The Wishbones (19 page)

“It's never too late to get some courage,” she told him.

Dave had known for some time that there was a pedestrian walkway on the Brooklyn Bridge, but he'd never set foot on it until that night. The effect was breathtaking, nothing at all like driving across: there you were, Brooklyn ahead, skyline behind, moon above, lights all around, traffic and water below. Swooping, strung with cables, the bridge reminded him of a gigantic harp, humming a single, soothing note. The walkway wasn't crowded, but it wasn't
deserted either. Hand-in-hand, Dave and Gretchen wove their way through the complex pattern of late-night joggers and bike riders, strolling couples, briefcase-toting professionals, packs of teenagers, and one spectacularly unconvincing platinum-wigged transvestite wobbling his way toward Manhattan atop three-inch stiletto heels.

“So I'm thirty,” Gretchen said, shaking her head in what appeared to be genuine dismay. “Is this possible?”

“Oh, it's definitely possible,” he assured her.

“I don't feel different,” she complained. “I expected to feel different.”

“Different from what?”

“From the way I felt all through my twenties.”

“What way was that?”

She laughed. It wasn't a happy sound.

“Like a bad poet with a lousy job, no boyfriend, and barely enough money to pay the rent.”

“You're not a bad poet.”

“I'm not a good one,” she said, shooting him a sharp sidelong glance. “Believe me, I stopped kidding myself on that score a long time ago.”

“Well, you do have a boyfriend,” he ventured, after a few uncomfortable seconds had gone by.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Dave could feel the unhappiness radiating from her like heat from a bad sunburn, and realized that he had to do something fast. He stopped short and pulled her against him, right there on the walkway, and kissed her. She responded with way more enthusiasm than he expected or deserved. The kiss went on and on; a couple of teenaged guys whistled at them and some others offered obscene shouts of encouragement, but not even that was enough to unseal their spicy mouths. He felt the world falling away, until it seemed as though there were nothing anywhere but that small patch of bridge, the two of them suspended, almost in the air, high above
the East River, sharing a desperate kiss halfway between one place and another.

They were both exhausted by the time they got back to her place. The walk was longer than she remembered, ending with a laborious twenty-minute climb to the top of Park Slope.

“Come to think of it,” she said, “I've only done this going
into
Manhattan. It goes a lot faster when you're heading downhill.”

“There's a concept for you.” Dave didn't mean to snipe, but his feet were killing him. He was wearing black dress shoes that he'd bought the previous year but had never properly broken in. A raw spot had opened at the top of his right heel that screamed out in protest every time he lifted his foot. He thought sympathetically of the transvestite on the bridge. “If I'd known we were going on a hike, I would've worn sensible shoes.”

“Poor baby,” she laughed. “Come upstairs and I'll make it better.”

This invitation came more easily than Dave had expected, despite the passion generated by the kiss on the bridge, but he was in no position to savor his victory until he'd mounted the three flights of stairs to her apartment, yanked his shoes off in the living room, and propped his aching, sweaty feet on top of the coffee table. Even then, his first thought was less of romance than of how good it would feel, after a cold drink or two, to collapse on her futon and simply go to sleep.

She brought him some ice water from the kitchen and sat down across the room, sprawling carelessly on the beat-up armchair. Her dress hiked up as she did so, knees splayed wide enough to reveal a glimpse of her silky black panties. Dave was normally a sucker for this sort of foreplay, but at the moment it commanded less of his attention than the incipient blister on his heel.

“I'll be limping for the rest of the summer,” he informed her,
gingerly probing the sore spot, which he figured to be the approximate size and shape of an eyeball.

Gretchen didn't bother to stifle a yawn.

“Sorry,” she said. “It's not that I'm not interested in your foot. Eleven o'clock just feels a lot later than it used to.”

Dave nodded. “Especially after a few beers and a forced march. It's nature's way of telling you you're over thirty.”

“Please,” she said. “Don't remind me.”

“Sorry.”

They sipped their water and traded tired smiles. Gretchen sat up straight, smoothing the front of her dress down over her thighs, then cast a skeptical glance in the direction of the bedroom.

“Shall we?”

“Sure,” he said. “If I can manage to stand up.”

The Sight Of her undressing revived him. A burnt mouth, a blister, and a few harmless lies seemed like a small price to pay for the privilege of watching her drop her bra on the floor and turn to him, wearing nothing but her glasses.
Remember this
, he instructed himself.
You have to remember this.

Setting her glasses on the bedside table, on top of
The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson
, she turned out the light and climbed in beside him. A peculiar calm settled over him, a concentrated feeling of alertness he only experienced playing music and making love, and even then, only when he was lucky and beyond distraction.

She began with her foot, rubbing her heel up and down the length of his shin for a minute or more, setting a thoughtful, unhurried pace. She didn't kiss him or touch him with her hands, and he seemed to understand, without her saying a word, that his job was to lie there and let it happen. Her hand slipped into his mouth, four dry fingers at once, tasting of salt, skin, and curry.
After exploring his mouth for a while, she removed her hand and pulled him to her breast.

“Suck on it,” she whispered. “Don't be afraid.”

Her voice was patient, almost instructional, and he did as he was told, not bothering to inform her that this activity was not one that frightened him in the least. He had the feeling she was trying to teach him something, but he didn't know what—a lesson about her body, perhaps, or maybe just something about following directions. In any case, he had a long time to think about it.

“Now the other one.”

He noticed a slight tremor in her voice, as if she were finally allowing herself to surrender control of the proceedings. She leaned forward, resting her head on top of his, her breath quick and fluttery in his ear. Time stretched out; he hoped he wasn't hurting her nipple. Then, without warning, she pulled herself away from him, falling backwards on the bed.

“Lower,” she said, wriggling out from under him, guiding his head in that direction.

She came the moment he tasted her, with a sharp cry and a quick shudder. The next thing Dave knew, she was on top of him, pressing on his chest as if performing CPR, and he was thrusting up into her, babbling a crazy flood of praise and gratitude.

“Does this mean we're not broken up?” he asked, when he'd finally recovered the power of articulate speech.

She took a while to answer; the pause gave him hope. But when she did there was sadness in her voice and a calm sense of finality.

“I can't do this anymore. I have to protect myself.”

“From what?”

“From what?” she repeated in disbelief. “From I don't want to be sitting here a month from now, eating popcorn in front of some
stupid rented movie while you're out getting yourself married. I'm thirty years old, Dave. I can't afford to be that pathetic anymore.”

“Why don't you make plans with a friend?” he suggested. “Go out to a nice restaurant or something.”

“That's just as bad. There's no way to behave on the night of your boyfriend's wedding that isn't pathetic. You're just pathetic by definition. And it'll get worse after that. Like what am I supposed to do when you tell me Julie's pregnant? Break out the champagne?”

“Babies are a long way off.”

“Not as long you think. Julie's the same age as you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She's ready,” Gretchen said firmly. “I know she is.”

Dave didn't reply. The fatigue that had lifted during their lovemaking had returned with a vengeance. His body felt like a bag of cement. His thoughts were coming in like a bad radio station.

“Does this really mean it's over for us?”

“It was over before it started,” she told him. “We were just too stubborn to admit it.”

WURSTHAUS

 

The Genial Jim Show
was taped at Larry's Wursthaus in downtown Union Village. Buzzy worked a couple of miles away at Prostho-Tek (“World's Largest Supplier of Quality Artificial Limbs”), so instead of heading home after work, he'd made arrangements for Dave to meet him at the Beer Barrel Inn, a quiet neighborhood bar across the street from the Wursthaus.

Losing his license had turned every simple thing in Buzzy's life into a humongous pain in the ass. When JoAnn dropped him off at Prostho-Tek that morning, he'd had no choice but to lug his bass and garment bag into the factory with him, thereby guaranteeing that he'd spend a good part of the day listening to stupid comments from his co-workers.

“What's in there? A machine gun?”

“Goin’ on a trip?”

“‘ Free Bird’!”

On top of pretending to be amused by this crap, he had to approach four different people before he found someone willing to
give him a ride downtown at the end of the day. And now here he was, entering a bar where no one knew him, facing the prospect of asking someone to keep an eye on his instrument while he changed clothes in the rest room. (He could've changed at work, but the idea of punching out in a tux was beyond consideration.) It was all so fucking humiliating. The only upside to the situation was knowing he could drink as much as he wanted without having to worry about getting home.

Luckily, the place was empty except for the bartender, a pudgy guy sitting on the wrong side of the bar, sipping ice water and watching
Oprah
on the wall-mounted TV. He didn't look too thrilled about the idea of getting off his ass to serve Buzzy, but both of them knew he didn't really have a choice.

“Double Early Times straight up,” Buzzy said, when the bartender had finally manned his battle station. He was an older guy, probably close to retirement age, with a thick broomlike mustache that reminded Buzzy of the guy in the Quaker Oats commercials.

The drink appeared and for a few minutes they watched the show in companionable silence. It featured a bunch of good-looking women in revealing clothes talking earnestly about the need to pay the rent.

“These are mother-and-daughter prostitute teams,” the bartender explained. “Some country, huh?”

“It's those father-and-son teams that are the really sick ones,” Buzzy replied, shaking his head as if deeply troubled.

The bartender studied him for a few seconds, then chuckled uncertainly.

“Good one,” he said, turning back to the screen.

The bathroom was Small, but still relatively clean at that time of day. Buzzy was surprised to see that it boasted both a condom machine and a coin-operated cologne dispenser, amenities that
seemed beside the point at a no-nonsense gin mill like the Beer Barrel.

Getting dressed in a public rest room, particularly one as cramped as this, was a little like using a changing room in a clothing store, only more complicated. First there was the issue of whether or not you were willing to remove your shoes; then you had to deal with where to put the stuff you took off, and how to minimize the time spent standing around in your underwear. In the end, the process took twice as long as it did at home, and seemed even longer while it was happening.

The bartender didn't bother to hide his amusement when Buzzy emerged. He stroked his bristly mustache, nodding with exaggerated approval.

“Hey,” he quipped. “Into a nearby phone booth.”

“That was no phone booth,” Buzzy told him, climbing back onto his stool and polishing off the dregs of his bourbon.

The bartender smirked. “Formal wear becomes you.”

“I'm a musician. My band's playing across the street in a couple hours.”

“Across the street?”

“The Wursthaus. Some cable-access show.”

“You mean Genial Jim?”

“That's the guy.”

The bartender's eyes darted toward the door.

“You a fan of his?”

Buzzy shrugged. “Don't know the first thing about him.” He lifted his empty glass. “How about another?”

“Genial Jim's something else,” the bartender told him, pouring a generous double.

“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.”