The Wishbones by Tom Perrotta Read Free Book Online

condition.”
    “What's that?”
    Stan poked the picture into Silverblatt's tummy. “Give her this. It's her birthday present.”
    With obvious reluctance, Silverblatt accepted the photograph. Stan started his car.
    “It's our honeymoon,” he explained. “That's me holding the towel.”

    “I'm sick of this bullshit.” Artie pushed up the sleeve of his double-breasted Armani-style suit to consult his nearly authentic Rolex. He held up his thumb and forefinger, spaced about an inch apart. “Stan's about this fucking close to being an ex-fucking Wishbone.”
    “Come on,” said Dave. “It's a wake. What's the difference if he's here or not?”
    “What's the difference?” Artie asked. “I'll tell you what's the difference. A band's only as strong as its weakest member. If one guy is a fuck-up, the whole group's in trouble.”
    “Did you see
Sid and Nancy?”
Ian cut in. He was dressed like a professor on TV, tweed jacket over a black turtleneck. The jacket even had patches on the elbows. “It's just like what you're talking about.”
    “Didn't see it,” said Artie.
    “I did,” said Dave.
    “Sid and Nancy?”
Buzzy seemed distressed. “The one about the waitress?”
    “Waitress?” Ian went cross-eyed and stuck out his tongue. “What planet are you from?”
    “Sid Vicious,” Dave explained. “The guy in the Sex Pistols.”
    “Good flick?” asked Buzzy.
    “Excellent,” said Ian. “You should rent it sometime.”
    “I liked
The Doors,”
Buzzy told him. “You were right about that one.”
    “Oliver Stone.” Ian nodded as though the director were a friend of his.
    “You liked that?” Artie said. “How could you like that crap?”
    “I liked the scene in the elevator,” Buzzy said, grinning at the memory. “The one where he gets the blow job.”
    “The guy was a poet,” said Ian. “An honest-to-God fucking poet.”
    “Big deal.” Artie shook his head in disgust. “He writes a few good songs, shows the world his dick, gets fat as a pig, and drinks himself to death. That's the whole movie.”
    “He was trying to make a point,” Ian countered.
    “Oh yeah?” said Artie. “What point is that?”
    Ian thought it over for a few seconds, then shrugged.
    “Beats me,” he said. “I still think it was a pretty cool movie.”
    Nobody said anything for a while. Artie checked his watch again and muttered something about Stan being a total fucking zero. Ian knelt down and rubbed a spot of dirt off his cowboy boot. Dave watched a teenage boy help a frail old woman up the steps of the funeral home and wondered why a grown man would make himself miserable over something as simple as marrying the woman he loved. Buzzy slapped himself in the forehead.
    “Frankie and Johnny.”
he said, his face lighting up with relief. “That's the movie I was thinking of.”
    Phil Hart was laid out in the clothes he'd died in, the satin-lapeled, powder blue uniform of the Heartstring Orchestra. On a nearby table, surrounded by elaborate bouquets and floral wreaths, a boom box played a tape of Phil singing “Summer Wind,” accompanied by a piano.
    Dave had never been to a wake with music before, and he thought it made a real difference. Instead of the grim focus on the casket he'd encountered in the past, there was a relaxed, almost cheerful atmosphere in the viewing room. People were mingling; a low hum of conversation filled the void between the living and the dead. If you closed your eyes, you might have thought you'd wandered into a cocktail party by mistake.
    The Wishbones joined the line of people waiting to file past the coffin and offer their condolences to Phil's family, who were gathered along the opposite wall in a wedding-style receiving line. Dave was surprised to see the surviving members of the Heartstring Orchestra, also in uniform, standing shoulder to shoulder with Phil's wife and grown children, as though all of them—not just Joey Franco, but Walter and Mel as well—were blood relatives of