It wasn’t actually called the Elvis Bar, that’s just what we called it. Bonnie’s Bar and Grill was in the heart of Highlandtown, a working class neighborhood in East Baltimore. My buddy Vic insisted that we to go to this Elvis Bar. We were only 18, freshmen in college, and in a lot of ways very wide-eyed, always looking for an adventure. This was the adventure Vic wanted us to go on. He had an older brother named Raf (short for Rafael, I assume) and Vic worshipped him. Raf was a reporter for the Baltimore paper and I guess he had done a write up on this little place, and now Vic was crazy for it. I told him that Elvis music wasn’t really my thing. He said it didn’t matter. We had to go. He wore me down, it didn’t take much. We were going to Elvis Bar.

We got lost in Highlandtown on the way. We finally found it, from the outside it was not impressive, just another corner bar in Baltimore. No sign of Elvis at all, no blinking lights, no neon, just a sign that said Bonnie’s. Vic said, Lets go, and we walked through the door. That marked the first time I ever walked in to a locals bar in Baltimore (but not that last.) It’s an experience everyone should have. All the those blue collar workers turned and looked at us. They weren’t used to people they didn’t know walking through that door. They were still looking at us, it seemed to me that they wanted some explanation for our intrusion. I was terrified. Obviously we didn’t belong here, it was just a matter of time before it got ugly. Just about the time I was ready to bolt (we’d been standing there for 4 or 5 whole seconds) the little old behind the bar shouted out, “Victor!” She shuffled out from behind the bar and gave Vic a kiss on the cheek. The locals saw that Bonnie knew us, at least one of us, and went back to their drinks. With disaster averted I took in my surroundings. It was amazing, every inch of this place was covered with Elvis. Young Elvis, Fat Elvis, but mostly Young Elvis. THe King of Rock and Roll lived on in Highlandtown. Newspaper clippings, photos, and of course, several velvet wall hangings all of the King of Rock and Roll. An old-style phonograph was playing Hound Dog on a 78. (Note to readers born after 1980: A phonograph is like a CD Player but bulkier and with less Quality. A 78 (rpm) is like a CD Single but with more popping and crackling.)

It was somehow perfect. Maybe it was the way Bonnie’s eyes clouded up when she talked about her trip to Graceland, or the way the regulars attended to the record player. It all felt very authentic. It didn’t hurt that Bonnie would serve us beer if there weren’t too many people around. Miss Bonnie was a gem. She slurred her words when she talked, this was partly from a stroke she had suffered, partly from the fact that she was never without a drink. And when she talked about Elvis Presley there was a real and honest reverence to her words. It was a magic place, we would get swallowed up in the atmosphere. We went back several times, and somehow I always felt right at home. Bonnie couldn’t ever remember my name, but after a while I think she did that just to get a rise out of me.

During my sophomore year, Miss Bonnie passed away. She had no family, no one to take ove the business or her incredible collection of Elvis Presley memorabilia. A local columnist tried to drum up interest in having someone buy the bar and keep it in tact. It never happened. The bar was sold, its decorations auctioned off. Now it is just another corner bar like any other corner bar in Baltimore. But I’ll always remember the Elvis Bar fondly. It could have been a freak show, gaudy, and overdone, but it wasn’t. It was a labor of love, Bonnie’s love for Elvis Presley and her love for her bar were woven together in that one little space. I am grateful to have experienced it.