by Tom Perrotta
“Maybe we can just make some dance tapes ourselves. Save your parents the five hundred bucks.”
“Oh, that's classy,” she said. “And we can hold the reception at a bowling alley. Ham sandwiches and Oreos for everyone.”
“Sounds good to me.”
She sighed in a way that reminded him of his mother. “You're not being very helpful. Planning a wedding is a lot of work. I don't have the energy to fight over every little detail.”
“This is not a little detail. This is like”— he groped for a metaphor—” like inviting Hitler to your wedding.”
“Hitler?” she said. “Are you out of your mind?”
“All right,” he conceded. “So it wasn't the best comparison.”
She shook her head and turned back to the window. Dave caressed the steering wheel with his thumbnail, wondering where Gretchen was, what she was doing, wishing he could be there with her, far away from Rockin’ Randy and The Bridges of Madison County. He thought of the subway turnstile, the thrilling chunk it made as you pushed your way through, into that musty, gum-paved underground world.
“Turn right at Cumberland Farms,” Julie muttered.
Rockin Randy lived in Chestnut Gardens, an old-fashioned apartment complex that consisted of six or seven squat brick buildings laid out along a cul-de-sac near Echo Lake. It was another beautiful night, planes blinking overhead, fireflies rising like dreamy sparks from the grass outside Randy's unit.
“2B,” Julie told him as they approached the front door.
“Or not 2B,” he added, more out of reflex than a desire to make a joke.
She shook her head. “Explain to me again why you didn't graduate from college.”
“That is the question,” he declared, in his best Shakespearean baritone.
In spite of herself, Julie smiled.
“You're a real idiot,” she informed him, as if this were something to be proud of.
“Thank you,” he said, pressing the buzzer.
Dave almost didn't recognize Randy when he opened the door. Sleepy eyed, dressed in khaki shorts, a faded blue T-shirt with radio station call letters printed across the front, and rubber flip-flops, his hair untamed by lubricant, the DJ bore an uncanny resemblance to a normal human being who had just woken up from a nap. Dave felt bad about comparing him to Hitler. Randy scratched his head and blinked a few times, as though the twilight hurt his eyes.
“You must be Julie,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Your dad's a cool guy.”
“Cool?” Julie seemed genuinely astonished by this concept. “Are we talking about my biological father?”
Randy backtracked. “Not cool in the usual sense. He's just, I don't know, off in his own category.”
“That's one way of putting it,” Julie agreed.
Randy's eyes narrowed with concentration as he shifted his attention to Dave. He brought his thumb and index finger to his forehead and maneuvered them as though adjusting a knob.
“I know you,” he said. “I just can't figure out from where.”
“I'm a wedding musician. I play with a band called the Wishbones. I saw you at the Westview last month.”
Randy tilted his head, framing Dave between his hands like a photographer. What he saw seemed to startle him. He glanced from Dave to Julie, then back to Dave again, as though something fishy were afoot.
“You look different without your tuxedo,” he said.
“You look different, too,” Dave told him.
“No shit.” Randy clapped him on the shoulder, shaking his head in cosmic wonderment. “Small fuckin’ planet, man. Small fuckin’ planet.”
Entering the DJ's living room, Dave experienced an immediate jolt of recognition, a funny feeling that if he'd had an apartment of his own, it would look a lot like this—simultaneously spartan and unkempt, a cool place to hang out and listen to music, if you weren't too particular about things like dust and crumbs and dirty socks draped over the lampshade like melted clocks. There was a big unframed poster of Miles Davis taped to the wall above the entertainment console; the other walls were occupied floor-to-ceiling by homemade cinder-block-and-pine-board shelves packed tight with CDs, tapes, albums, and 45s, all of them arranged by category and in alphabetical order.
“I'd offer you something to drink,” Randy told them, “but I haven't been out to the store in a couple of weeks. I'm afraid to open the refrigerator and find out what's inside.”
He pulled up a plastic milk crate and sat down on top of it, leaving the couch for his visitors. It was a green velour monster, balding in the high-traffic areas and mottled with uninviting stains. Dave sat down next to Julie and tried to ignore the elastic waistband of a pair of jockey shorts stuffed in the crevice between two cushions. The familiar blue and yellow stripes identified them as Fruit of the Loom, the brand Dave had been wearing since the day he graduated from diapers.
“The place is kind of a mess,” Randy admitted. “I've got this insane schedule, you know? Full-time day job, plus the DJ gig on weekends, and then the radio show on top of everything else.”
“Radio show?” said Dave.
Randy shook his head, apparently mystified by his own life. “In Bridgeport fuckin’ Connecticut, if you can believe that. Every other Thursday from two to six in the morning. Randy by Starlight. It's a jazz show for insomniacs, truck drivers, and people who work graveyard.”
“Bridgeport?” said Dave. “That's like two hours away.”
“More like an hour and a half. They got this great listener-supported station up there. Anyone can apply for a show. There's not a lot of competition for the 2 A.M. slots.”
Julie seemed concerned. “So you drive up there at midnight, do your show, then drive back at six in the morning and put in a full day at Prudential?”
Randy nodded. “The Fridays after the show are brutal for me. I just drag myself around like a dead man for eight hours. That's why you caught me napping just now.”
“It can't pay very well,” Dave speculated.
“Doesn't pay at all.”
“So why do you do it?”
“Because I'm the man,” Randy replied, as though this were the most obvious reason in the world. “I spin the wax. I have no idea why you're driving through Connecticut at four in the morning, but that's my music jumping out of your radio, man. What could be cooler than that?”
“What kind of stufft”
“Bebop mostly. Bird, Miles, Dizzy. The usual suspects. I'll feature lesser-known guys too, the sidemen who held their own with the greats. Or else I do birthday or death anniversary shows or just let the music reflect my mood. Last night was a tribute to Bill Evans.”
“Wow,” said Dave. “I wish I'd heard it. I'm not too familiar with his stuff, but what I've heard blows me away.”
“I taped it,” Randy said. “I'll make you a copy.”
“Really?”
“No problem.”
Julie glanced at her watch and pointedly cleared her throat. “Boys,” she said, “I hate to interrupt, but our movie starts at nine.”
Randy's Sales pitch for the wedding gig was low-key, almost perfunctory, centered on his complete lack of personal investment in the work. He declared himself open to just about anything.
“I'm totally flexible about this. If you want me to wear a tux and play dinner music all night, I'll wear a tux and play dinner music all night. If you want me to dress in a gorilla suit and bang on a tin can between songs, I'm happy to discuss that as well, though I generally charge extra for making an asshole of myself.”
“We're not looking for an MC,” Dave advised him. “DJs should be seen and not heard.”
Randy didn't even blink. “No problem. I can do it either way, but I'm happy to just hang back and play the tunes.”
“And no conga lines,” Dave threw in for good measure.
“Why not?” Julie asked, a bit miffed by this instruction. “What's wrong with conga lines?”
“They're embarrassing.”
�
��No, they're not.” She turned to Randy for confirmation. “They can be a lot of fun.”
Randy held up both hands, refusing to arbitrate. “It's up to you guys. Speaking from experience, I've found that conga lines are a good way to break the ice at the tenser receptions. The ones where the families aren't mingling. It's kind of hard to ignore someone who's been shaking their booty in your face for the past five minutes.”
“That's a good point,” said Julie. “I definitely don't want to rule out a conga line.”
“As far as the music goes,” Randy went on, “I'm happy to be as traditional or adventurous as you want. If it suits you, I can supply a whole night's worth of Sinatra and Madonna and Kenny Rogers. But if you want reggae or salsa or anything like that, just say the word.”
Instead of answering, Julie again consulted her watch. Her eyes widened with melodramatic alarm.
“Yikes,” she said. “I hate to cut this short—”
For the first time, Randy betrayed his eagerness.
“So, is it a deal?”
“Well?” Julie turned to Dave, beaming her approval. “What do you think?”
By that point, Dave had pretty much accepted the fact that Randy had the gig and would do a decent job of it. But cool as he was, Randy was still a DJ, and Dave couldn't imagine breaking the news to the Wishbones.
“Whatever,” he said. “Your dad's writing the check.”
Julie's smile slipped a little.
“You know what?” she told Randy. “I think we need to talk this over a little more. Can I get back to you in a couple of days?”
“Not a problem,” Randy said, falling back on his earlier posture of complete indifference. “Do what you have to do.”
Before they left, Julie asked to use the bathroom, which was located at the far end of the apartment, down a long hallway. She was barely out of earshot when Randy jumped up from the milk crate and beckoned to Dave with an urgent movement of his hand.
“C'mere,” he whispered.
Groaning to himself, Dave rose from the couch and reluctantly approached the DJ, expecting to be the victim of some gentle man-to-man arm-twisting to close the deal. But Randy surprised him.
“I don't mean to pry,” he said, keeping his voice low and confidential, “but there's something I need to ask you.”
“Yeah?”
“That girl you were with at the Westview? The bridesmaid with the glasses?”
Dave's brain snapped to attention; his body felt suddenly electrified, alert to danger.
“What about her?”
Randy cast a quick nervous glance in the direction of the hallway.
“It's an awkward question. I mean, people's lives are complicated. It's not my business to judge.”
“I'm not following you.”
Randy winced. “She kind of gave me the impression that you and her—”
Dave couldn't believe this was happening.
“You know Gretchen?”
“I bumped into her out by those Dumpsters on my break. We had a great conversation.”
Dave shook his head. He felt Miles Davis peering down at him, not quite hostile, not quite amused.
“She didn't tell me,” he said, more to himself than to Randy.
The toilet flushed, the explosive sucking sound of it audible down the length of the apartment.
“So I guess I misunderstood her,” Randy said carefully.
“I guess you did.”
The bathroom door creaked open. Julie's clogs smacked smartly on the wooden floor. Randy leaned in closer.
“There's only one problem,” he confided. “I didn't catch her last name. You wouldn't happen to know it, would you?”
Dave's insides flooded with relief as Julie stepped back into the room, mouth bright with a new coat of lipstick, hair shining the way it always did after she'd brushed it. She was wearing old jeans and one of those tight ribbed shirts Dave was glad had come back in style. She looked good. She looked like her mother.
“Sorry.” He laid his hand regretfully on the DJ's shoulder. “Wish I could help you out.”
It was dark outside, oddly desolate. Dave's Metro was parked in the shadows, near a hulking green Dumpster bathed in the glow of a streetlamp. There was something almost purposeful about this tableau, as though it had been arranged to showcase the simple, bargelike beauty of the receptacle.
“What was that all about?” Julie asked him.
“What was what all about?”
“Your little conference with Randy.”
“Just the usual chitchat.”
“It looked like you guys were plotting to overthrow the government.”
Dave unlocked the passenger door and walked around to the driver's side. Julie wasn't suspicious as far as he could tell, just curious. He could have let the matter drop, but for some reason he felt like talking.
“He was asking about a girl,” he reported, slipping behind the wheel and yanking the seat belt across his chest. “He wants to find out the last name of this bridesmaid from the wedding we played the other night.”
“How come?”
“He's got a crush on her. He wants to ask her out.”
“Do you know her?”
Dave started the engine and clicked on the headlights. The beams landed on the side of an apartment building up ahead. A woman was framed in one bright window, washing dishes with an air of almost religious devotion.
“Nope,” he said.
They bounced over four speed bumps on their way out of Chestnut Gardens, then turned right onto Springdale Avenue. The movie theater was only five minutes away, in the center of downtown West Plains.
“It can't be too hard to find out,” Julie told him. “Doesn't Artie keep a list of all the people in the wedding party?”
Dave hesitated, unsettled by this oddly practical turn in the conversation. He should have seen it coming, except that his brain had been overwhelmed by the simple, thrilling fact that he was discussing Gretchen with Julie and getting away with it.
“I don't know,” he said. “Even if I knew her name, I'm not sure it would be ethical to share it with Randy.”
“Ethical? What's ethical got to do with it?”
“Think about it. We don't know the first thing about this woman. Maybe she's married. Maybe she's got a boyfriend. Maybe she's not interested in Randy.”
“If she's not interested, all she has to do is tell him.”
“If she was interested, she probably would have told him her last name.”
“Huh,” Julie said, acknowledging his point. “All I'm saying is that if I were single, I'd be happy to get a call from a guy as cute and interesting as Randy.”
“You think he's interesting?”
“Yeah,” she said. “But not half as interesting as you do.”
Dave didn't argue. He turned into the parking lot behind the theater, distracted by the question of why Gretchen hadn't mentioned meeting the DJ even in passing. An irrational feeling of jealousy seized him as he pondered the scene—Gretchen stoned and barefoot, Randy in his Hawaiian shirt, turning on the charm. The worst part of the feeling was that he had no right to it whatsoever. What claim could he have on her? For all he knew, she was off in some Village cafe at that very moment, drinking wine with the guy in the stovepipe hat, and that was none of his business either.
They bought their tickets and entered the theater with a couple of minutes to spare. The previews hadn't even begun yet.
“So was she pretty?” Julie asked as they settled into their seats.
“Who?”
“The bridesmaid.”
Gretchen's face appeared in Dave's mind with haunting clarity, as vivid as if it had been projected onto the blank screen looming in front of him. Her wary eyes and sexy haircut, her downturned mouth and odd, pointy nose. He thought about the way her breast fit his hand, and how close he'd come the previous night to staying in bed with her, not coming home at all.
“She was okay,” he said. “A skinny gir
l with big eyeglasses. Nothing to write home about.”
Two hours later they emerged from the theater as if in mourning, Julie dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled yellow Kleenex, Dave rubber-legged, emotionally frazzled.
The Bridges of Madison County had been an unexpectedly difficult experience for him. It wasn't so much that he saw any direct parallels with his own life: Meryl Streep didn't remind him of Gretchen—or of Julie for that matter—nor did he see himself as some kind of vagabond romantic figure like Clint Eastwood, a cowboy with a camera. The landscape and lifestyle of rural Iowa made him wonder if suburban New Jersey was such a dull place to live after all.
Despite its sluggish pace and disappointingly tepid sex scenes, the movie simply made him ache for Gretchen in such a hungry and direct way that he almost couldn't bear it. He just wanted her to be there with him, bathed in the light from the screen, her knee touching his through two layers of denim. He wanted to suck flat Coke through a straw that had touched her lips only seconds earlier. And he wanted to watch her expression as she watched the movie, to explore the fresh mystery of this woman who seemed to have turned his life upside down in a matter of weeks. The need to connect with her grew so strong that he got up in the middle of the movie, supposedly to use the rest room, and tried to call her from a pay phone in the lobby. Her line was busy, a circumstance that, though frustrating, had the effect of calming him down a little. At least she was home, and probably alone. But who was she talking to? A friend? An old lover? Some guy she'd just met? It pained him to consider how little he knew of her life, her romantic history, what kind of future she envisioned for herself.
Luckily for Dave, Julie was in no condition to notice the state he was in. A big fan of the book, she began sniffling a half hour into the movie, long before anything sad had actually occurred, and worked herself into a state of out-and-out weeping by the time the credits rolled. They were halfway home by the time she finally felt composed enough to pocket the Kleenex and make a stab at conversation.
“So what do you think? Did she do the right thing?”
“Who?”
“Francesca.”
Dave kept his eyes on the road and shrugged like a disinterested party.
