The Wishbones

by Tom Perrotta

  “Yo, people,” he says, “can we at least pretend?”

  They're so late for the reception, Dave barely has time to pause in front of the black velvet directory sign in the lobby of the Westview—Muller-Raymond, Black Forest Room, 2nd Floor. The wedding party has assembled in double file at the top of the stairway, under the supervision of the tall maitre d’ whose name Dave doesn't actually know, despite the fact that they've worked together any number of times.

  The introductions begin almost immediately, Margaret and Paul breaking off from the larger group and entering the banquet room to a smattering of polite applause. Buzzy and Melanie go next, followed by Chuck and Claire. The ritual feels both familiar and weird; Dave's used to experiencing it from the other side of the door, strumming the chords to the same bouncy Spyro Gyra instrumental that's playing right now … Wait a minute, he thinks. Something peculiar is afoot. The music he's hearing is live, and the MC is most definitely not Rockin’ Randy. It's Artie, speaking in the unctuous School-of-Broadcasting-tone that never fails to grate on Dave's nerves no matter how many times he hears it: “And how about a warm Westview welcome for our lovely Maid of Honor, Miss Tammi Cullen, and our outstanding Best Man, Misss-ter Glenn Stella!”

  For a second or two, Dave feels like he's dreaming, like he's going to walk through the door and see himself onstage with the Wishbones, working his own wedding from both sides of the fence, when it occurs to him that Artie has somehow managed to assemble a full-fledged band, despite the unavailability of himself, Buzzy, and possibly Ian. Unable to suppress his curiosity on this score, he extricates his hand from Julie's and attempts to poke his head into the banquet room, only to be restrained by the maitre d’.

  “Come on,” the guy tells him. “You know better than that.”

  Defeated, Dave retreats to the back of the line and listens to the loud ovation that follows the announcement of his parents.

  “What happened to Randy?” he whispers.

  “He's got the flu,” Julie informs him, as her own parents’ names are called. “It was really great of Artie to fill in on such short notice. He's not charging anything, so we're actually going to save five hundred dollars.”

  “How come no one told me?”

  “And NOW,” Artie continues, “the couple you've all been waiting for—”

  “You're on,” the maitre d’ says, pushing them toward the doorway.

  “Here we go,” Julie tells him, squeezing his hand as they step forward.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Dave Raymond!”

  Dave's first impression, as they make their way through a tunnel of photographers toward a clear spot in the middle of the dance floor, is of pure chaos. Flashbulbs explode like fireworks at the edges of his vision. Heads appear and disappear. Hands wave and clap. Except for his mother crying and his father looking lost in thought, he can't really make out individual faces, just a welcoming blur of smiles everywhere he looks.

  Behind and above the throng, he sees the band. They're the Wishbones and not the Wishbones: Artie faking it on guitar, Stan holding the fort on drums, Alan Zelack, of all people, manning the bass, and eighty-two-year-old Walter, formerly of the Heartstring Orchestra, banging on the keyboard. They sound exactly like what they are, a bunch of good musicians who aren't used to playing with one another. The overall effect is sloppy but exuberant, and Dave can't help feeling a little jealous. He has to fight off a powerful impulse to break free of Julie, jump onstage, and join them.

  Dave's always been self-conscious about his dancing, but he and Julie manage to kick off the festivities with a respectable senior prom shuffle to “Stand By Me,” which Zelack delivers with enough grimacing, clenched-fisted, Michael Bolton-style passion to propel him to the final round of Star Search.

  “He's good,” Julie whispers.

  “You think so?”

  Dave's not so sure. Despite Zelack's obvious gifts, Dave's always been a little put off by his flashy, egotistical style. Watching him in action makes Dave more certain than ever that he did the right thing by finally declining to join Shiny Angels, a decision Zelack accepted with gracious regret. Nonetheless, Dave's flattered by his presence, which adds an unmistakable touch of star quality to the proceedings, and curious as to how Artie finagled him into doing it.

  He and Julie separate for the second song, each linking up with their opposite-sex parents for the Bride-and-Her-Father dance. Whether at Julie's request or the inspiration of someone in the band, “Daddy's Little Girl” has been scrapped in favor of the still-sappy, but definitely preferable, “Turn Around.”

  “You're not very good at this,” his mother informs him as they stumble over each other's feet. “You'd think a musician would have a better sense of rhythm.”

  “Thanks for the support, Mom.”

  “Julie's a good dancer,” she continues, thinking out loud. “I guess it's just something you're born with.”

  A great sense of relief descends upon him when the song ends and he can finally take his seat at the head table, his dancing dues paid. His butt's barely made contact with the chair, though, when dozens of people begin tapping forks and knives against glasses, expressing a collective demand for the bride and groom to kiss. Julie looks at him and shrugs. They lean together and touch lips, holding the pose for a few seconds to appease the crowd.

  “Where's the Best Man?” Artie asks through the microphone. “It's time for the champagne toast.”

  Heads turn in every direction, scouring the room, but Glenn is nowhere in sight. Uh oh, Dave thinks, but just at that moment, Glenn appears in the main doorway, looking pale but determined, and threads his way to the stage. The glass-clinking starts again before he gets there, and Julie responds to it before Dave does, grabbing hold of his head with both hands and planting a kiss on him that almost makes him forget where he is. She's doing something strange and marvelous with her tongue, a maneuver he's never experienced in a decade and a half of kissing her, as if to let him know that she's still got a few new tricks up her sleeve.

  When she finally lets him up for air, something totally unexpected has occurred. Glenn's onstage all right, but he doesn't look like a Best Man preparing to deliver a toast. He appears to have been transformed into a member of the band, his pale blue Stratocaster riding high across his chest, an arrangement he swears by, though it looks both nerdy and unwieldy to Dave.

  “I'm not really very good at public speaking,” he says, “so if you don't mind, I'd like to toast Dave and Julie with a song.”

  Just like that, the band breaks into the opening of “Bell-Bottom Blues,” Glenn picking out the arpeggios with studied casualness, like standing up in front of a roomful of people and playing his guitar is nothing new or frightening to him, like he hasn't just broken through the wall that's been holding him back for half of his life. The wedding guests listen politely, not quite sure what to make of the musical toast, but Dave is riveted. During Glenn's flawless solo, he feels the lump from church rising back into his throat. Under the table he grabs hold of Julie's hand.

  “I can't believe this is happening,” he tells her.

  “I know,” she says. “Thank God for Prozac.”

  When the song is over, Glenn raises a glass of champagne and wishes the happy couple a lifetime of health and happiness.

  “Here's to you,” he concludes. “Love's a precious thing.”

  All around the room, people touch glasses and drink to Dave and Julie as the band, still in a Clapton mode, roars into the power chord intro of “Cocaine.” Glenn's inside it now, making faces and moving his head around like he's having problems with his neck, and a new kind of energy enters the room, as palpable as a cool breeze. Dave wants to watch, but Julie's already out of her chair and yanking on his arm.

  “Come on,” she says, glancing in the direction of the dance floor, which is suddenly the scene of frantic activity, not all of it pretty. “I love this song.”

  Dave's been to enough weddings to know the difference between a good one and a
bad one, and this is a good one. You can tell from the dancing. Even when the food arrives, lots of people don't want to sit down. The floor doesn't clear until the band finally decides to take a break, after playing for well over an hour. Dave understands their reluctance to close the set: when it's happening like this, you just want to keep riding the wave.

  He and Julie don't really get a chance to eat. Instead they drift from table to table, chatting up the guests and posing for one picture after another. Everywhere he goes, someone's tugging at his cuff, telling him he's a lucky man, he's looking sharp, Julie's beautiful, the food's great, does he want a drink? The maitre d’ has a quick question. His mother wants to know if he remembers Mrs. Polio, their landlady from the house on Franklin Street, which they moved out of in 1969. Ian tosses him a trivia softball, the answer to which is “Pure Prairie League.” His cousin Lori's new boyfriend—a guy named Butchie with a gleam in his eyes that makes you want to keep your distance—keeps pestering him to set up an appointment to discuss his insurance options. (“You're married, dude,” is how Butchie likes to put it. “You've got some heavy life issues to consider.”) Everybody wants a piece of him. It's exhausting and exciting at the same time, and Dave thinks that this is how it must feel to run for president—like attending your own wedding night after night after night.

  He's happy to see that the musicians have been given their own table in the main hall, and are being treated as guests rather than employees. (This makes a lot of sense, considering that Stan and Artie were invited anyway.) With the exception of Zelack's fiancée, the occupants of the table are all male, the original imbalance made all the more conspicuous by the added presence of Buzzy and Ian, both of whom have drifted over to hobnob with the band. Artie's the first one out of his seat, grabbing Dave with one arm and Julie with the other, pulling them against his chest in a sweaty, three-way hug. His guard's down and his cologne's working overtime; he seems happier than Dave's seen him in a long time.

  “Were you surprised?” he asks excitedly, grabbing hold of Dave's lapels and butting foreheads with him. “I bet we surprised the shit out of you, right?”

  “It's great of you to fill in like this,” Julie tells him. “I don't know what we would've done without you.”

  “This is not a job for a DJ,” Artie explains, pinching Dave's cheek with his thumb and forefinger. “This is a job for your friends who love you.”

  “You sound good,” Dave says, reaching up to separate Artie's hand from his face. “It's quite a lineup you put together.”

  “A fuckin’ All-Star team,” Artie tells him. “You gonna sit in with us next set?”

  Before Dave can answer, Zelack intervenes, wrapping him in an embrace that falls somewhere between a hug and a headlock.

  “Congratulations!” he says. “Bet you didn't expect to see me tonight.”

  “I didn't,” Dave says, his words disappearing into the crook of Zelack's arm. “But I'm glad you could make it.”

  “Wouldn't miss it,” Zelack assures him, releasing Dave to perform a thorough, two-handed spot-check of his hairdo, flicking it into place like a professional. “I was touched when Artie asked me. I mean that.”

  “By the way,” Dave tells him after an awkward pause, “I'm sorry about the Shiny Angels thing. This just doesn't seem like the right time for me. Especially if it's going to involve touring.”

  “I hear you.” Zelack casts a quick glance over his shoulder at Monica, who's inspecting the splint on Buzzy's hand with a look of profound sympathy. “I'm going through a similar situation myself. The whole project's up in the air.”

  Dave nods. Zelack shrugs.

  “You guys sound good up there,” Dave tells him.

  Zelack grins. “Not bad for two rehearsals, huh?” He leans closer, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “Your friend Glenn, man—”

  “I know,” says Dave.

  “The guy can play.”

  As if on cue, Glenn wanders over from the bar with Buzzy's wife JoAnn, who's looking cranky but elegant in a little black dress and fishnet stockings. Both of them have their hands full of drinks, but Glenn stops on his way to the table for a word with Dave.

  “Speak of the devil,” says Zelack.

  “You're kicking ass,” Dave tells him.

  Glenn's face colors with embarrassment.

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Really,” Dave replies.

  “How's it feel?” asks Zelack.

  Glenn thinks it over for a few seconds, pondering the triangle of glasses pressed between his hands, each with a wedge of lime floating on top. Then he looks up, his face breaking into a broad, incredulous smile.

  “I had no idea,” he says. “How come nobody told me?”

  Dave and Zelack watch as Glenn delivers the drinks to the table, placing one each in front of Walter and Stan, who seem to be locked in a tense discussion, and keeping the third for himself. He takes a long swig, smacks his lips in satisfaction, and surveys the room, grinning at nothing in particular.

  “Now there's a happy man,” Zelack observes.

  “No kidding,” says Dave. “Wait'll he hears about sex.”

  Ian sidles up to him at the bar and explains that the bouquet toss has been rigged in Tammi's favor. He asks Dave to send the garter his way, if it's not too much trouble.

  “Don't worry,” Dave tells him. “Just stand in front. Everyone else will run away.”

  “I bought her a ring last week,” Ian confides. “As soon as I find a job I'm gonna pop the question.”

  “Wow. That was quick.”

  “She's the one. There's no sense trying to fight it.”

  Dave grins. “Now you tell me.”

  “I'm grateful,” Ian says, placing a sincere hand on Dave's shoulder. “I hope this stuff with the band doesn't get in the way of our friendship.”

  “You gotta do what you gotta do,” Dave says with a shrug. “Don't you miss it?”

  Ian looks back at the stage. The guys are cooking now, cranking out a raucous version of “After Midnight.” Buzzy's up there with them, singing background vocals and shaking a tambourine with his good hand. The floor's packed; even Dave's father is out there, doing a strange dance that consists of standing on one leg and wiggling his raised foot in the air. Dave's hands are itching for a guitar.

  “Not really,” Ian tells him.

  After the bouquet and garter ritual runs its tedious course, Zelack invites Dave to join the band for a couple of numbers.

  “If your lovely wife doesn't mind,” he adds with a smirk.

  Dave looks at Julie. Her tiara's gone and her hair is loose. Her shoes came off an hour ago, and her face is flushed from close-to-nonstop-dancing and several glasses of wine. Envelopes full of money litter the table in front of her. She wouldn't object if he said they were moving to Africa.

  “Go ahead,” she tells him. “Have your fun.”

  Something changes when Dave gets onstage. The band's been hot all night, but now something clicks and they rise to a whole new level. Everything tightens up at once; the ragged edges disappear. It's as if a puzzle has found its missing piece.

  He can feel it as soon as they launch into “I Saw Her Standing There.” Dave understands what's happening: he's a unifying force, the link between the Wishbones’ nucleus of Artie and Stan and the new center of gravity occupied by Zelack and Glenn and Walter. The rest of the guys understand it too, and the knowledge is passed around in a series of surprised smiles and nods. Dave and Glenn trade solos with the telepathy of twin brothers; he and Zelack mesh on the harmonies like they've been singing together for years.

  The audience seems to notice something as well. The conga line starts to form midway through the second number—a suitably festive take on “When the Volcano Blows”— and attracts new members like a magnet as it snakes through the room. Julie's leading the charge, followed by Tammi and Ian and Dave's own mother, who seems intimately familiar with the lyrics, even though Dave knows for a fact that she doesn't own a
ny Jimmy Buffett records. His father's back toward the end of the line, hands around the waist of Buzzy's wife, the only person Dave has ever seen who can look morose on a conga line. Buzzy himself is bringing up the rear, holding onto Dolores Müller with his bad hand and waving a bottle of champagne around with his good one.

  Not wanting to lose the momentum, the band segues right into Bob Marley's “Stir It Up.” Dave's never really mastered the reggae rhythm, but Glenn has it down. After a few bars, Dave stops trying to keep up on guitar and concentrates instead on singing the low harmonies. Zelack's voice is so high and pure above his, Dave almost feels like he's levitating on the chorus.

  Something's happening. Glenn and Dave and Zelack keep trading these quick glances of amazement and disbelief, the kind of glance that's as much a question as it is a confirmation. What's this all about? they seem to be asking one another. Is this what I think it is? Dave remembers sharing looks not so different with Gretchen in this very same room not so long ago, experiencing a similar suspicion that his life might be about to change in a very important way.

  They've already shifted into “Havin’ a Party” when the conga line stops short in front of the stage, like a train waiting in the station. This unexpected pause wreaks havoc with the back of the line, which begins to collapse in on itself like an accordion. Julie's smiling happily, waving at him to put down his guitar and come join the dancers, but all Dave can do is shake his head. He wants to tell her that something beautiful is happening up here, something he can't let go of, but as is the case with most of life's important matters, neither the time nor the place is right for saying what needs to be said. Julie's smile starts to melt into a more complicated expression, not quite a pout but something in that neighborhood. Dave doesn't want to upset her, so he makes his way to the edge of the stage, as far as his cord will stretch, and raises one finger in the air.

  “One more song,” he tells her, not quite sure if he's making a plea or a promise. “Give me one more song.”