Holly & Ray

Young hearts, be free tonight.

Time is on your side.

Don’t let them put you down, don't let them push you around.

Don’t ever let them change your point of view.

Rod Stewart.

October 1982.

Southern California.

“It’s showtime, Ray.”

Fucking Nick. Why did I let him drag me into playing at this stupid talent show? I feel like an idiot in this get-up, and why did we have to do a sing-along number? What if the audience doesn't participate? I'm going to look like a damn fool...

I slung on my electric guitar as the overly enthusiastic youth pastor waved us onto stage. “Okay people! This is the last act tonight. Give it up for Nick and Ray, performing, “Minnie The Moocher.”

Hoping the volume was right, I plugged my twenty-watt practice amp into a handy outlet, then tipped a smug nod at the crowded chapel.

Dressed as the Blues Brothers in white dress shirts, black ties and slacks, my best friend Nick and I simultaneously donned our cheap dark sunglasses to raucous applause, then took a coordinated bow. Only our matching six-foot-tall slim physiques and clothing created the illusion of siblings. Otherwise, my shoulder-length, dark curly locks, girlish features, and tan complexion stood apart from Nick's close-cropped medium blonde hair, masculine face and pale skin. He sat behind an ancient upright piano, then hit the start button on our Casio keyboard’s rudimentary drum machine, kicking off a slow shuffle beat.

I slinked around the stage in heeled black loafers, being careful to avoid tripping over my own guitar cable while playing a minor key bluesey intro solo. Still, I took the time to scan Nick’s church’s college group for women, the real reason for my presence.

Oh, yeah. Lots of cute girls here tonight. There’s the blonde twins Diane and Darlene, tiny Rosa, and… whoa. That tall redhead sitting in back with weird Lisa must be the one Nick told me about. Holly, I think he said. Wow. He wasn’t kidding. She’s fucking gorgeous…

Nick tickled the piano keys with surprising skill, adding his own tasty fills between my lines before singing the first verse of Cab Calloway’s classic tune from the Blues Brothers' hit movie.

“Hey folks, here’s the story about Minnie The Moocher. She was a low down hoochie coochie…”

Because I loved fucking with Nick, my lazy meandering steps did not bring me back to the microphone until the last second before our chorus. Dark sunglasses concealed his eye roll, then in a strong tenor, Nick belted out,

“Hidey hidey hidey hi!”

I waved my pick hand, urging the chapel full of collegiates to repeat the line with me. Only a handful of people in the audience knew me, so relying on their cooperation filled me with dread that our act would fall flat. However, Nick had grown up in the church and was well regarded, so hopefully by association, I would be too.

It’s far from a sure thing. Nick’s not THAT popular…

To my relief, nearly everyone in the pews loudly sang along with me,

“Hidey hidey hidey hi!

Hodey hodey hodey ho!

Heedy heedy hee!”

Sticking to our punk rock roots, we completed the tune in under two minutes, adding just one more verse and chorus, then capping it off with my short guitar outro.

The standing ovation filled me with good cheer and pride. Nick and I had only rehearsed the song twice since my new friend Lisa had invited us to sign up last month, yet our performance had been relatively tight.

I smirked at the crowd. “Thank you!”

Grabbing my amp on the way off the low stage, I joined Nick and high-fived him.

He seemed astonished. “Ray, that went better than I expected. Wayyyy better.”

“Yeah. Maybe we should blues up all our songs, Nick. Like the one you wrote about…”

The college group pastor’s amplified voice cut off my musing.

“All right, all right! Listen up, gang. The judges’ scores are in, and tonight's winner is…Nick and Ray! Congratulations, guys. Hope to see more of your talent here someday. Perhaps in a... different context.”

What? Is he hinting we should lead worship? Nick and I? Does he know we drink, smoke, and fuck chicks? Huh. For some strange reason, I’d like to try. Maybe do something positive for a change.

Now, where’s that Holly chick?

I worked my way through the crowd, accepting various accolades like a normal person, instead of my true, rough-edged self.

The high school counselor who tested me said I only have a FEW borderline markers for sociopathy. I’m not always a cretin.

Not always…

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