The Blue Moon Review - Fiction

Elton John

by Elissa Alford

At sixteen I gave myself a middle name. Doing the paperwork for my first driver's license, I wrote Harmony on the line above the letter M, filling in the space that had always previously been left blank. It was an impulsive tribute, honoring the end of a once cherished relationship. I didn't realize that it was also the creation of an enduring document, signed testimony to having once succumbed to a common adolescent affliction-- the rock star obsession.

My best friend was crazy about Barry Manilow. I had better taste--I was crazy about Elton John. My infatuation also reached more impressive proportions: phone calls to his London record office at 3 am (due to the time difference), tracking down and staking out his Topanga Canyon home, finagling tickets to events where he might be present, and continual additions to what my parents called "the Elton John Memorial Wall," a collection of album covers, posters and memorabilia covering a 10 x 12 expanse. When I received identical form letter replies to my numerous fan letters--each written from a different angle and painstakingly crafted to elicit a personal response--these were also tacked up on the wall.

On Jess's 15th birthday a new form of worship was instituted. My gift to her was an original story, soon to be known as a "Barry Tale." Packed with the kinds of details that ornamented both our fantasy lives, the scrawled text featured the romantic adventures of my best friend and her idol. An instant hit, it proved to be only the first of a series; after swooning with pleasure over her imaginary escapade, Jess requested more. She also returned the favor, penning elaborate "Tales of Elton." These literary efforts took place mostly in Algebra class, one of us keeping track of the assignments while the other conjured and scribbled what would happen next to our paper selves.

The plots of the stories, in fact, varied little, as they had to encompass certain basic elements: Rock star gives concert, spots girl in front row of audience while performing her favorite song, and knows instantly that she is the one with whom he longs to share his mansions, planes, cars, and all of the incredibly lavish devotion of which he is capable. Girl makes her way backstage, is declared by the enraptured star to be his One True Love, swept to his mansion in a limousine, kissed, adored, and carried off to be further manhandled in the vaguest of terms somewhere in the vicinity of a lavish four-poster bed with silk sheets. This last scene, which included long and mutual adoring looks and whispered phrases such as "I can't believe I have found you at last," inevitably concluded with discussion of an elaborate wedding, an event which was to occur only a few days later before the assembled multitude of Hollywood celebrities, fans, and family.

For variation, we worked in the occasional missed connection--Star spirited unexpectedly away from the beautiful, still nameless stranger, his car fading into the night while Girl looks after it in despair, believing that only through the most herculean effort will she make contact with him again. But after some misery their paths cross unexpectedly...in a deserted park...in the twilight...in the rain...each having set out to escape their lonely sorrows. A glimpse--a gasp--a blissful embrace. They have found each other again, their own true loves! (Girl is swept to his mansion in a limousine, kissed, adored, etc. See above.)

In a memorable literary sleight-of-hand, Jess managed in one of her stories to bring all four of us together for the ultimate double wedding, after which she retired us to adjoining houses, much interior decorating, and collaborative albums. Then, just before the series ended, our plot lines took a sophisticated turn. The honeymoon was over. Groupies, evil managers, and our husband's unexpectedly erratic temperaments threatened our blissful unions. We began taking turns writing installments, detailing the fictional conversations in which we bemoaned our fate, consulting and consoling one another over elegant teas held in Laura Ashley sitting rooms. Could we weather the turmoil of fame and fortune? Could we forgive the crises which daily marred our affections? Could these marriages be saved?

Suggestions that Barry and Elton might be gay, or at least bisexual, did not trouble us or derail our romantic inclinations. It only added to the mystique. We had never known anyone who was gay and it seemed exotic. It was pseudo chic, or, as we pronounced it, _suede-oh chick_, a suggestive expression that Elton had used in a Playboy interview and which we had yet to decipher. (The purchase of the magazine was accomplished after several embarrassed retreats from the corner 7-11.) In any case, they were fated to be with us, and any interest in other men would be nothing in the face of destiny.

While we waited, the grooves in our records deepened. It was the songs, after all--not Barry and Elton's physical attractions--which so inspired our devotion. While I did not feel the need, as did Jess, to regularly stretch out on the shag carpet and emote to "Mandy" and "I Write the Songs," I did alternately set "Benny and the Jets" and "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me" to infinite repeat, bouncing around the room, throwing myself on the bed, and bunny hopping out into the backyard to them. A new album, an event almost painful in its magnitude, required greater concentration; we studied the unfamiliar lyrics and listened between the electric guitars and synthesizers for new and crucial information about our future mates. Curled up on Jess's bed, still listening to her radio at 1 am, the hit singles that played every hour were messages meant for our ears alone, thrilling and full of portent. When a song ended one of us would ask, "But what would you really do if you met him? What would you really say?"

I found out. A friend's older sister, Chris, who worked at a television station in Los Angeles, secured seats at the showing of a film--an early version of music video--to coincide with the release of Elton John's new single. Even from our back row seats I would have known his bald head--in the front row--anywhere. After the five minute film and the applause people drifted out, heading for a nightclub where a celebratory party was being held. Strangely, Elton did not leave. He remained sitting, alone, in his front row seat.

"Go!" Chris hissed, as I hung back, paralyzed by idol proximity.

"I can't!" I whispered back, but began walking, very slowly, to the front of the theater. I continued to approach, ever more slowly. Finally I stood before the living hero of the Tales of Elton. He looked up. I looked down. He stood up. He was short.

"May I shake your hand?" I asked. It was the best I could do.

"Of course," he answered politely. He extended his hand. "I'm sorry it's cold," he added.

"That's okay," I said, realizing the truth even as our hands met: Elton didn't know me. Worse still, I didn't know him. I was not going to be spirited off to a life of glamour and high drama. There would be no wedding, no mansions, no songs adoringly dedicated to me. We stood in silence, smiling awkwardly.

"Well, nice to meet you," I said finally. I turned and walked away, leaving my once true love standing alone in an empty theater.

The Memorial Wall was taken down shortly after. Jess was sworn to secrecy; no future boyfriend would learn of my insanity. But I carry evidence of it every day; my license still reads Elissa Harmony Alford. I mean to remove that adopted middle name but keep forgetting, and then my license is renewed, and renewed again. Years later, computerized mail addressed to my teenage self is still showing up. No letter from Elton, though, saying in the words of that favorite song, "Harmony, I really, really love you, and you know I'll love you forever..." But that's all right. According to Jess, we were doomed anyway.