Bog King works in his grandfather's appliance store by day and plays drums in the basement by night. It's not a glamourous life, but he's content, for the most part. Then Roland James and Sunny Lawrence ask him to fill in for their drummer in a talent show, and suddenly he's part of a band that's rocketing towards stardom.
There's a few complications, of course. His grandfather doesn't approve. His girlfriend dumps him. He doesn't like Roland.
And he really likes Roland's girlfriend, Marianne Faye.
What could go wrong?

'Ye want me ta do what now?'

When Roland and Sunny walked into Patterson's Appliance, Bog hadn't been sure what to think. He was familiar with them both, but he didn't hang out with their crowd. Mostly because he was several years older than any of them, and foreign to boot. He suspected they were there to make fun of the merchandise, maybe laugh at the freakishly tall salesman. He certainly hadn't expected this.

'Are you hard of hearing or something?' Roland twirled his blonde hair, admiring his reflection in one of the TVs.

Bog glared at him. He'd never really liked Roland James, which was why he couldn't fathom that the man was here apparently asking for his help. 'Ah heard ye fine. Ah'm just havin' a hard time believin' it.'

I told you this would be a waste of time,' Roland muttered to his friend, as if Bog wasn't even there. 'You seriously expect me to believe he can play my music?'

The shorter man frowned. 'Our music. And yes, I do. Bog's one of the best drummers in the state.' Sunny turned to Bog. 'You do still play, don't you?'

'Aye, ev'ry chance Ah get,' he answered absently, stunned by the show of support from a man he barely knew. But then, Sunny Lawrence was a friendly man. Bog wasn't.

'Excellent!' Sunny beamed at him. 'Look, we wouldn't bother you, but it's an emergency! We're playing at the Mercy Hearst College talent show tonight, and Pare – our drummer – broke his arm. You'll be able to pick it up in no time, I know it! I've heard you practice when I pass the store.'

Bog grimaced. His late night practices were a sore point between him and his grandfather, Harry Patterson. As in Patterson's Appliance. But since Harry refused to let him play at the house, they'd settled on the store basement as a reluctant compromise. Of course, Harry was unaware that Bog was using one the store's hi-fi systems to play Dell Paxton records while he practiced. But what Harry didn't know couldn't hurt Bog.

'What's in it fer me?'

Roland, who'd been ignoring them for the most part, broke into the conversation with a leer. 'Like Sunny said, it's at the college. So, college girls. Co-eds! By the fistful!'

Bog frowned. He knew Roland had a girlfriend, Marianne Faye. He'd met her a couple of times, and she seemed really nice. In fact, the only fault he could find in her was that she was dating Roland.

Sunny rolled his eyes. 'More importantly, there'll be money. There's a $100 grand prize for the wining band, so that's $25 bucks apiece.'

Bog whistled appreciatively. He could certainly use the money. Working at the appliance store didn't pay a whole lot, and he needed a couple of parts for his bike. He gazed around the store, considering the offer, and caught Harry's glare. That could be a problem. There was no way Harry would be supportive of this endeavor. He barely tolerated Bog as it was. It didn't help that he looked exactly like his father. Harry'd never approved of his daughter's marriage and had actively disliked his son-in-law. When Griselda returned to Eerie, Pennsylvania as a widow with a gangly Scottish son in tow, he'd given them a place to live, and even got Bog a job in the store. But he'd made it clear that there would be no grandpa/grandson trips to the ol' fishing hole. Not that Bog had any interest in fishing, anyway.

No, Harry wouldn't approve of Bog taking the afternoon to practice with a garage band. Music was not an acceptable career path, even if it was just for one day. But…maybe there was a way he could make it up to him.

'Alright gentlemen, here's mah terms. If ye want these magic hands,' he wiggled his fingers, 'ye'll have t'buy two new record needles, and…' he glanced around for inspiration. 'This here clock radio.'

Roland sneered. 'Seriously? How about a washing machine, too?'

Bog shrugged. 'It's $14.95 on sale. But if it's too expensive fer ye…'

Sunny hastily dug out his wallet. 'We'll take it!' He frowned at his friend. 'Come on, Roland. I only have ten bucks on me, and you're loaded.'

'Fine,' Roland grumbled. 'But he better be worth it.'

'Oh, he is. Thanks, Bog! You won't regret this.'

Sighing, Bog rang up the items. 'Ah already do.'

'I can't take it doing that thing you dooo!'

Bog fought back a yawn as he hit the crash cymbal. Sunny had been right – the song wasn't hard to pick up at all. In fact, it was pretty boring. Roland insisted it was a ballad, and sang it at an excruciatingly slow tempo. Bog didn't see how they would win with it, but he'd promised, and he would go through with the talent show. He just might not be able to hold his head up in musical circles again. Not that he really hung around in musical circles.

'Very good,' said Sunny. 'Took Pare a week to learn that.'

Thang, the base player, wrinkled his brow. 'Pare? Who's Pare?'

They all stared at him. Bog couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. He seemed a bit of a space cadet, so Bog was inclined to believe he was serious. But that reminded him of something he'd been meaning to ask. 'How'd he break his arm, anyway?'

Sunny snorted. 'He was trying to teach Thang here how to jump parking meters.'

Bog blinked. 'Why?'

Sunny shrugged. 'Beats me. Let's just say it didn't end well for him. But hey, it's good for us! No offence to Pare, but you're a much better drummer.'

'Aye, well. It's not that hard o' a tune.'

'That's what I keep telling Roland. It needs to be faster.' Marianne was at the back of Sunny's garage, throwing darts with deadly accuracy. Bog hadn't thought she'd been paying attention, but apparently multitasking was one of her talents. As was a keen ear for music. Obviously, she knew exactly what was wrong with the song.

'Buttercup, which one of us is the musician?'

She grimaced at the nickname. 'You are, but-'

'So I'm the one that knows what I'm doing. Besides, baby, I wrote it for you. You're gonna hurt my feelings if you keep criticizing my art.'

She glared at him like she was contemplating throwing her next dart at him, rather than the board. Bog was pretty sure she wouldn't miss, either.

Once again, he wondered how on earth a girl like Marianne ended up with a…male like Roland. And if he wrote the song for her, it seemed like he didn't have a very high opinion of his own girlfriend. Trying to ease the tension, he said, 'So it's just the one song, yeah?'

Sunny nodded.

'Wunnerful.' He played a brief solo, needing to do something to offset the boredom of his afternoon. He started to get up, and caught Marianne staring at him. 'What?'

'That's it!'

'Huh?'

'That's it, Bog King!'

'What's it, Marianne Faye?'

She grinned at him. 'The band name. You should be the Wonders!'

He blinked. 'Ye dinnae have a name yet?'

Sunny jerked a thumb at Roland. 'Somebody's been having a hard time finding a name that properly expresses his artistic genius.'

'Oh, in tha' case, how 'bout the Goblins?'

Roland shuddered. 'No way. That wouldn't suit us at all.' He looked Bog up and down. 'Well, it would suit you.'

Marianne swatted Roland's arm and grinned at Bog. 'That would be cool, too. I almost like it better than the Wonders.'

'Almost?'

'Well, since I came up with the Wonders, I have to be loyal and say I like it better.'

'We all do, honeybunch.' Roland placed a sloppy kiss on her cheek, and she gave him a goofy smile.

Bog shook his head. He would never understand women. 'Listen, Ah gotta get back to the store. Ah'll see ya at the show.'

When he pushed open the door to Patterson's, his mother ambushed him. 'Bog! Where have you been?'

'Ah was gettin' ready fer t'night, Mom. What's wrong?'

'Your girlfriend called five times, that's what's wrong! If you keep ignoring her like this, she'll find someone else, and then you'll die sad and alone.'

'Mom, Ah'm pretty sure a couple o' missed calls is not gonna result in mah bein' alone fer th'rest o' mah life. What did she say?'

'She wanted to know what time you're picking her up tonight, and where you're taking her for dinner.'

Oh. Right. Oops?

'Listening to third-rate wanna-be Elvises while eating hot dogs is not how I wanted to be spending our date, Angus.'

'Ah dinnae think ye can call an all-girl group wanna-be Elvises, Tina. But we're gonna cream them.' Wisely, Bog decided to ignore Tina's insistence on using his given name. He'd tried convincing her to call him Bog when they'd first started dating, but she felt it was uncouth. She didn't seem care that he absolutely hated his name.

On the other hand, she probably was justified in being a little miffed with him. The crowded multi-purpose room of the local college wasn't exactly his idea of a great date, either. Nor was listening a string of amateur bands, most of which were quite frankly bad. Like the group currently onstage under the 'Congratulations, Class of '64' banner – Tina's 'wanna-be Elvises'. Although, they seemed to be more like wanna-be Peter, Paul, and Marys or Judy Collinses. They were singing something about a river, and they were ever-so-slightly off key.

'I thought you were going to take me dancing. You never take me dancing.'

'Ye know Ah'm rubbish at dancin'.'

'But you're a drummer. You're supposed to have rhythm!'

It wasn't the rhythm that was the problem. It was the touching. They may have been dating for six months, but Bog wasn't comfortable touching anyone, even his girlfriend. He liked his personal space. Was that a crime?

'Look, Ah'm sorry about t'night. Ah'll make it up t'ye, Ah promise. Anyway,' he frowned, remembering the afternoon's practice, 'it's only the one night.'

'Bog!' Marianne materialized at his elbow, making him jump. While she wasn't exactly tiny – she barely came up to his shoulder, but he was close to seven feet tall – she moved like a ghost. 'I've been looking for you everywhere! You've got to go set up!'

'Right, thanks!' He turned to excuse himself from Tina, and noticed she was watching Marianne with narrowed eyes. He wasn't sure what her problem was, and he didn't have time to figure it out. Instead he stood, shoving his plate into her hands. 'Sorry, Ah've gotta go. Tina, this is Marianne. Marianne, this is Tina. Ah'll see you when Ah'm done.'

As he squeezed past, Marianne caught his arm. 'Play it faster!' she hissed.

He thought about it all the way backstage. Speeding it up would vastly improve the song, and it would give him something to do besides fighting off boredom-induced oblivion. It might even give them a shot at winning something, because in spite of his bragging to Tina, there was no way they could beat even the all-girl Elvis/Judy Collins wanna-bes with the way they were playing it now.

He couldn't tell anyone beforehand, though. If he warned them, they'd try to stop him. Especially Roland. But he knew they could keep up. Well, he was pretty sure they could keep up. Maybe they could keep up?

This could be a disaster.

Backstage, Sunny was practicing chords, Thang was staring into space (or possibly communicating with Sputnik; it was hard to tell. Was Sputnik still up there, even?), and Roland was in the middle of his critically acclaimed performance of the brooding artist. In other words, everyone was behaving normally. Bog picked up his drumsticks and twirled one absently, calculating what tempo he would need to set to turn That Thing You Do into a halfway decent song.

Finally, it was their turn to go on. The band ahead of them had a fairly good reception, making their chances of winning even slimmer. Roland, being the charming people person he was, insulted the master of ceremonies as they set up. It didn't help that he'd had apparently written their name weird – something about trying to imitate the Beatles – causing the MC to mispronounce it.

Finally, they were ready, just waiting for Bog to set the tempo. He took a deep breath, and hit four beats at twice the speed they'd been practicing before launching into a showy intro. He refused to meet anyone's eye, but he could sense their horror, and he blithely ignored Roland's frantic shouts for him to slow down.

Once their shock wore off, they actually were able to keep up. He was impressed. And relieved.

Even though he was concentrating on the music, improvising wherever he could, he was aware of the crowd. They seemed to be enjoying it, as far as he could tell.

They finished with a flourish and the audience roared. Bog grinned, basking in their adoration. He noticed Thang still looked lost, but he'd pulled through. Besides, Thang always looked a little lost.

Apparently, they'd won. Who'da thunk.

Roland grabbed Bog and pulled him forward. 'That was too fast! What's your problem?!'

'Roland, relax! It sounded great, and they loved it!' Once again, Sunny came to Bog's defense.

'It's supposed to be a ballad!'

'Aye, well, it stinks as a ballad.' Bog crossed his arms, unrepentant. 'It sounds better fast. We wudnae get that reaction if we'd played it the way we did this afternoon.'

A girl handed Thang a trophy that was almost as big as he was, and he held it up in victory. Unfortunately, his enthusiasm knocked his guitar strap loose, and it crashed to the floor. With a pained cry, he shoved the trophy back at the girl and scooped up the bass, cradling it protectively. Bog shook his head. That kid was weird.

A heavyset man forced his way through the crowed and slung an arm around Roland and Sunny's shoulders. 'You guys were amazing! You've got to come play at my restaurant. Come tomorrow night. I'll pay you fifty bucks apiece!'

Roland looked offended, but Bog was intrigued. 'What rest'raunt?'

'Brutus', over by the airport. You'll have the place packed!'

He glanced at Sunny, who nodded. Thang was still hunched over his guitar, stroking it and muttering to himself. It reminded Bog of a character in a book his father used to read to read to him when he was a child in Scotland. What was his name? Gollum, that was it. He should really dig his Tolkien books out of the trunks they'd stored in the attic after the move and read them again.

Bog realized that Brutus was waiting for an answer. Thang didn't seem up for a vote (if they asked him, he'd probably hiss something about the precious), Roland was obviously against it, but Sunny was willing. He figured majority ruled. And hey, it was free money.

'We'll be there.'

After helping to put everything away, Bog ventured into the auditorium to try to find Tina. Instead, he was assaulted by a shortish ninja.

'That was amazing!' Marianne yelled, throwing her arms around his neck and forcing him to bend over to keep from supporting her entire weight – not that there was that much of it. 'I knew you could make it sound good. You, Bog King, are an incredible drummer!'

'Uh, thanks, Marianne. Could ye maybe let me go now? Ah'm pretty sure Ah felt somethin' twinge in mah back when ye tackled me.'

'Oh, sorry!' She released him, and he straightened with a snap, cracking his neck for good measure and relieving some of the tension he hadn't even realized had been building up over the course of the evening.

More comfortable, he stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned down at her. 'It's yerself ye should be thankin'. Ah dinnae Ah'd've gone through wi' speedin' it up if ye hadn't've ordered me to.'

She huffed in mock offence, but her amber eyes twinkled at him. 'I don't order. I gently encourage people to see the right path and follow it.'

'Oh, well, then. As long as ye dinnae interfere.'

He was reflecting yet again that she really was too good for Roland, when Tina walked up. He thought she looked a little bored at first, but she threaded her arm through his and stretched up to kiss his cheek. He concentrated on not flinching.

'You were wonderful, Angus honey!' she gushed.

The flinching was a lost cause. 'Thanks, Tina.'

'I can't believe you won.'

'Neither can Ah. And it gets better -' he turned to include Marianne in the conversation – 'the guy that owns th'rest'raunt over by th'airport hired us to play t'morrow night!'

Marianne punched his arm. 'Congratulations!' Apparently, violence was how she showed affection.

Tina glared at Marianne and threw her arms around Bog in a hug. 'I'm so proud of you, Angus!'

Marianne's face said, Angus?

Bog scowled back. Don't ask.

She grinned. There's no way I'm letting this go. Angus.

Bog sighed and cracked his neck again. Maybe she deserved Roland after all.

So, this happened. I started thinking about That Thing You Do recently, and I realized that there are a lot of similarities between it and Strange Magic, at least character-wise. Seeing Strange Magic in every other story you come across is normal, right? No? Just me then. But what is it about Bog and Marianne that lend themselves to reworking over and over?

For those unfamiliar with That Thing You Do, watch it. It's a good movie - it's funny, and it's got some good music. Essentially, it's the story of the rise and fall of a rock group in the early Sixties.

I'm using the first names of the characters in Thing for the last names of my characters, except for Bog. Harry is the name of MacGyver's grandfather, and Angus is MacGyver's first name. I know Bog is usually short for something like Boggart, but I've been watching a lot of MacGyver recently, and once I named Harry, it seemed appropriate.

Sputnik's orbit decayed in 1958, but it seems like people still would have been aware of it in '64. The Hobbit was published in 1937 and The Lord of the Rings in 1954, so if Bog's in his thirties in '64, it's conceivable that his dad would have read them to him as a kid. That means I get to make a Lord of the Rings reference in a story set in the Sixties. It's so nerdtastic!

I don't know how closely I'm going to follow the movie, mostly because Faye doesn't break up with Jimmy until the end of the movie, and I can't stand to have Marianne and Roland together that long.

Also, I don't know why, but I get a kick out of writing Bog's accent!