The Wishbones (8 page)

She hung up before he could say good-bye, sealing her victory. Dave listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, then gently set the phone in its cradle. At almost the same moment, he yelped and spun around.

“Whoa!” said Buzzy, his watery eyes dilating with alarm. “Easy, partner.”

“Jesus,” said Dave. “Don't do that.”

“Sorry.” Buzzy held out the frosty bottle of Molson he'd just pressed against the back of Dave's neck. There was a tiny smudge of
mustard by the corner of his mouth. “Thought you might like a cold one.”

“Thanks,” said Dave. “Don't mind if I do.”

“Don't thank me.” Buzzy fished around in his pocket and pulled out a glossy white matchbook, squinting to read the embossed golden lettering. “Thank Barb and Larry, Two Hearts Beat as One.”

A Study in Contrasts greeted Dave as he stepped into the basement men's room. Alan Zelack and a priest stood side by side at the urinals, one tall and blond in garish red sequins, the other short and balding in funereal black. As though they'd rehearsed the maneuver, the two men flushed and whirled simultaneously, capping the routine with a synchronized zip. Dave felt like he'd wandered onto the set of a creepy musical.

“Hey,” Zelack said, instinctively thrusting his hand in Dave's direction. “Long time no see.”

Despite a qualm or two on the hygiene front, Dave saw no recourse but to shift the beer to his left hand and shake. It was possible that he shook hands frequently with people who hadn't washed up since last using the bathroom, but rarely was he presented with such irrefutable evidence.

“This is Father Mike,” Zelack added, draping his arm around the priest's shoulder with a proud grin. “We went to high school together.”

Father Mike offered his hand as well, but Dave didn't mind shaking it. On some deep, irrational level, he didn't believe that a priest's hands could
really
be dirty.

“Mike and I haven't seen each other in what—thirteen or fourteen years?” Zelack grimaced as he performed the calculations.

The priest nodded. Despite his pleasantly boyish face, his wirerimmed
glasses and receding hairline gave him an air of gravity and wisdom.

“My parish is in Arizona,” he said. “I just flew up for my sister's wedding.”

“Mike and I used to get stoned before gym class,” Zelack announced with a laugh. He shook his head at the mysterious workings of the universe. “I still can't believe you're a priest.”

Father Mike reddened slightly. “That was a long time ago, Alan. We've both changed a lot since then.”

“What happened?” Zelack asked. His curiosity seemed genuine. “Did you have some sort of religious experience?”

Dave found himself curious as well, even though the priesthood ranked near the bottom on his scale of occupations, way down below prison guard and clerk at the DMV. The celibacy thing was a real sticking point.

“I don't know.” Father Mike consulted his clunky black shoes, which, to Dave's surprise, turned out to be Doc Martens. “I took this solo hiking trip up to the Adirondacks the summer after my freshman year in college. My last night there was this incredible thunderstorm. Like the sky was breaking open. I took off my clothes, stood outside the tent, and let myself get drenched.” Father Mike held his open hands out in front of his chest, as though presenting Dave with an invisible gift. “That was when I realized that my life belonged to God.”

“Really?” said Zelack. “You became a priest because of a thunderstorm?”

Father Mike thought it over. He seemed troubled by the question.

“I guess so. That's the closest I can come to explaining it. Nothing was the same for me after that.”

The door behind Dave swung open; three college-age guys in suits squeezed into the rest room, creating a severe shortage of
Space. In the confusion, Zelack and Father Mike slipped out the door without washing their hands.

Dave set his beer down on the sink, stepped up to the urinal, and unzipped. On the porcelain lip below, he saw two red sequins and a pubic hair.

Ian's keyboard was a scary instrument, more computer than piano. It was programmable, possessed extensive memory, and could simulate drums, a horn section, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, all at the same time. As a guitarist, Dave wasn't terribly threatened by it—something about the guitar remained resistant to mechanical reproduction—but bass players and drummers looked upon these machines with all the enthusiasm of candle makers pondering their first lightbulb. Already one- and two-piece wedding bands were sprouting up, promising all the music for a fraction of the price. Luckily for Buzzy and Stan, humanity hadn't yet caught up with technology—most people, if they wanted live music at all, still preferred a full-sized band, the more pieces the better. But it didn't take much imagination to visualize a future in which musicians and DJs melted into a single category of performer, and live wedding entertainment became a kind of glorified karaoke. Dave just hoped he was dead by then.

As it was, Ian and his multitalented keyboard handled the cocktail hour by themselves, while the rest of the Wishbones cooled their heels in some out-of-the-way place, ideally after having secured a plateful of chicken wings, baked ziti, and green beans almondine from the buffet table, which they much preferred to circulating trays of greasy, mysterious, invariably disappointing doodads.

Ian was normally one of the first Wishbones to arrive at a job, but that night he didn't show up until twenty to six. By
that point, Artie had worked himself into a serious lather, mainly because Stan was also AWOL, and the stage looked naked without his drum kit.

“See?” Artie said to everyone and no one as Ian unzipped the padded bag that encased his deceptively compact instrument. “What did I tell you? This is what happens when one guy in the band decides to become a fuckup. Everybody else figures it's okay for them to be a fuckup too. It's the Domino Theory of Fucking Up.”

“You need a new theory,” Ian told him, unfolding the metal stand that supported his keyboard. “The Domino Theory is widely recognized as a crock of shit.”

Artie ignored this objection. He had entered the Rant Zone, a place he liked to visit at least once per job.

“I should have fired him last month,” he said, feverishly capping and uncapping his pen. “All the warning signs were there. But you guys had to keep defending him. Poor Stan. He's going through a hard time. Poor Stan. His wife left him. Poor Stan my ass. He's not going to show, and we're the ones who are gonna be left holding the bag.”

“Why don't you call him?” Buzzy suggested.

Artie's head snapped in Buzzy's direction. His sleepy features only really came alive when invigorated by anger or contempt.

“Gee, Buzzy, why didn't I think of that?” He paused for effect, laying two fingers contemplatively on his chin. “Maybe it's because I've only left six frigging messages on his frigging answering machine in the last ten minutes. Maybe because I
do
happen to be familiar with the miraculous instrument your people call a telephone.”

“It
is
miraculous,” Buzzy pointed out between sips from a bottle of Sam Adams that had somehow fallen into his possession. “Sometimes we forget.”

The lugubrious, exceptionally tall maitre d’ stepped into the Black Forest Room and beckoned to Artie, who had no choice but to interrupt his rant and obey the summons.
On
the Wishbone hierarchy of wedding types, maitre d's generally ranked only slightly higher than DJs. The guys at the Westview weren't bad, though. They looked the other way on questions of food and drink, and sometimes plugged the band to patrons who hadn't yet made a decision on the entertainment. (If Artie paid a kickback for this service, Dave didn't know about it.)

“So what happened?” Dave asked, stepping onto the stage to address Ian. “Did you meet Scotty?”

Ian looked up from his fat briefcase full of fake books and photocopied sheet music.

“He never showed.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. His plane had engine trouble in Pittsburgh.”

“That's a good one,” said Dave. “Scotty stuck in an airport. Air travel must be a real comedown for him.”

Ian nodded. “The Trekkies didn't take it too well. We almost went on a rampage.”

Cocktail hour was halfway in the bag by the time Stan finally showed his face. Dave and Buzzy were lounging in the conference room, contentedly sucking on chicken bones, when the drummer suddenly appeared in the doorway, a hulking figure wearing sunglasses and carrying a cymbal under each arm.

“Artie around?” he asked cautiously. His shades weren't quite big enough to hide the discoloration under his right eye.

“Check the pay phone,” Buzzy advised. “He's describing you to the hit man.”

Stan set the cymbals down on the table; they clanged with a
quick metallic huff. “You guys want to help me get unloaded? If we hustle, I can be ready by seven.”

“Sorry,” Buzzy said, quickly rising from his chair. “I was just about to get seconds.”

Stan looked at Dave. Even through the dark glasses, Dave could sense the pleading in his eyes. Stan's drum kit wasn't that elaborate—-just a bass drum, floor torn, rack torn, snare, hi-hat, and cymbals—but setting it up in twenty minutes would be a real bitch, especially since he'd have to do it on a crowded stage, without disturbing Ian.

“Okay,” Dave said with a sigh, eyeing the last lonely scraps of fettucini plastered to his plate like bandages. “I guess I'm done.”

“Thanks,” said Stan. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me about twelve,” Dave corrected him.

They hurried past the Black Forest Room, where Ian was playing “Misty” for the chitchatting friends and family of Staci Lambrusco and PJ. DiNardo, then continued down the stairs and through the lobby. Dave had to shade his eyes from the daylight in the parking lot; the evening breeze made him groan with gratitude.

“I'm parked way the fuck over there,” Stan informed him, waving his hand at the western horizon, where the sun was blazing like a fat penny. “I tried to pull up to the door, but that asswipe security guard wouldn't let me.”

They trudged past row upon row of more or less well-maintained vehicles until they reached Stan's LeBaron, a beat-up piece of crap that looked like someone had been using it for sledgehammer practice. The body was dented in half a dozen places and the rear bumper hung at a precarious tilt; even the license plate seemed inexplicably battered, as if someone had crumpled it into a ball like a piece of paper, then smoothed it out by hand in an attempt to remove the wrinkles. In a new touch, a piece of green
garbage bag filled the space that should have been occupied by the rear driver's-side window.

Stan popped the trunk and handed Dave the bass drum, open side up like a big round box. In the natural light, his eye looked worse than before, not so much black as a repulsive amalgam of green and purple.

“Jesus,” said Dave. “Where'd you get that shiner?”

Stan reached into the well and pulled out the pillow he used to muffle vibration inside the bass drum. The pillow was an eyesore, shapeless and sweat-stained, a sack of old feathers and bad dreams. The least he could've done was hide it in a pillowcase.

“You really want to know?”

“I'm not sure.”

Stan stuffed the pillow into the drum.

“Walter,” he said. “The piano player in Phil Hart's band.”

“The old guy with the shakes?”

Stan nodded. In spite of everything, he seemed amused.

“I've been hanging out with him the past couple of weeks. He's a great guy.”

“So why'd he slug you?”

Stan grabbed a foot pedal from the trunk and set it down on top of the pillow.

“We had one too many. I said some things I shouldn't have.”

“Like what?”

Stan's tongue made a thoughtful tour of his mouth, poking at one cheek, then the other. His expression remained inscrutable behind the glasses.

“Well, for one thing, I said Thelonious Monk could suck my dick.”

Dave couldn't help laughing. “He hit you because of that?”

“That was part of it.” Stan looked up at the sky. “Then I said something about Brubeck. That was when he popped me.”

“What'd you say?” “I can't repeat it. It's too disgusting.” “Come on,” said Dave.

Stan blew a weary raspberry and shook his head. “I'm serious,” he said. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

ARE YOU DAVE?

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,”
Artie said, slipping easily into his MC mode as the band struck up a sprightly Spyro Gyra instrumental, “on behalf of Shelley and Frank Lambrusco and Pat and Dick DiNardo, I'd like to welcome each and every one of you to the Westview Manor on this lovely spring evening. If you're not taking photographs, would you be kind enough to please take your seats and join me in offering a
very
warm welcome to our bridal party.”

He paused while the guests drifted back to their tables. An honor guard of amateur photographers formed a wall around the dance floor, which was empty except for the camcorder mounted on a six-foot rolling tripod with a small, white-hot spotlight burning at its summit. The videographer, a nerdy, ubiquitous guy named Lenny, stood beside it with an air of proprietary importance, a battery pack wrapped around his waist like an ammunition belt. The professional still photographer, whom Dave had never seen before, was crouching in front of the three-tiered wedding
cake, his camera aimed at the doorway, where a bridesmaid and usher now fidgeted, awaiting their introduction.

“o-KAY,” Artie resumed, reading from an index card supplied by the maitre d’. “How about a big round of applause for bridesmaid Antoinette Lambrusco and usher Paul Cross.”

Arms locked, Antoinette and Paul strode past the wedding cake and across the dance floor. A bodybuilder with a profusely moussed crewcut, Paul acknowledged the tepid ovation with magisterial nods, while Antoinette clutched a bouquet of spring flowers to her chest and beamed ecstatically, as though she herself were the bride. After they passed the video camera, the maitre d’ escorted them off the dance floor, and Artie moved on to the next couple.

Dave always enjoyed this part of the ceremony. It was the moment when the evening began to take shape, to transform itself from a generic wedding reception into a unique occasion with a particular cast of characters. By the time the second couple had been introduced (Lori Lambrusco and Joe Tresh), he already knew that the bride had identical twin sisters (sturdy-looking girls with big hair and toothy smiles) and that the groom's buddies spent a lot of time at the gym.

The bridesmaids’ dresses always merited a moment's consideration. Julie had once told him that they were designed ugly to make the bride appear more beautiful by comparison, and he was beginning to believe her. Tonight's weren't the most hideous he'd seen by a long shot, though no one in her right mind would have worn one of her own free will. They were shiny green, with puffy sleeves, a scalloped neckline, and a tight bodice that exploded into a big rustling bell of a skirt, really pretty tasteful as far as these things went, except for the yellow bow in the back, so large that it seemed like some kind of practical joke. None of the Lambrusco women seemed to mind—the third sister's name was Heidi—but the fourth bridesmaid (Gretchen Something-or-Other) gave the impression of being deeply chastened to be seen in public in such an outrageous
get-up. She was a thin, glum-looking woman with men's eyeglasses and sexily bobbed hair, who didn't even pretend to smile as she shuffled across the dance floor attached to the elbow of the first usher who didn't look like he injected steroids for breakfast.
Lighten up, Gretchen
, Dave thought to himself.
Your secret's safe with us.

The flower girl and ring bearer were introduced right after the Best Man and Maid of Honor; as usual, they hammed it up shamelessly and got the biggest ovation of the night (Dave made a mental note not to allow any kids in his own wedding party). Then the parents of the groom and the parents of the bride came bounding out, the Lambruscos looking markedly more comfortable than the DiNardos (this was also typical, the bride's family possessing the home-field advantage). Finally, the big moment had arrived. The happy couple appeared in the doorway, staggered slightly on account of the bride's prodigious hoop skirt.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for the guests of honor, the brand-new Mr. and Mrs. PJ. DiNardo.”

Despite unspecified “gown problems” that had delayed the start of the reception by twenty minutes, the bride was glowing as she made her entrance. She was a tall, broad-shouldered, athletic-looking girl—maybe a basketball player, Dave thought—with a crown of flowers on her head and so much makeup that she didn't look completely human. The groom was a muscle-bound behemoth in white tails, black pants, and a black vest decorated with a pattern of white dots meant to suggest champagne bubbles, currently a popular touch. Like his parents, he appeared a bit perplexed to find himself playing such a large role in this particular ceremony.

Mr. and Mrs. DiNardo stopped in the middle of the dance floor and waited for the cheering to die down. The groom's friends had climbed onto their chairs and begun shaking their fists and woofing Arsenio-style, apparently unaware that this particular fad had run its course some time ago. The maitre d’ kept slitting his throat with one finger to get them to stop, a gesture that just egged
them on all the more. They only stopped woofing when the bride began slitting her throat as well. Artie pressed his lips to the mike.

“For their first dance of the evening, Staci and PJ. have chosen the unforgettable ‘Unchained Melody,’ a ballad originally recorded by the legendary Righteous Brothers and later immortalized in the hit movie
Ghost
, starring the gorgeous Demi Moore and the inimitable Patrick Swayze.” Dave had never understood why all this information was necessary, but Artie insisted that people
expected
long-winded introductions, and would be disappointed if the Wishbones didn't provide them.

The song had barely started when Staci stood up on tiptoe, grabbed the back of PJ.'s neck, and kissed him. It wasn't an ordinary first dance smooch, though; it was long and hard and slow, the kind of kiss that made promises for later, as if the very fact of the wedding weren't promise enough. In the heat of the moment, PJ. forgot himself and grabbed the bride's ass with both hands through the various layers of lace and satin and whatnot. The kiss and grope lasted the entire length of the song and embarrassed pretty much everyone in the room with the possible exception of Buzzy, who kept licking his lips and shooting Dave wide-eyed smirks of prurient approval.

The next phase of the reception followed a fairly rigid script. The bride danced with her father (“Daddy's Little Girl,” even though the little girl had at least five inches on Daddy), and then, probably for the sake of symmetry, the groom danced with his mother. It was hard to say what the purpose of this ritual was, except to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that slow-dancing was a dying art. P.J., in particular, didn't seem to grasp the fact that his feet were supposed to move. He stood rooted to the floor, gazing pensively at nothing, while his tiny mother held on to his waist and smiled gamely, shifting her weight from one leg to another to provide the illusion of movement.

Then the Best Man climbed onto the stage and delivered the
toast through Dave's microphone. He was short and blond and surprisingly confident, like a talk show host or professional toast-master. You saw this now and again, though the usual Best Man could barely mumble his way through the standard boilerplate about a lifetime of health and happiness, etc.

The Best Man spoke at length about a trip he and PJ. and a couple of other brothers from Alpha Chi Rho had taken to Day-tona Beach during spring break of their senior year. He recalled the camaraderie of the nonstop drive, the partying, and a couple of long serious talks on the beach, the kind of talks people he knew no longer seemed to have time for.

“Now I don't remember a whole lot about those talks,” he said, “and I don't guess PJ. does either. We were probably hung over and distracted by those Duke girls playing volleyball about ten feet away in their bikinis. But one thing I do remember is that we both agreed that we weren't going to get married for a long time, if ever. At least until we were forty.”

The Best Man lifted his glass. “PJ. was twenty-five last summer when he met Staci at a barbecue.”

Dave looked out at the crowd. All sorts of people stood with glasses in hand, smiling at the stage. P J. himself was shaking his head, remembering what a foolish kid he'd been. Staci looked triumphant.

“Here's to you both,” the Best Man concluded. “We love you.”

All through the room, glass clinked against glass. The Best Man stepped down from the stage. Artie turned around and looked at the band.

“‘ Twist and Shout,’ “he told them.

Ian seemed depressed. He sat across from Dave during the set break, printing circles on a paper napkin with the wet bottom of a
glass. It was just the two of them in the conference room. Artie was in the hallway, having “a little chat” with Stan, and Buzzy had excused himself to investigate the rumored sighting of a dessert cart at the early reception downstairs.

“What's the matter?” Dave asked.

“Nothing.” Ian lifted the glass and examined his handiwork. “What makes you think something's the matter?”

“I don't know. You just seem kind of down.”

“Why should I be down?” Ian fished an ice cube out of his glass and popped it into his mouth. “Here we are at the Westview, playing another wedding.”

Dave chuckled, as if the remark had been meant as a joke. Through the floor, he could hear the pulsing bass and tinny-sounding drums of the downstairs band, probably Sparkle. He imagined Father Mike out on the dance floor, shaking his clerical booty, and for some reason was reminded of Julie's curiosity about Ian's sex life.

“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

Ian looked up. “Women, you mean?”

Dave tried not to look surprised; maybe Julie was a lot smarter than he was about these things.

“Women … whoever,” Dave managed to mutter, swiping feebly at the air as if to suggest that it was all the same to him.

Now it was Ian's turn to look alarmed.

“No no no,” he said quickly. “I thought maybe you were asking if I was seeing a psychiatrist or something. I've been kind of depressed lately.”

“No,” Dave assured him. “I was asking about women. Actually, it was Julie who was wondering. She couldn't understand why a guy as good-looking and talented as you didn't have a girlfriend.”

Ian combed his fingers through his wavy brown curls. He seemed flattered by the explanation.

“I've been out of circulation for a while, trying to finish up this big project.”

Just then the doorknob clicked and a woman's head peeped into the room. It was Gretchen, the bridesmaid with the bobbed hair and glasses. She was prettier up close than she'd been from a distance.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn't realize you were in here. I was just looking for a place to hide out.”

“Have a seat,” Ian told her. “We're just killing time between sets.”

Gretchen considered the offer. She had wide-set eyes and a pouty mouth.

“Thanks anyway. I don't want to intrude.”

The door clicked softly into place. Dave and Ian kept staring at her long after she'd gone.

“Nice glasses,” said Ian. He sounded like he meant it.

Dave nodded. He felt sorry to see her go. He wanted to ask her what she was hiding from.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “You were telling me about a project.”

“I've been writing a musical,” Ian said proudly. “It's pretty much taken over my life the past year or so. I really haven't had time for anything else.”

“I didn't know that.”

“There wasn't any point in talking about it. The world is full of bullshitters who don't finish what they start.”

“A musical,” said Dave. “That's pretty ambitious.”

Ian closed his eyes and played some piano chords on the table-top, a dreamy Stevie Wonderish expression on his face. He was a supremely weird guy, Dave decided. No one wrote musicals anymore except for Andrew Lloyd Webber.

“What's it about?”

Ian's hands flattened out. He opened his eyes and frowned.

“Sorry. State secret.”

“Corne on.”

“I mean it. When I'm done, I'll play you a few of the songs.”

“When'll that be?”

“Couple of months.” Ian knocked on wood. “This could be my big break. My ticket out of Palookaville.”

“Just as long as you still talk to me when you're famous.”

“Don't worry. I won't forget the little people.”

“Uh, listen,” said Dave. “The reason the whole subject came up is that Julie's got this friend she thought you might hit it off with. Her name's Tammi.”

Ian shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

“Really?”

“Why not? Is she cute?”

“Yeah. She's a nurse. Great sense of humor.”

“Cool,” said Ian. “Get me her number. I'm ready to get back in the game.”

Dave sat back in his chair, relieved and amazed that the conversation had turned out so well after such a terrible beginning. The door opened again. Stan slipped into the conference room, shut the door behind him, and sat down at the far end of the table.

“So what happened?” asked Ian.

“Not a thing,” Stan whispered.

“You're kidding.”

Stan shook his head, smirking like a kid who'd gotten away with murder.

“I thought he was going to fire my ass, but he only put me on probation.”

“Probation?” said Dave. “What the fuck is that?”

Stan took off his sunglasses and touched two fingers to the bruised, puffy skin below his eye. He looked happier than Dave had seen him in a long time.

“It could have been worse,” he admitted. “He could have given me detention.”

The second Set filled the space between dinner and dessert, when people were ready to get up and work off a few calories. Artie sensed the mood and called for three surefire rockers in quick succession—” Good Lovin’,” “Grapevine,” and “Hang On, Sloopy.” Energized by his reprieve—or maybe just the sunglasses —Stan kicked the tempo up a notch, banging his drums like a teenager trying to irritate the neighbors. At one point, a scowling senior citizen charged past the stage with his index fingers plugged into his ears, but Dave was having too much fun to care. The floor was packed and the dancers were starting to get a little crazy, especially the bride, who kept raising her hands and shaking them like a gospel singer praising Jesus.