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The Wishbones
Tom Perrotta
The second novel from Tom Perrotta, author of ‘Little Children’, ‘Election’ and ‘The Abstinence Teacher’.Everything is going pretty well for Dave Raymond. He's 31, but he still feels young. He's playing guitar with the Wishbones, a New Jersey wedding band, and while it isn't exactly the Big Time, it is music. He has a roof over his head…well, it's his parents' roof, but they don't hassle him much. Life isn't perfect. But it isn't bad. Not bad at all.But then he has to blow it all by proposing to his girlfriend…One man's treasure is another man's millstone. To Dave, the treasure in question is Gretchen; a sexy, bohemian poet Dave meets when playing at a wedding with his band. While Gretchen the poet plays 'the bridesmaid', Dave plays 'the rock-star'. And suddenly, the comfortable trajectory of his reality seems far less appealing.
TOM PERROTTA
The Wishbones
For my parents
This must be the death of rock ‘n roll….
—Todd Rundgren
Table of Contents
Epigraph (#ua4bfc861-1820-5809-ad6e-776b7c75a1e7)
Part 1 - May (#u68b4772f-27e2-543f-b1cb-d7b7a24962f6)
Chapter 1 - The Wednesday-Night Showcase (#u57d04dc2-7a09-5798-85e6-8317d3378893)
Chapter 2 - We're Soooo Thrilled (#u3caaac07-312c-5bde-81c1-a223b9ddbd25)
Chapter 3 - You've Got a Friend (#u8792a696-a475-5a35-ab62-8ea1de3ff270)
Part 2 - June (#u4adeb139-3a21-5bf0-ac1b-68548092fb8b)
Chapter 4 - It's Your Wedding (#u65b63bee-edc3-5d2e-b6b9-c10aec0e2493)
Chapter 5 - A Religious Experience (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 - Are You Dave? (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 - By The Way (#litres_trial_promo)
Part 3 - July (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 - Carlos and Stevie Ray (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 - This Sad Gift (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 - Randy by Starlight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 - Shiny Angels (#litres_trial_promo)
Part 4 - August (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 - War Pigs (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 - Karma House (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 - Wursthaus (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 - You Still Here? (#litres_trial_promo)
Part 5 - September (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 - Fifteen Years in Fifteen Minutes (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 - Dream of A Lifetime (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
(#u06982a40-a1dd-5608-9f70-92ba852b9f02)
THE WEDNESDAY-NIGHT SHOWCASE (#u06982a40-a1dd-5608-9f70-92ba852b9f02)
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.”
“Fuckin’ Stairway,” mumbled Artie.
Ian glanced at the stage. “Look at that fool.”
Zelack was sparkling in the spotlight, eyes closed, mouth pressed lovingly to the mike as he crooned the immortal gibberish about hedgerows and spring cleaning. Dave pushed his chair away from the table.
“I can't listen to this shit,” he said, to no one in particular.
It Was better outside. The night was quiet and the air seemed reasonably fresh for this part of the world. Dave sat down on the curb by the fire lane and stared at the lopped-off moon glowing dully above the Parkway overpass. He liked being part of the Wishbones, and he liked the other guys in the group, but sometimes the showcase got to him. It was more the atmosphere than anything else, the unmistakable odor of mediocrity that seemed to be as much a part of the Sundown Lounge as the paper tablecloths and the green leatherette menus.
Alan Zelack pissed him off too, and it wasn't just the sequined tuxedo or his idiotic falsetto. Four years earlier, Dave had auditioned for the Misty Mountain Revue. He wasn't a huge Zeppelin fan, but he was unemployed at the time and would've killed for a chance to make some money playing rock ‘n roll on a regular basis. He kicked ass at the audition, nailing the “Heartbreaker” solo note for note, every bend, hammer, and blast of feedback accounted for. But he didn't get the job.
“You've got the chops,” Zelack told him afterward. “There's no doubt about that. But this is show business. You've got to look the part.”
The sad thing was, Dave knew he was right. Zelack looked like a rock star. He was tall and whip thin, with high cheekbones and the mutant jaw of a born singer. Dave, on the other hand, just looked like a regular guy. He was an inch or two shorter than average, maybe a bit on the stocky side. Once, out of curiosity, he'd squeezed himself into a pair of leather pants, and it hadn't been a pretty sight.
Tonight, though, he had bigger things to worry about than his inability to pass for Jimmy Page. The guys could laugh all they wanted; Dave was the one who was going to have to walk into the Müllers’ house and try to conduct some sort of halfway civil chitchat with people who wouldn't have to use their imagination to picture him hopping from foot to foot, naked except for a hot pink condom.
It was ironic in a way. He and Julie had been having sex since they were sixteen. They had been reckless back then—no self-restraint, no birth control, no common sense. They used to screw in the basement rec room with her parents right upstairs, snoring in dreamland. If they were going to be caught, they should have been caught back then, at the height of their passion, back when they used to stare at each other's bodies in stupefied amazement, and compete to see who could say “I love you” more times in a single night. It didn't make any sense to be caught now, when they'd already been through an abortion, four different breakups, mutual infidelities, and so many bitter discussions about the future that they didn't bother to talk about it anymore. Not now, when Julie suffered from a more or less chronic yeast infection that had turned their lovemaking into a polite and tentative activity, full of murmured questions and apologies. Not now, when it was embarrassing enough just to be over thirty and still fucking in the rec room.
But Mr. and Mrs. Müller didn't care about any of that. They were supposed to have been in Atlantic City that afternoon, but Mr. Müller had forgotten his wallet, and hadn't realized it until two hours into the drive. So they'd just turned around and come on home—what else was there to do?— only to find their youngest daughter on her hands and knees on the rec room floor, and Dave kneeling behind her, singing along with the unbearably loud music blasting from the stereo (John Mellencamp, Julie's favorite), the volume of which had apparently concealed the noise of their arrival.
What transpired after that remained mercifully fuzzy in Dave's memory. All he really remembered was the bloodless shock on Julie's mother's face as he scrambled to his feet, his penis shrinking rapidly inside the neon condom (a random selection from a novelty assortment he'd purchased in Greenwich Village), only to discover that his right foot had fallen asleep.
“Mrs. Müller,” he'd assured her, reaching down like Adam to conceal his shame while unsuccessfully trying to balance on his left foot, “this isn't what you think.”
A Car door slammed. Dave looked up and saw a bulky, apparently perturbed man come jogging across the parking lot in a tuxedo. As he drew closer, Dave heard him mumbling to himself as he fumbled with the hooks of his cummerbund.
“Slow down,” he called out. “You're not late.”
Stan stopped running and peered in the direction of the voice, shading his eyes with one hand as though it were daytime.
“Dave?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“You got any better ideas?”
Stan's only response was to trudge over to the curb and sit down. After a couple of seconds he exhaled wearily and stretched his legs out in front of him, revealing a pair of battered work boots protruding like loaves from the cuffs of his black trousers.
