The Wishbones by Tom Perrotta Page A

bit rusty.”
    She ignored the comment, frowning pointedly at the limp blanket. Dave grabbed the two corners on his end and they pulled it taut between them, flapping it up and down to clean it off. He thought about the ant with the bread crumb, all that hard work gone to waste.
    “I just want a normal life,” she said, almost pleading with him. “Is that too much to ask?”

A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE
     
    “She what?” Buzzy slurped at the foam erupting like lava from the top of his can. “What did you tell her?”
    “Nothing. I was in a state of shock.”
    “I can imagine.”
    “I mean, we're just sitting there, having this great afternoon, and Bam!”
    Dave was indignant. She had no right to ask him to quit the band. Playing music wasn't just some stupid sideline; it was what he did with his life. If he'd been a doctor, she wouldn't have asked him to quit performing surgery. She wouldn't have asked a cop to turn in his badge. It signified a lack of respect, not only for his chosen profession, but for him—her future husband—as an individual.
    “What was her reasoning?” Buzzy had his head thrown back like Popeye, mouth wide open to receive the last precious drops of Meister Bräu dribbling out of his upended can. He could drain a beer faster than anyone Dave had ever known.
    “Saturday night. She doesn't want to be stuck home alone while I'm out playing a gig.”
    “It's a problem,” said Buzzy. “Just ask Stan.”
    “What am I supposed to do? People don't get married on Tuesday.”
    Buzzy dropped his can on the floor and produced a full one from the side pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He popped the top and vacuumed off the foam with fishily puckered lips.
    “You wanna know the solution?”
    “What?”
    “Kids.”
    “Please,” said Dave. “Just getting married is scary enough. Don't start tossing kids into the mix.”
    “I'm serious,” Buzzy insisted. “Once you got kids, having fun on Saturday night isn't even an option. The whole argument is moot.”
    “Kids are a long ways off,” Dave assured him. “A vague rumor from a distant galaxy.”
    Buzzy shrugged. “It worked for us. Before Jo Ann got pregnant, she was into that whole death metal thing—the spike bracelets, the white makeup, the whole nine yards. Her idea of a balanced meal was a Diet Coke to wash down her speed. Now she's the only mother in the PTA who can name all the guys in Anthrax.”
    Dave had only met JoAnn once, but she'd made an impression. She was a skinny, tired-looking woman with stringy, dishwater blond hair and pants so tight—they were some sort of spandex/denim blend that zipped up in the back—you had to worry about her circulation. No matter what anyone said, her expression remained fixed somewhere between boredom and indifference. Dave didn't think she was in danger of being elected president of the PTA anytime soon.
    “Did she ever bug you about quitting the band?” he asked.
    Buzzy shook his head. “Only thing like that, she made me sell my bike.”
    “Bicycle bike? Or motorcycle?”
    “Motor,” Buzzy replied, pausing mid-chug to see if Dave was putting him on. “I had me a beautiful Harley.”
    “I didn't know that.”
    “Oh yeah. Jo loved to ride it too. We had matching helmets and everything. Used to ride all over the place with this club I was in, stoned out of our minds. Amazing I'm even here to tell about it.”
    “So what happened?”
    “This guy we knew wiped out in a rainstorm one night. Billy Farell. He was in a coma for three months.”
    “He came out?”
    “Yeah. Seems okay too. He was a little off to begin with, so you can't really tell the difference. After that, though, Jo said she'd leave me if I didn't get rid of the bike.”
    “You miss it?”
    Buzzy polished off the second beer and deposited the empty on the floor, which Dave used as a storage area for cassettes and their boxes, separate entities he kept meaning to reunite. He wanted to ask Buzzy to stop treating his car like a