📍Waikiki, 1971 — “Rudolph, Your Ass!”
So listen… Hawaii, 1971. Supposed to be a peaceful little vacation, right? You’d think I’d be on a beach with a coconut drink in my hand and a flower in my hair. WRONG.
Instead, I was hiding behind a hotel minibar like I was in Mission: Impossible because Elvis was coming for me.
Let me back up.
So we’re staying at this beautiful hotel right off the beach, me, E, and the whole mafia circus. It’s one of those hot afternoons, we’re all a little sunburnt, high on shave ice and poor decisions. I’m in the suite with Jerry and Sonny, and they start whispering like teenagers with firecrackers. Plotting some dumb prank on Elvis—classic. And of course, instead of stopping them, I joined them. Because I am a menace with pretty hair and bad ideas.
Now if you know anything about Elvis, you know that man’s nose is sensitive. Like—he will sneeze if a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan. So what did I do? I marched right up to him while he was tuning his guitar all peaceful like… and rubbed his nose. Fast. Hard.
And baby when I say he jumped—CHILD. His whole body jolted like I hit the reset button on his soul. His nose turned red, like cherry red. I said “Aw, Rudolph 🥺🫶🏽” thinking I was cute.
This man—this man who sings gospel to babies and feeds raccoons with bare hands—threw his guitar at me.
I ran.
He was yelling, “RUDOLPH YOUR ASS WHEN I GET YA!”
Jerry was wheezing. Sonny literally fell off the couch. I was sprinting barefoot through the suite like a Dominican Olympic sprinter yelling, “¡COÑO! ELVIS, STOP!”
He was so mad, and his nose looked like it was about to file a lawsuit. We eventually made up later that night with ice cream and foot rubs (for him, not me—justice is a lie). He said he forgave me but I still sleep with one eye open near string instruments.
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