The Wishbones by Tom Perrotta Page B

garbage can, but didn't want to come across as one of those neat freaks who act like their vehicle is some sort of sacred space, not to be defiled by evidence of human habitation, burger wrappers or the odd plastic fork.
    “I dream about it,” Buzzy said. “Every night. Before I fall asleep.”
    Dave's car was stopped at a red light. Buzzy grabbed a pair of imaginary handlebars and pulled back on the throttle. Except for the tuxedo, he looked a little like Dennis Hopper. The expression on his face was pure ecstasy, sexual transport.
    “Every night,” he repeated, as Dave shifted into first and eased up on the clutch of his Metro. “Nothing else even comes close.”
    The Westview Manor was an enormous, windowless banquet complex on Route 22 that could—and often did—accommodate as many as four different receptions at the same time. Despite the congested feel of the place and the less-than-soundproof dividers that separated bands in adjoining rooms, the Wishbones considered it a decent venue. Unlike some of the snootier halls in the area, which required musicians to enter through the kitchen and generally went out of their way to make them feel like gate-crashers, the Westview treated “the entertainment” with a certain amount of respect. The Wishbones could arrive through the front door like normal human beings, relax in a conference room during their breaks, and grab an occasional beer or soda from the bar without feeling like criminals. One way or another, they usually managed to get themselves fed, an occupational perk once taken for granted by wedding musicians, but currently optional-at-best in the general atmosphere of belt-tightening and stinginess that had overtaken the country.
    Dave and Buzzy stopped in the lobby to check the directory. It was a classy touch, removable white letters on a field of black velvet, the kind of thing you might find by the elevator in a building full of doctors.
    “There we are,” said Buzzy. “Lambrusco-DiNardo. Black Forest Room, Second Floor.”
    Except for Artie and a couple of waitresses tucking crown-shaped napkins into the water glasses, the Black Forest Room was empty. An expectant hush hung over the dais, the bar, the stage, the dance floor, the twenty or so round tables draped in starched white cloths, loaded down with plates and baskets of bread and water pitchers and floral centerpieces, the whole shebang ready and waiting. Dave wished he could describe for Julie the subtle thrill he felt entering a room like this in his crisply pressed (thanks, Mom)tuxedo, and walking straight over to the bandstand like he owned it.
    Artie glanced up from the charts he was writing to acknowledge their arrival. Whatever else people might say about him, Artie was on top of things. In his two years with the band, Dave had yet to arrive at a gig before Artie, or even before Artie had singlehandedly managed to set up the entire sound system—amps, PA, monitors, mikes, soundboard—all of which he stored in his garage and transported in his van to avoid screwups. The individual Wishbones were responsible solely for their uniforms and instruments.
    Reverently, Dave lifted his sunburst Les Paul out of its lush, coffinlike case, double-checking to make sure he'd remembered to bring an extra set of strings and half a dozen picks. He plugged into a battery-operated tuning gizmo and tuned up quickly and silently, a vast improvement over the bad old days of loud public tuning. Without turning on his amp, he ran through a few blues scales and jazz progressions to limber up, then unhooked the tooled leather strap Julie had given him for Christmas a couple of years before, and set the Les Paul carefully in its metal tripod stand, stepping back for a moment to admire its classic beauty.
    Without a doubt, it was the most versatile, sweetest-sounding guitar he'd ever owned. The Wishbones played a dizzying variety of music—everything from “Havah Nagilah” to “Louie Louie,” as Artie liked to