from The Red Velvet series
Florida, 2025
The night the Red Velvet burned down, folks didn’t cry for the building.
They cried for Uncle Ray’s microphone.
[Opening Shot – Archival footage, timestamp blurry]
The entrance engulfed in flames.
Velvet curtains dissolving into ash.
Sirens.
Smoke.
Somebody’s cousin live-streaming, hollering, “Damn, the microphone too?!”
[Narrator – Southern, emotionally dehydrated, and tired of explaining’ this man]
The Red Velvet is no more.
Burned down on a Sunday, like it was all part of God’s plan.
But this ain’t about the fire, tho.
We’re here to talk about Uncle Ray.
The man who made The Red Velvet more than a stage. The man who almost had Ray’s Boom Boom Room named after him—that is until pride, duck fat, and Luther Vandross got in the way.
[Bootleg Interview of somebody, still not sure who – parking lot, 2007]
“Ray?….phew! That man could sing about heartbreak like love still had a key to his place. Mmm! His falsetto had all kinda regret in it.”
[Backup Singer – name redacted]
He fell asleep mid-set once.
Mic in hand. Still didn’t miss a note.
Band ain’t stop playing neither. They knew better.
[Interviewer, sensing something in her voice]
“You and Ray….y’all got along pretty well… or…?”
She side-eyes the camera. Then smirks.
“See, now you askin too many questions.
But since you asked, you ain’t heard this from me, alright?” She leans in, like she’s about to whisper a secret. But doesn’t.
“Ray could sing heartbreak like he still hoped his woman’d walk right through them doors. Man sang ‘Superstar’ like he meant it…like that damn song was a mirror.
[short pause]
And now see—that was the problem.”
[Bar Regular – Newport lit, martini sweating]
“Ray’s Boom Boom Room?
Listen, that was s’posed to be his.
Name all on the napkins, Luther covers between catfish plates—all sung by Ray himself, mic still greasy from the kitchen. (Ashes cigarette)
And that cornbread? Ha, Lawd.
Duck fat. Not butter. (Nodding for emphasis) Mmmmmhmmm. Told me himself. Said it gave the crust ‘just enough crunch to make folks shut up and listen.’
Nah, but see, them investors, they got cute. That short, pudgy one with the slicked-back hair and the smile that ain’t quite reach his eyes—he gon tell Ray, ‘We’re going for a more… sophisticated demographic.’ Tried to swap his sweet potatoes for that dry mash with the whatchacallit—uh, nutmeg. Nutmeg and shame is what it was. Bleh! (Shaking head in stark disapproval) Who finna eat that?! Not me hunny.
And don’t even get me started on the music.
Said he couldn’t sing Never Too Much no more. Now, how you gon tell a man like Ray, what he 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 sing?? Said it wasn’t ‘modern’ enough for the brunch crowd.
Heh, BRUNCH (again, shakes her head).
Like heartbreak don’t hit before noon or some.
(Flicks cigarette butt, lights another).
Ray ain’t yell. He ain’t cuss.
Just took off his apron, left the mic warm, and walked out.
Got in that ol dusty Buick, with the two busted taillights lookin’ like two sad closed eyes, and a Luther CD stuck on loop, and drove straight here. The car mighta been trash, but the CD player and aux cord still worked. You know that’s all that mattered to him anyway. The music.
Now, the Red Velvet ain’t never had no food license or working air or nuthin’ like that.
But what it had was space.
Space for his voice.
And his recipes.
Space for a man who made grief sound and taste good.”
[Interviewer – off-camera, overthinking]
“But… you said… he left and drove straight her—”
“Yup. That’s whatta said. You can quote me suga.”
“The Boom-Boom Room…..isn’t that in Harlem?”
“And??”
“Well…., we’re in Florida….”
“I know where we at! Is you tellin’ the story or am I…?”
Interviewer pauses, exhales, lets her make it and lets the myth win.
“You are, ma’am. Nvrmnd. So, what else can you tell us about Uncle Ray?”
[Bar Regular – smirks, ashes slow]
“Everything or nothing, suga.
Depends on how bad you need the story.
But I will say this:
When Ray sang, you couldn’t tell the truth from a lie from the truth!”
[Neighbor – Miss Bernadette, Unit 3B]
“He used to live next door. Every Saturday. Right as I’d get ready to catch up with my reality stories —here he come belting Luther like he owned the whole damn block.
I called the police three times.
Them [BLEEP] brought lawn chairs and didn’t leave til 4 in the morning.”
[Narrator – now quiet, kinda confused, kinda nostalgic, but also just over it]
This isn’t a eulogy, okay.
Ray’s not dead. He’s very much alive and can be found at his favorite virtual karaoke lounge.
He just never went national.
But when he stepped onstage at The Red Velvet—
whether it was late,
or he interrupted you mid-sentence,
and even if he smelled like cooking grease and shea butter—
Ppl stayed. The band played.
And he fed the neighborhood.
In ribs.
In riffs.
In reasons to keep going.
Bontifficating 