The school cafeteria. The boys were all sitting together, doing what teenage boys do. Horsing around, talking about girls, probably trying to make milk spew from each other’s nostrils.

That’s when Jimmy told the guys about his uncle. He said his uncle was a musician who sang on the radio.

This drew laughter from the boys.

“No, it’s true,” Jimmy insisted. He explained that Uncle Lonzo was part of a musical-comedy duo that traveled the country. Uncle Lonzo was even a regular on the Grand Ole Opry.

The boys laughed themselves all the way to their homeroom. They weren’t buying it.

But it WAS true. Uncle Lonzo was from Cherry Valley, Arkansas. He WAS on the radio. He performed all over the country. Moreover, Lonzo was coming to stay with Jimmy’s family that very week.

There was one among Jimmy’s friends, however, who believed him. He was a quiet boy, soft spoken. Extremely shy. This boy lived on the other side of town.

The poor boy’s clothes were secondhand, oversized, trimmed to fit him by his mom. Sometimes, the boy even attended school without shoes.

So one afternoon, Jimmy invited all the guys to the house to meet Uncle Lonzo. To prove his case, once and for all.

That afternoon, the boys showed up on Jimmy’s front stoop, full of testosterone and sophomoric enthusiasm, waiting to get a glimpse of a real, genuine, in-the-flesh radio star and musician.

Jimmy’s mom welcomed them inside and fixed everyone something to drink. Well—almost everyone.

She stopped Jimmy’s poor friend at the door.

She gave the boy a weak smile. He was wearing ragged clothes, carrying a beat up guitar, slung over his shoulder, with a piece of string for a strap.

“You’ll have to wait outside,” she told him.

The boy looked disappointed, but he hid it well. He just stared at the ground. He yes-ma’amed her. He remained on the porch while the other boys—boys who wore nicer clothes—charged inside.

The other boys crowded Uncle Lonzo in the living room. They begged him to play something. But Lonzo noticed the kid outside on the porch. He asked who it was. Jimmy explained that it was his friend who wasn’t allowed inside because he was—well… Just because.

Lonzo left the throng of boys. He sat beside the young man on the front stoop. The boy was so quiet, so bashful, Lonzo had to drag the words out of him.

“I see you got a guitar,” said Lonzo.

The boy shrugged. In a quiet voice the kid admitted he didn’t know how to play the guitar. In fact, he didn’t even know how to tune the thing. That’s why he brought it. He hoped Lonzo would teach him to tune it.

Lonzo did better than tune it. He put the guitar on his knee, tuned it, then taught the young man a few chords. Soon, the two were playing and singing together on the porch. Man and boy.

And as the afternoon gave way to evening, and all the shadows grew long, it was time for the boy to return home for supper. The boy slung his cheap guitar over his shoulder, thanked Lonzo for his time, and shook the man’s hand.

Before the kid left, Uncle Lonzo asked the boy his name.

In a small but sure voice, the boy said, “My name’s Elvis, sir. Elvis Presley.”