Tom Perrotta - The Wishbones

TOM PERROTTA

The Wishbones

For my parents

This must be the death of rock ‘n roll….

—Todd Rundgren

Epigraph This must be the death of rock ‘n roll…. —Todd Rundgren

Part 1 - May

Chapter 1 - The Wednesday-Night Showcase

Chapter 2 - We're Soooo Thrilled

Chapter 3 - You've Got a Friend

Part 2 - June

Chapter 4 - It's Your Wedding

Chapter 5 - A Religious Experience

Chapter 6 - Are You Dave?

Chapter 7 - By The Way

Part 3 - July

Chapter 8 - Carlos and Stevie Ray

Chapter 9 - This Sad Gift

Chapter 10 - Randy by Starlight

Chapter 11 - Shiny Angels

Part 4 - August

Chapter 12 - War Pigs

Chapter 13 - Karma House

Chapter 14 - Wursthaus

Chapter 15 - You Still Here?

Part 5 - September

Chapter 16 - Fifteen Years in Fifteen Minutes

Chapter 17 - Dream of A Lifetime

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Buzzy, the bass player, had a suspended license, so Dave swung by his house on the way to the Wednesday-night showcase. Buzzy did quality control for a company that manufactured prosthetic devices, and lived with his wife and two kids on a street of more or less identical split levels that must have seemed like an exciting place in the days before the British Invasion, back when Kennedy was President and Elvis was King. Buzzy was the only member of the wedding band who was married, a fact whose irony did not escape the notice of his fellow musicians. Artie, the sax player and manager, had just broken up with a girl who danced at Jiggles. Stan, the drummer and sometime accordionist, was sleepwalking through a painful divorce. Ian, the singer/keyboardist and all-around showman, was living at home with his parents, as was Dave, who handled rhythm guitar and background vocals.

Buzzy was waiting by the curb, a scrawny, pony tailed guy in a tuxedo and Yankees cap, with a beer in one hand and a guitar case in the other. He stowed his bass in the backseat, on top of Dave's Les Paul, and climbed in.

“Daverino,” he said, tilting the beer can in salute.

“Buzzmaster.”

Dave shifted into gear and headed for Central Avenue. The silence in the car was mellow, uncomplicated. Buzzy took a swig from the can and smacked his lips.

“Yup. Another Wednesday-night showcase.”

“You ready? The people are counting on you.”

Buzzy thought it over for a couple of seconds, then nodded.

“Coach,” he said, “I'm gonna play my heart out.”

Dave snorted his appreciation. The guys in the band liked to joke about the showcase, but they were careful not to complain—bookings had doubled since Artie found them the slot. And besides, goofy as it was, the showcase turned out to be a real time-saver: instead of scheduling separate auditions for every interested couple, the Wishbones could just tell prospective customers to come to the Ramada every third Wednesday of the month.

“You going out afterward?” Buzzy crushed the can in his hand and dropped it on the floor. “I'm in the mood for a few beers.”

“I can't. I'm supposed to go over to Julie's.”

“Hey.” Buzzy didn't bother to conceal his surprise. “You guys really getting back together?”

Dave didn't feel like going into the details. He had made a mistake telling the guys what had happened in the first place. He should have known he'd never hear the end of it. Now the incident had become part of band lore, like the night Ian got propositioned by the mother-of-the-bride, and that time Artie got his lights punched out by a Puerto Rican DJ.

“We've been talking on the phone. She says her parents aren't so upset anymore.”

Dave kept his eyes on the road. He didn't have to look to know that Buzzy was smirking.

“I wish I'd been there, man. Just to see the look on their faces.”

Dave grimaced. The look on their faces was the last thing he wanted to think about.

“We've been going out for a long time. I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“A long time?” Buzzy seemed to be deriving great pleasure from the conversation. “Fifteen years, Dave. You've been going out with the woman for fifteen years. Since your sophomore year of high school.”

$5.99 BUFFET, proclaimed the marquee outside the Cranwood Ramada. SHOWCASE OF MUSICAL TALENT. Dave pulled into the sparsely occupied lot, glad for the opportunity to change the subject.

“Looks like a slow night.” He put the car into park and shut off the ignition.

Buzzy wasn't about to give up so easily. “What are you going to say to her parents?”

Dave undid his seat belt and opened the door. It was a lovely spring night. Leaving the guitars for Buzzy, he stepped out of the car and started walking at a brisk pace toward the entrance of the Sundown Lounge. Buzzy had to run to catch up with him, the hardshell cases banging like luggage against the outside of his legs.

“Bring flowers,” he advised, panting a little from the exertion. “You'll need all the help you can get.”

Sparkle was Hearing the end of their set when Dave and Buzzy entered the lounge. Their lead singer, Alan Zelack, was strutting across the stage in his red sequined tux, belting out “My Girl” in the heavy-metal falsetto he'd perfected during years of touring with the Misty Mountain Revue, a wildly successful Led Zeppelin tribute show. Now everything he touched came out sounding like Zeppelin, from Sinatra to the Hokey Pokey.

Artie and Ian were sitting at a table in the corner, looking like a couple trapped in a bad marriage. Both of them seemed relieved by the arrival of some new blood.

“Guess what?” Buzzy said, before they'd even had a chance to settle into their chairs. “Dave's going over to Julie's later on.”

“No way,” said Ian.

“Bullshit,” said Artie.

Dave held up both hands in a futile plea for restraint.

“Don't ask. It's none of your fucking business.”

But it was already too late. The story had moved into the public domain. Artie turned to Ian, smiling nervously.

“Mr. Müller, sir? I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm Dave … Dave Raymond?”

Ian inhaled through his teeth, looking puzzled. “Sorry, Dave. The name doesn't ring a bell.”

“You know,” Artie added helpfully, “the guy you caught poking your daughter?”

Ian clapped himself in the forehead. “Oh, that Dave. How could I have forgotten. Come on in. Honey, guess who's here?”

Even Dave had to laugh at that. All day long he'd been dreading the thought of having to face Julie's parents. He'd run through a number of scenarios in his head, but none of them included the possibility that he'd have to jog their memories about the circumstances of their last meeting.

“If they don't recognize you,” Buzzy suggested, “you can always try pulling your pants down.”

Dave's bandmates traded high fives as Sparkle launched into “Stairway to Heaven,” their final song of every showcase performance. It was the secret of their immense popularity, the ultimate sales pitch to a generation that couldn't imagine a special occasion that wouldn't be made even more special by a faithful live version of what radio station after radio station had determined to be “the most popular song of alltime.”