“Mr. Chapin, you’re not going to believe this.”
Judging from the tone of her voice, I doubted this was something I wanted to hear. It was about 7:15 on a cold winter morning, four days before Christmas. I had just arrived at work, to my desk in the West Wing where I was serving as appointments secretary to President Richard Nixon. My job was to keep the president’s schedule flowing smoothly. I prided myself on the efficiency of my office—as did my boss and mentor, H.R. Haldeman, and, of course, the president.
So when Nell Yates, my secretary, said, “You’re not going to believe this,” I could only guess that the scheduling equivalent of a meteor had decided to crash out of thin air and royally screw up the day’s calendar. As it turned out, I was right—but boy, was it worth it.
Henry Cashen, a friend and colleague who worked nearby, had stopped by my office for a cup of coffee. Both of us looked at Nell.
“There’s a note at the gate,” she said. “It’s from Elvis Presley.”
It was Henry who spoke first. “So, the King’s in town?” he said, chuckling. We both looked at Nell, incredulously. Elvis Presley, the most famous entertainer in the world, had arrived unannounced at the White House and left a note? Unlikely. To me, the far more likely explanation was that this was some kind of practical joke. I could tell Henry was thinking the same thing. The two of us were charter members of what we called “The Brotherhood,” a group of eight young White House aides who worked hard and played hard, including playing good-natured pranks on one another. Things had started to loosen up a little before Christmas. We were in prime pranking season.
Still, it wasn’t unheard of for people to show up at the White House gate expecting to see the president. Unlike your average Americans dropping by an in-law’s or a neighbor’s house carrying a cake, these were people who felt they were important enough to get an unannounced meeting with the president, or they were a little on the nutty side. Sometimes both. Most of the time they were politely sent away. But sometimes, as in this case, the guards at the gate would take down the relevant information and route the request through my office.
This had happened before. One crisp fall Sunday, after the NFL team then known as the Washington Redskins mounted an incredible comeback win against that week’s opponent, the president, an avid football fan, called Coach George Allen to congratulate him. Apparently he ended the call with a polite “We’ve got to get together,” casually inviting Allen to “drop by and we’ll talk some football.” Three hours later, Coach Allen arrived at the White House. The request was routed to my home, and I immediately called the president. When I told him Allen was at the South Gate, there was silence on his end for a moment. He finally asked, “Why?” I explained that according to Allen he’d been invited to come talk football. After another brief pause while that reality sunk in, Nixon said, “Oh, good God. OK, tell him to come in.” Allen was invited in and spent that Sunday evening upstairs in the Residence talking football with the president.
So, I was going to play this Elvis thing out. If it turned out to be a Brotherhood prank, at least we’d all have a good laugh about it. If Elvis had in fact left a note with the Secret Service officers at the gate, I needed to see it. It made its way to my office via White House messenger, and the first thing I noticed was that it was on American Airlines stationery. I unfolded it and began to read.
“Dear Mr. President,” it began. “First, I would like to introduce myself. I am Elvis Presley and admire you and have great respect for your office.” The letter went on to express the writer’s “concern for our country,” especially elements like “the drug culture, the hippie elements, the SDS [Students for a Democratic Society, a leftist campus group] [and] Black Panthers.” Elvis explained that he could help the president and the country because he was popular with Americans of all age groups and backgrounds, especially young people, and that he wanted to make a positive difference with an anti-drug message. To do this, he explained, he wanted the credentials of a “Federal Agent at Large.” I wasn’t entirely sure what that was.
But the letter seemed genuine, and what’s more, it seemed heartfelt. “Sir, I can and will be of any service that I can to help the country out,” Elvis wrote. “I have no concern or motives other than helping the country out.” He included his room number and phone number at the Hotel Washington, where he was staying under the name “Jon Burrows,” and ended with a polite request: “I would love to meet you just to say hello if you're not too busy.”
The story of how this letter made it into my hands is, by the way, a wild ride in itself. About two days before, Elvis had apparently fled his Graceland mansion in Memphis after a dispute with his father, wife and others over his finances, driven himself to the airport and flown to Washington on his own. After checking into his hotel, he went back to the airport and flew to Los Angeles to pick up his longtime friend Jerry Schilling. Elvis and Schilling took the red-eye back to Washington on the same plane as Sen. George Murphy of California, who had acted in movie musicals before entering politics. The two entertainers apparently hit it off on the plane, and that may have inspired Elvis to write this note in midair. They landed in Washington at dawn, got into a limousine and drove straight to the White House, where Elvis himself handed the note to flabbergasted officers at the Northwest Gate.
I had no way of knowing any of this at the time. At the moment, all I knew was that my day had been upended by what, it had begun to dawn on me, was a genuine once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get two of the best-known living Americans into the same room. I had to think it through, of course. Everything could have political ramifications. But since Elvis had specifically asked to help out with our anti-drug program, I called the White House staffer in charge of that initiative: domestic policy aide Egil “Bud” Krogh. I placed a call to him at about 8:45 a.m.
“Bud,” I said when he picked up the phone. “Elvis Presley wants to see Nixon. What do you think?”
I should mention that Bud, too, was a charter member of “The Brotherhood.” Naturally he immediately thought I was putting him on. It didn’t help that Henry Cashen—who obviously decided this was way more fun than whatever was waiting back at his desk—was still in my office and was chiming in on the call. Bud figured we were both in on it. Eventually, I was able to convince him that this was for real. He thought about it for a moment and said: “I think he ought to come in.”
At this point, it officially became my problem. Part of my job was to write a short memo providing the rationale for each requested meeting with Nixon to be approved by the president’s chief of staff and “gatekeeper,” Bob Haldeman. I recommended to him that we put this meeting together, as it could benefit our anti-drug efforts. If the president wants to meet with some bright young people outside of the government, I suggested, then who would be better than Elvis Presley?
It was far from assured that Haldeman would approve this request, or even if he did, that Nixon would ultimately agree to it. Nixon was a very buttoned-down, serious man. His favorite activity, if he found himself with any free time (which was rare), was to sit down with a legal pad and write, composing long memos about his current thoughts on pressing issues foreign and domestic. He certainly knew who Elvis was, but you probably couldn’t call him a “fan.” I loved the president, and believed in him, but I was 30 years old myself and was well aware of his reputation among my generation as a “square.”
At the same time, Nixon never stopped making political calculations. He was always thinking of ways to improve his base of support. He genuinely wanted to be able to connect with younger people and felt frustrated that he couldn’t. He had even appeared—very briefly—on the comedy show Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In in 1968 in a bid to show an inkling of humor. Perhaps meeting with Elvis would help his image.
Another counterpoint, though, was the lingering suspicion of Elvis held by many, not by folks my age, but in Nixon’s older, more conservative base. This made it a political concern. His early television appearances in the mid-1950s had led to outrage over what was thought to be the frenzied pace of his rock-and-roll and the perceived lasciviousness of his gyrating hips. Though much had changed between his television debut in 1956 and 1970, many older Americans still saw Elvis as a lothario or even as a hippie—despite the fact that he denounced hippies in his letter. Or, what if this was all some sort of stunt calculated by this bad-boy rocker to make Nixon look foolish?
Ultimately, though, I suspected the two men might have more in common than anyone thought. They had both served their country, after all. Nixon had been a young Naval officer in the Pacific during World War II. Elvis had been eligible for the draft and was stationed in Germany where, instead of getting a cushy job playing music to entertain his fellow troops, he worked hard and did his job like every other soldier. And I had a feeling that what Elvis wrote about his love for his country would connect with the president.
At first glance, Haldeman’s reply was not encouraging. Where I had mentioned Presley as an example of the bright young people Nixon should be meeting with, Bob had added the notation: “You must be kidding.” Still, at the very bottom, he signed off on the “approval” line with his characteristic “H” initial. Then he took the memo in to Nixon himself, and to everyone’s surprise Nixon thought it was a great idea.
“Arrange for him to come in,” Haldeman told me. Then the ever vigilant chief of staff added, “Have Bud check him out first.”
This had all happened over the course of a couple of hours after my first call to Bud Krogh at 8:45. Elvis and his two friends and assistants—he and Schilling had been joined by bodyguard Sonny West, who flew from Memphis to meet them—had gone back to the Hotel Washington. Bud called them first and invited them to meet with him in his office in the Old Executive Office Building, as a final check to make sure this wasn’t all some sort of elaborate set-up. If all went well, Bud would take Elvis over to the West Wing to meet with Nixon.
Bud was cautious about having a meeting with the King of Rock-and-Roll plopped into his lap without warning. He became even more cautious when he got a call from the Secret Service saying Elvis had arrived to meet with him—and was carrying a gun.
They meant this literally. Elvis had under his arm a beautiful boxed commemorative .45 automatic pistol, complete with seven bullets lined up next to the gun in the frame, which he wanted to present as a gift to the president. Elvis liked guns. He collected them. He had traveled from Los Angeles to Washington with three concealed handguns of his own (for which he had the necessary permits), but, as Schilling remembered later, had wisely elected to leave those in his limousine for his White House visit. The boxed .45 had, according to Schilling, been plucked by Elvis off the desk of his Los Angeles home without a word as they were heading out the door.
A few words between Bud and the Secret Service officers defused the situation, and Elvis could bring in his gun. Bud reported that the initial meeting went well, that Presley was completely genuine and echoed the themes from his letter about wanting to help his country and do something about the drug problem. We scheduled the Oval Office meeting for 11:45 a.m.
When Elvis showed up, he was wearing a purple velvet suit, a belt with a boxing championship-style buckle, a jacket draped over his shoulders and amber-tinted sunglasses. Nobody had ever seen anyone arrive at the White House dressed quite like that. Usually when visitors arrived to see the president, Steve Bull, Nixon’s personal aide, would have them wait in the Roosevelt Room or Cabinet Room until the president was ready for them. But this time Steve escorted Elvis and Bud straight into the Oval Office while his friends Jerry and Sonny stayed in the Roosevelt Room. Bud was the scribe taking careful notes of the entire event and conversation.
The King, it appeared, was a little overwhelmed the first time he stepped into the Oval Office. Lots of people are. Nixon was standing beside his desk and Elvis slowly made his way over, taking in the room, and ultimately shaking hands with the leader of the free world. A freewheeling conversation ensued, and a session of what Bud later called “show and tell.” Elvis had brought photos of his family to show the president, as well as some of his collection of police badges from around the country (it was a federal agent badge that he hoped to add to his collection on this trip).
Topics of conversation ranged from Communist brainwashing (apparently Elvis had studied this) to the Beatles (Elvis was disappointed in some of their comments critical of America) and even how hard it was to play Las Vegas. On this last point, inexplicably, the president politely commiserated. The president was supportive of Presley’s plan to help reach young Americans, and the King explained he could best do that by “just singing,” instead of preaching a message—against drugs, for instance. The president agreed with that too, and mentioned a few times that it was essential Elvis maintain his “credibility” with the youth if he wanted to make a positive impact. All the while, White House Photographer Ollie Atkins snapped away.
About halfway through, Elvis made the suggestion that the meeting stay secret, suggesting that both of their fan bases might not understand what they were up to together. “That’s a good idea,” Nixon replied. At the end, Elvis asked if he could have an official badge from what was then known as the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs to legitimize his efforts on behalf of drug prevention—and also to add to his shiny collection.
At that, the president turned to Bud: “Get him a badge,” he said. “I want him to have one.” Elvis was so overcome by this that, before anyone could stop him, he stepped forward and embraced the president in a bear hug. This was not, to say the least, something that happened often with Nixon.
After about 20 minutes with the president, Elvis asked if he could bring in his pals. The president warmly welcomed them. He opened up the “gift drawer” of the Resolute Desk into which Elvis promptly started digging. The entertainer brought out golf balls, cufflinks and other White House trinkets for him and his friends to take home. All told, Elvis was in there for 35 minutes, very long for an impromptu White House meeting of this type. But then again, there was only one Elvis. After leaving the Oval Office, they got a short version of the White House tour, pausing to greet stunned staff and kiss a few of the women in the office.
They stuck around for lunch in the White House Mess. By the time that was over, a messenger had rushed over the official BNDD badge and Elvis, thrilled with his new acquisition, swept his long coat around his shoulders and left the building.
Did the Nixon-Elvis summit of December 21, 1970 lead to some major change in policy and stop the war on drugs? No. Did Elvis become a surrogate for Nixon among the youth of America? Not exactly. But for a few whirlwind hours, it was my job to set up a face-to-face meeting between two American icons of the 20th century. At Elvis’ request, we were all sworn to secrecy. Those of us close to the president never would have dreamed of leaking it—we wouldn’t want to offend Elvis, or invite some charge that this was a cynical political stunt arranged by us. Still, considering how many people had become aware of it throughout the day, we were surprised it didn’t leak by that evening. Somehow it stayed secret for more than a year, until the story finally broke in January 1972.
The famous meeting was 50 years ago this month. America has changed a great deal since, but something about that unique meeting continues to resonate down the years. That photo of Elvis and Nixon shaking hands in the Oval Office remains the most-requested image from the National Archives to this day. As we prepare to end a difficult year in the life of the nation with lots of questions about its future direction, this strange and wonderful episode offers an encouraging sentiment: In the White House, anything is possible.
