The Wishbones. Tom Perrotta

       THE WEDNESDAY-NIGHT SHOWCASE

      Buzzy, the bass player, had a suspended license, so Dave swung by his house on the way to the Wednesday-night showcase. Buzzy did quality control for a company that manufactured prosthetic devices, and lived with his wife and two kids on a street of more or less identical split levels that must have seemed like an exciting place in the days before the British Invasion, back when Kennedy was President and Elvis was King. Buzzy was the only member of the wedding band who was married, a fact whose irony did not escape the notice of his fellow musicians. Artie, the sax player and manager, had just broken up with a girl who danced at Jiggles. Stan, the drummer and sometime accordionist, was sleepwalking through a painful divorce. Ian, the singer/keyboardist and all-around showman, was living at home with his parents, as was Dave, who handled rhythm guitar and background vocals.

      Buzzy was waiting by the curb, a scrawny, pony tailed guy in a tuxedo and Yankees cap, with a beer in one hand and a guitar case in the other. He stowed his bass in the backseat, on top of Dave's Les Paul, and climbed in.

      “Daverino,” he said, tilting the beer can in salute.

      “Buzzmaster.”

      Dave shifted into gear and headed for Central Avenue. The silence in the car was mellow, uncomplicated. Buzzy took a swig from the can and smacked his lips.

      “Yup. Another Wednesday-night showcase.”

      “You ready? The people are counting on you.”

      Buzzy thought it over for a couple of seconds, then nodded.

      “Coach,” he said, “I'm gonna play my heart out.”

      Dave snorted his appreciation. The guys in the band liked to joke about the showcase, but they were careful not to complain—bookings had doubled since Artie found them the slot. And besides, goofy as it was, the showcase turned out to be a real time-saver: instead of scheduling separate auditions for every interested couple, the Wishbones could just tell prospective customers to come to the Ramada every third Wednesday of the month.

      “You going out afterward?” Buzzy crushed the can in his hand and dropped it on the floor. “I'm in the mood for a few beers.”

      “I can't. I'm supposed to go over to Julie's.”

      “Hey.” Buzzy didn't bother to conceal his surprise. “You guys really getting back together?”

      Dave didn't feel like going into the details. He had made a mistake telling the guys what had happened in the first place. He should have known he'd never hear the end of it. Now the incident had become part of band lore, like the night Ian got propositioned by the mother-of-the-bride, and that time Artie got his lights punched out by a Puerto Rican DJ.

      “We've been talking on the phone. She says her parents aren't so upset anymore.”

      Dave kept his eyes on the road. He didn't have to look to know that Buzzy was smirking.

      “I wish I'd been there, man. Just to see the look on their faces.”

      Dave grimaced.