Софи Келли - Hooked On A Feline

Roma was singing, “It’s more than a feeling,” softly by my ear. I opened my eyes. Next to Roma, her husband, Eddie, and our friend Maggie were dancing. I knew Mags could dance but I hadn’t known that Eddie could. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Eddie Sweeney was a former NHL player. He was tall and fast and smooth on his feet, even without skates.

To my right Marcus—my Marcus—was dancing with Mary Lowe. Mary was easily a foot shorter than he was and several decades older, but she had some smooth moves herself. She caught my eye, raised her eyebrows and gave me a saucy grin.

I smiled back at her.

“Best night ever,” Roma said.

It was one of her favorite expressions, but she was right. This was going to be one of those nights I knew I’d remember for a long time.

The band came to their last song way too soon. “You know, I could stay out here all night,” Johnny began.

“Do it!” a voice yelled from somewhere on the edge of the riverbank. There were echoes of the words all through the crowd.

Johnny smiled. “Believe me, I’d like to, but like they say, all good things must come to an end.” He gazed out over the crowd. “Thank you all for coming tonight and I hope you liked my”—he turned and looked over his shoulder at the guys behind him—“our little surprise.”

People started clapping again. I leaned back against Marcus’s chest and he wrapped his arms around me. I wished the band could keep playing all night. I didn’t want to be anywhere except where I was right now.

Johnny walked back to Mike and leaned an elbow on his friend’s shoulder. Mike’s hands were resting on his glossy black StingRay bass. He was about average height, with a stocky build and strong arms. He had a great mischievous grin, which he was giving to Johnny now.

“Mike and I met on the playground when we were what? Six years old?” Johnny asked.

“Seven,” Mike said.

“Another kid, who I won’t name”—Johnny coughed—“Thorsten.” Everyone laughed. “Had just knocked out one of my front teeth with a swing. Mike looked all around and found the tooth in the grass. He gave it to me so the tooth fairy would come.”

“Professional courtesy,” Mike said, deadpan.

“We kinda lost touch for a while and then Mike came to audition for the band. And we’ve been friends ever since.”

Mike looked up at Johnny. “You know, a good friend is like a good joc—” He stopped and held up one hand, a not-exactly-sincere expression of contrition on his face. “Sorry. This is a family venue. I’ll start again. A good friend is like a good athletic supporter.”

Johnny shook his head. “Really?” he said.

I wasn’t sure if he knew the punch line to Mike’s story but I knew there’d be one.

Mike nodded. “Absolutely. Not really very flashy.” He raised an eyebrow. “No sequins. And sometimes makes you just a little uncomfortable.” He held up a hand again. “But when life kicks you in the”—the drummer rolled a flourish on the cymbals—“you know you’re always covered!”

Everyone laughed.

Mike pointed a finger at Johnny. “Love you, man.”

“Friends to the end,” Johnny said.

The two men fist-bumped and then Johnny moved toward the drummer. He ran a hand through his hair. “Paul and I met in detention,” he began.

“We were set up,” Paul called out.

More laughter.

Paul Whitewater was wiry with lean, strong arms in his black T-shirt and his bleached hair was cut very short.

“Now there are differing opinions on whether or not we deserved to be in detention,” Johnny continued.

“That time,” Mike added, deadpan.

Johnny narrowed his eyes at the bass player. “ That time,” he repeated. He turned his attention back to Paul. “My brief stint as a juvenile delinquent not withstanding, I couldn’t have found a better drummer or a better friend.”

“Back at you, brother,” Paul said.

Ritchie Gonzalez was the band’s keyboard player. He was stocky and solid with dark eyes, dark hair and olive skin. He wore a black leather cuff on his right wrist and a silver skull bracelet on his left. The bottom of a tattoo peeked out from the edge of his T-shirt sleeve. “Hey, Johnny,” he said with a smile.

Johnny smiled back at him. “Ritchie and I met in church.”

“And the building wasn’t struck by lightning,” Mike interjected.

Johnny shot him a look but it was clear from his body language and the hint of a smile pulling at his face and eyes that he wasn’t really mad. “You’re going to get struck by something if you’re not careful,” he said.

Mike folded his arms over his instrument again and dropped his head but he couldn’t completely rein in his grin, so once again his contrite act didn’t quite work.

Johnny gave his head a little shake. “As I was saying, Ritchie and I met in church. It was during the music festival and there were about three classes’ worth of kids down in the basement of St. Bartholomew’s waiting for our turn to perform. Ritchie was fiddling around on this old organ he’d found down there.”

“It was a Yamaha A55 Electone,” Ritchie said. “Someone had probably donated it to the church.”

“I’m sure they had no idea what they were starting.” Johnny gestured at Ritchie. “So I’m standing there, looking oh so cool in my white shirt and bow tie.” There was a ripple of laughter. “Thank you, Mom, for making me wear it to every music festival I was ever in. And Ritchie—who I’d like to point out was not wearing a bow tie—started playing ‘Light My Fire.’ And I started singing.”

Ritchie frowned. “Did you tell them we were in a church?”

Even from several rows back, I could see the gleam in Johnny’s dark eyes. “And it was very shortly after our time at St. Bartholomew’s that we met Paul. But you know that part of the story.” His words got yet another big laugh. Next to me Eddie gave a two-fingered wolf whistle. Roma leaned against his side, her head on his shoulder and her arm draped across his back.

There was only one band member left. “Harry Taylor,” Johnny said. Harry smiled at him. Johnny looked out over the crowd. “Do you want to know how long I’ve known this guy?” he asked.

“Yes,” I called out. So did a lot of other people.

“When I met him, he had hair,” Johnny said. “Lots of it.”

Harry smoothed a hand over his almost bald head.

“The first time I heard this guy play, it was on a guitar he got from the S&H Green Stamps catalogue. And even then it was magic.” Johnny clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder and they exchanged a look. They had the kind of easy connection that comes with old friends. “We’ve been friends longer than I sometimes want to admit to and I don’t know a better person.”

Johnny held out a hand, gesturing at the band. “These guys are more than just my friends: They’re my brothers.” He raised his arm in the air and Mike began to run a bass line. Harry joined in on guitar followed by Ritchie and Paul and they moved into a song that I’d never heard before with Johnny covering every inch of the stage as he sang.

When you can’t find the way,

And you can’t see the road,

When your heart is too heavy

To carry the load,

When you can’t find your voice,

When the darkness won’t go,

When you’re looking for somewhere to lay your weary head down

I’ll be your home.

At the end of the song the other four members of the band joined Johnny at the edge of the stage to take a bow, arms around one another’s shoulders. The crowd stayed on their feet, cheering and clapping, even after the men had all left the stage. I could see that they weren’t going to let the band get away without another song.