The Wishbones

by Tom Perrotta

  “How so?”

  “Pretty hard-line.”

  “Hard-line what?”

  “See for yourself. He draws a pretty unusual crowd.”

  Fuckin’ Artie. It was bad enough the band was stooping to this two-bit cable-access crap without Genial Jim turning out to be some sort of crackpot. Buzzy found himself wondering if Ian didn't have the right idea, if it wasn't time to get out while the going was still good. But as quickly as the thought appeared, he shoved it out of his mind. He didn't even want to think about what his life would look like without the band, an endless cycle of work and home, work and home, work and home, prosthetic devices and cheesy sitcoms as far as the eye could see. Now he knew why his father belonged to three bowling leagues for most of his adult life.

  “Jesus,” the bartender moaned. “Listen to this.”

  One of the mother prostitutes was talking about the disappointment she had initially felt when her daughter had opted to follow her into the profession. “My dream was for her to go to college,” the mother explained, sounding sad and proud at the same time. “I wanted her to have the opportunities I never did. But she was just like me—too stubborn for her own good.” The camera pulled back to show the daughter dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex, obviously touched by her mother's public show of support. Buzzy waited for the next commercial break before speaking.

  “Hey, chief,” he said, “you wouldn't have any free pretzels or anything like that back there, would you?”

  Dave spotted him right away, the combination of ponytail and tuxedo a dead giveaway even in the murky light of the lounge. He was sitting way at the other end of the long bar, as far as he could get from the raucous crowd of grass-stained landscapers gathered around the pool table by the front window.

  Buzzy seemed unusually subdued, almost pensive. He nodded to acknowledge Dave's arrival, then turned his attention back to the TV above the bar. Hootie and the Blowfish were on, the sound turned all the way down so as not to interfere with the Doors’ “Soul Kitchen” blasting out of the jukebox.

  “Been here long?” Dave asked.

  “Couple hours.”

  “Couple hours? What time'd you get off work?”

  “Four.”

  It was six-fifteen now. Dave considered the shot glass on the bar in front of Buzzy, the messy pile of bills and change, the bowl lined with salt and pretzel crumbs.

  “Did you eat any supper?”

  “I'll grab a bratwurst at Larry's.”

  Buzzy didn't sound drunk, exactly, just a little stiff, like a politician reading off a teleprompter. He tapped his glass on the bar to get the attention of the barmaid, a flashy blonde who understood the relationship between cleavage and tips.

  “Hey, Sally,” he said. “How about a refill?”

  “You sure?” she asked.

  “As regards this small matter,” Buzzy assured her, “I have achieved a high degree of certitude.”

  Sally selected a bottle from the shelf by the register.

  “I hope you're not driving,” she said.

  “Nope.” Buzzy watched carefully as she filled his glass, then jerked his thumb in Dave's direction. “My buddy here's the designated drunk driver.”

  Stone-faced, Sally subtracted some money from the pile and marched it over to the till. Buzzy dispatched the double in a businesslike manner, squinting at the television. An MTV veejay was opening and closing her mouth, the pretty one with the stupid name. Dave slapped Buzzy on the back.

  “Come on,” he said. “Time to head across the street.”

  Buzzy turned slowly, his smile vague and distant.

  “You know what I've always wanted to do?”

  “What?”

  “Toss a TV off a hotel balcony.” He paused, savoring the fantasy. “Be cool to watch it explode from about thirty floors up, don't you think?”

  “Come on,” Dave said again. “Time to go.”

  Buzzy didn't move.

  “You ever want to do that?”

  “Sure.” Dave smiled in spite of himself. “I wanted mine to land in a pool.”

  Buzzy seemed pleased by this information. He gathered up the remaining bills on the bar, leaving only the coins for Sally.

  “Good,” he said. “I was starting to think I was the only asshole left in the whole fuckin’ country.”

  Dave hadn't given The Genial Jim Show a lot of thought in the past few days. He'd been too absorbed in his private life, the effort of acting like everything was fine around Julie while his heart and brain were screaming Gretchen's name.

  He still couldn't accept the idea that things were over for them. Even after she'd broken up with him, supposedly for good, her behavior toward him hadn't changed. They woke up in each other's arms the morning after her birthday and made love with such heartbroken abandon that she'd wept, and it had taken all the self-control he could muster not to do the same.

  Then he kissed her good-bye, drove home, and hadn't found a moment's peace ever since. He called her twice from pay phones during courier runs into the city, but she hadn't picked up either time, even though he was pretty sure she was home, screening her calls. He had no idea what his next move would be, but he knew he had to do something and do it fast. He couldn't afford to just let her fade out of his life—not now, when he was just getting to know her.

  If he'd given tonight's gig any thought at all, it was only to wonder how things would go with Ian, if there would be any tension between him and the rest of the band, or if he had possibly begun to reconsider his decision to quit the Wishbones. Genial Jim hadn't entered Dave's mind at all. He simply hadn't had the time or energy to worry about who the guy was, or where he'd dug up such a stupid name, or what a shipping clerk was doing with a talk show.

  As soon as he and Buzzy entered the Wursthaus Banquet Room, though, Dave started to wonder what Artie had gotten them into. At first it was just a vague sense of being out of his element, nothing he could put his finger on. The Banquet Room was gloomy and forbidding, all dark wood and red Naugahyde. The waitresses wore dirndls; the air reeked of sauerkraut.

  His misgivings intensified as they threaded their way through the tables toward the stage at the opposite end of the room. Most of the patrons were men, and a fair number of them, regardless of age, were decked out in camouflage fatigues and combat boots. One booth was occupied solely by pumped-up, angry-looking teenage skinheads. Buzzy grabbed hold of Dave's arm and whispered excitedly in his ear, “Wow, did you see the size of those beer steins?”

  Stan had already arrived and was busily assembling his drum kit. On their way to the bandstand, Dave and Buzzy were accosted by Lenny, the wedding videographer, who was squatting by his equipment at the foot of the stage. Despite the fact that he was busy inhaling a heaping plate of liver and onions, he insisted on leaping to his feet and greeting them both with one-armed bear hugs.

  “Welcome,” he said, balancing the plate waiter-style in the palm of his free hand. “Welcome to the family.”

  “What family is that?” Dave wanted to know.

  Lenny's gesture encompassed the whole room. Dressed in jeans and an army-surplus shirt, he seemed like a different person, way more relaxed and expansive than he was in his wedding garb.

  “We're a family here. Have you guys seen the show before?”

  Dave shook his head.

  “You're in for a treat,” Lenny promised. “Genial Jim speaks the truth.”

  Dave started to feel a bit queasy. He looked past Lenny and spied Artie standing beside a PA column, chatting with two burly, cheerful-looking guys, one of whom wore a green Tyrolean hat, the other a rumpled brown suit.

  “Is that him over there?”

  “Yup,” said Lenny. “Jim's the one with the hat. The bald guy's his sidekick, Cookie. He used to be a cop in Newark. Come on, I'll introduce you.”

  “Wait.” Buzzy leaned forward, sniffing at Lenny's plate as though it were a bouquet of flowers. “First tell me how I can get hold of some of that.”


  Lenny led Buzzy off toward the kitchen, and Dave made his way over to the bandstand, trading a swift look of dread with Stan as he undid the clasps on his case. He didn't even have time to tune up before Artie summoned him to meet their hosts.

  “Jim Baumeister.”

  “Cookie Dockery.”

  “Dave Raymond.”

  Genial Jim greeted Dave with a handshake and a wary look of appraisal. He was about fifty, with an oddly boyish face and gray muttonchop sideburns. A black T-shirt pulled tight over his bulging belly bore the challenge, Go Ahead, Try to Take My Gun Away.

  “You're not Jewish, are you?” he asked.

  “Who me?” said Dave, startled by the question.

  “He's just pulling your chain,” Cookie chortled, faking a punch to Dave's midsection. “He does it to everyone.”

  “Some people are,” Genial Jim noted. “I like to know who I'm dealing with.”

  Dave shot a quick look at Artie, whose only response was a helpless shrug. Genial Jim rubbed his hands together with brisk enthusiasm.

  “Great show tonight,” he said. “Quality theme, quality guests.”

  “What's the theme?” Dave asked.

  “Big-time stuff,” Cookie chimed in. “One-world government and why it can't happen here.”

  Just then a bunch of guys in softball uniforms piled into the room. Genial Jim and Cookie excused themselves to say hello to the newcomers, leaving Dave to glare at Artie in speechless bewilderment.

  “Don't start with me,” Artie warned him.

  “Do you know what these people are?”

  “I do now.”

  “You didn't before?”

  Artie shook his head. “It was that douche bag Lenny. He called and said his friend was looking for a band for his TV show. We didn't get too deep into the politics. I mean, shit, Dave, the guy calls himself Genial fucking Jim. I figured he was a comedian or something.”

  “He's a riot all right.”

  They watched Buzzy emerge from the kitchen, smiling ecstatically, a beer stein in one hand and a plate in the other. The plate held a single enormous sausage, pinkish-gray in color, and nothing else. Lenny trailed behind him, carrying the bass and garment bag like a roadie.

  “By the way,” Artie reported. “Ian canceled on me.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “It's not really a problem. We're only slated for two numbers, and Jim wants to sing both of them himself.”

  Lenny gave the signal to begin taping a few minutes after seven. The Wishbones struck up an improvised Tonight Show-style intro while Cookie did his best Ed McMahon voice-over through Ian's microphone.

  “From Larry's Wursthaus in the heart of the New World Order, it's The Genial Jim Show, with your host, Genial Jim, and Jim's guests, Al from Pennsylvania and Otto from New Hampshire. Rest assured, friends, The Genial Jim Show is not brought to you by the United Nations, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the Trilateral Commission, the OJ. Simpson Defense Team, or anyone named Goldberg. And now heeeere's … Jimmy!”

  The Banquet Room burst into hearty applause as Genial Jim bounded onto the stage, still wearing his Tyrolean hat, and took a seat behind a green metal desk. A narrow glass vase containing a single red rose decorated one corner of the otherwise bare desktop.

  “All right,” he said with a big smile, pushing his palms against the air to suppress the ovation. “Good crowd tonight. We've got a great show coming up. Two friends from the great states of Pennsylvania and New Hampshire are here, and they're gonna tell us about plans they're making to resist the coming one-world government, so you won't want to miss that. But before we bring them out, I'd like to do one of my Top Five Lists.” The room erupted with shouts of approval; Genial Jim's lists were apparently a popular feature of the show. “I know, I know, one of these days I'm going to have to kick David Letterman's butt for ripping off my idea.”

  Cookie climbed onto the stage with an armful of posters, which he laid facedown on the desk. He cleared his throat, signaling his readiness to proceed.

  “All right,” said Genial Jim. “Without further ado, here are the top five reasons why gays should be allowed in the U.S. military.”

  Cookie lifted the top poster of the stack and showed it to the crowd.

  “It's upside down,” someone called out.

  Cookie flipped it over.

  “Reason Five,” said Genial Jim. “They need something to do when they retire from the ATF.”

  The crowd hooted; Cookie tossed the poster over his shoulder and reached for the next one.

  “Reason Four: Bill Clinton would finally have a good reason to serve his country.”

  Cookie presented the third card, but Genial Jim was laughing so hard he couldn't read it. He had to signal for a time-out.

  “You want me to take over?” Cookie asked him.

  Genial Jim shook his head. “That's okay. I'm better now.” He wiped the grin off his face like a schoolkid. “Reason Three: Hillary Clinton would finally have a good reason to serve her country.”

  Dave had played a lot of weird gigs in his time—sad weddings, dances where nobody danced, a graduation party at which his amp exploded—but this was, without a doubt, the low point of his career, the nadir, the crawl space below the basement. He should have just packed up his guitar and left—they all should have—but some inexplicable sense of obligation kept him standing there, frozen by a paralysis familiar from bad dreams. I'm just a musician, he reminded himself. This has nothing to do with me.

  “Reason Two: Janet Reno looks good in green.”

  By now the audience had reached a fever pitch of enjoyment. Genial Jim turned toward the bandstand.

  “Drumroll, maestro.”

  Stan looked at Artie. Artie nodded. With an obvious lack of enthusiasm, Stan produced a drumroll.

  “And now, the Number One Reason why gays should be allowed in the U.S. military—”

  Cookie flipped the poster, his shoulders already heaving with unsuccessfully suppressed mirth.

  “Blacks are allowed, so what the heck's the difference!”

  The crowd roared; Cookie dispatched the last poster and sat down in a folding chair set up next to the desk.

  “You know what?” he told his boss. “That may have been your best list yet.”

  “You say that every show,” Genial Jim reminded him.

  “I always mean it,” Cookie insisted.

  “It's possible,” Genial Jim conceded. “I just keep getting better.”

  “I see we have a new addition tonight,” Cookie said, pointing his finger at the Wishbones.

  “That's right. These handsome fellows are our new house band.”

  Dave saw Lenny's camera swing in his direction and quickly bent down to tie his shoe.

  “Why don't you sing a song with them?” Cookie suggested.

  “Oh, I couldn't do that,” said Genial Jim, suddenly the picture of shyness and humility.

  “Sure, you could. Why don't you sing that John Denver song, ‘Country Roads.’ I know you've always wanted to do that on the show.”

  “It's true. He writes pretty good songs for a tree-hugging, granola-sucking pansy.” Genial Jim appealed directly to the crowd. “What do you think? Is a song in order?”

  Cookie waved his arms, inciting applause. Genial Jim didn't seem to notice. He seemed as surprised and touched as he would have been by a spontaneous ovation.

  “What the heck!” he said, leaping up from his desk. “It's my show. I can sing if I want to.”

  Al from Pennsylvania and Otto from New Hampshire both wore paper bags over their heads, a ploy Buzzy found hysterical despite the fact that he had to take a wicked piss. He didn't know how long he'd be able to last before laughing out loud, the way he had during Genial Jim's embarrassingly terrible rendition of that pathetic John Denver tune. As it was, he kept snickering under his breath, despite Artie's repeated attempts to glare him into submission.

  “I've got a dozen AK47s in my basement, a rocket launc
her in the trunk of my car, and personal access to an armored personnel carrier in the event of an invasion by the Blue Helmets,” Al from Pennsylvania boasted through his mouth hole. He was a rangy guy in camouflage pants and a khaki T-shirt; his right leg bounced up and down as he spoke, which only made Buzzy that much more aware of the fact that his own bladder was on the verge of exploding.

  “An armored personnel carrier?” Genial Jim's voice hovered somewhere between admiration and disbelief. “How do you get hold of one of those?”

  Al grinned inside the bag. “Let's just say I have some good friends down at the armory.”

  “Same goes for New Hampshire,” Otto added in his laryngytic wheeze. “The armed forces of this country are crawling with white Christian warriors who are not about to lay down and die when Boutros Boutros-Ghali decides it's time to impose his globalist tyranny on American soil.”

  The need to laugh was an itch that demanded scratching, but Buzzy wasn't so drunk that he didn't know that laughing at Nazis—even Nazis with bags on their heads—was probably a bad idea, at least in present company. As quietly as he could, he unhooked the strap on his bass and set the instrument carefully against his amp. Ignoring the question on Dave's face, he stepped off the bandstand and tiptoed through the obstacle course of tables, chairs, and combat boots in the Banquet Room, smirking as he went. He was conscious of drawing a few dirty looks, but the hostility of these armchair storm troopers wasn't a major concern of his at the moment. He burst through the swinging doors and broke into a full-scale trot down the hallway, laughing all the way to the bathroom.

  Unzipping his fly, he groaned with a relief so intense it was indistinguishable from pleasure. It occurred to him that he'd been drinking steadily for close to four hours and hadn't taken a piss since he'd started. It had to be some kind of record.

  Pissing is an underrated pleasure, he thought, listening to the satisfying hiss of urine colliding with porcelain. I feel like a fucking fire hose.

  He had barely gotten started when the skinhead with the bad complexion pushed open the door and entered the bathroom. Buzzy nodded over his shoulder to acknowledge the new arrival, but the kid responded with a sixteen-year-old's idea of an icy stare.