell you probably every second-- how goddamn wonderful you are, the truth is you couldn't carry Richard's dick with both hands and a little red wagon.'

[He paused and blew smoke through a crooked smile and waited for us to say 'What happened then?']

What do you think happened? He knocked me on my ass. Completely out. I woke up a few minutes later, and Sam was bending over me laughing his ass off. He said the little pimp and his manager got spooked and peeled out of the parking lot in one of the kid's big Cadillacs. He also pointed out to me that I had a little imprint from one of Elvis's rings right below my cheekbone. I swear to God you could read 'EP' on my face."

I know this sounds like hyperbole (being generous) or bullshit (not so much) but I believe him. I could understand, Gentle Reader, how you might think he was bullshitting us. I might feel the same way, hearing these stories. Except that I saw pictures of him with Sam Phillips standing in front of Sun Studios. And I saw him play the drums a couple of times and he was damn good. Not showy; solid. And if you have any bullshit detector at all when it comes to reading voices, then you would feel strongly, if not know that he was telling the truth, listening to him talk. He wasn't the sort of man that abided bullshit or self-aggrandizement, but he loved a good story. And even if he was "garnishing the details" or possibly misremembering--as could I be--the story stands undiluted, memorable, and funny as hell. (At least I think so.)

Res Ipsa Loquitur. Damn straight.