place, ideally after having secured a plateful of chicken wings, baked ziti, and green beans almondine from the buffet table, which they much preferred to circulating trays of greasy, mysterious, invariably disappointing doodads.
Ian was normally one of the first Wishbones to arrive at a job, but that night he didn't show up until twenty to six. Bythat point, Artie had worked himself into a serious lather, mainly because Stan was also AWOL, and the stage looked naked without his drum kit.
“See?” Artie said to everyone and no one as Ian unzipped the padded bag that encased his deceptively compact instrument. “What did I tell you? This is what happens when one guy in the band decides to become a fuckup. Everybody else figures it's okay for them to be a fuckup too. It's the Domino Theory of Fucking Up.”
“You need a new theory,” Ian told him, unfolding the metal stand that supported his keyboard. “The Domino Theory is widely recognized as a crock of shit.”
Artie ignored this objection. He had entered the Rant Zone, a place he liked to visit at least once per job.
“I should have fired him last month,” he said, feverishly capping and uncapping his pen. “All the warning signs were there. But you guys had to keep defending him. Poor Stan. He's going through a hard time. Poor Stan. His wife left him. Poor Stan my ass. He's not going to show, and we're the ones who are gonna be left holding the bag.”
“Why don't you call him?” Buzzy suggested.
Artie's head snapped in Buzzy's direction. His sleepy features only really came alive when invigorated by anger or contempt.
“Gee, Buzzy, why didn't I think of that?” He paused for effect, laying two fingers contemplatively on his chin. “Maybe it's because I've only left six frigging messages on his frigging answering machine in the last ten minutes. Maybe because I
do
happen to be familiar with the miraculous instrument your people call a telephone.”
“It
is
miraculous,” Buzzy pointed out between sips from a bottle of Sam Adams that had somehow fallen into his possession. “Sometimes we forget.”
The lugubrious, exceptionally tall maitre d’ stepped into the Black Forest Room and beckoned to Artie, who had no choice but to interrupt his rant and obey the summons.
On
the Wishbone hierarchy of wedding types, maitre d's generally ranked only slightly higher than DJs. The guys at the Westview weren't bad, though. They looked the other way on questions of food and drink, and sometimes plugged the band to patrons who hadn't yet made a decision on the entertainment. (If Artie paid a kickback for this service, Dave didn't know about it.)
“So what happened?” Dave asked, stepping onto the stage to address Ian. “Did you meet Scotty?”
Ian looked up from his fat briefcase full of fake books and photocopied sheet music.
“He never showed.”
“You're kidding.”
“Nope. His plane had engine trouble in Pittsburgh.”
“That's a good one,” said Dave. “Scotty stuck in an airport. Air travel must be a real comedown for him.”
Ian nodded. “The Trekkies didn't take it too well. We almost went on a rampage.”
Cocktail hour was halfway in the bag by the time Stan finally showed his face. Dave and Buzzy were lounging in the conference room, contentedly sucking on chicken bones, when the drummer suddenly appeared in the doorway, a hulking figure wearing sunglasses and carrying a cymbal under each arm.
“Artie around?” he asked cautiously. His shades weren't quite big enough to hide the discoloration under his right eye.
“Check the pay phone,” Buzzy advised. “He's describing you to the hit man.”
Stan set the cymbals down on the table; they clanged with aquick metallic huff. “You guys want to help me get unloaded? If we hustle, I can be ready by seven.”
“Sorry,” Buzzy said, quickly rising from his chair. “I was just about to get seconds.”
Stan looked at Dave. Even through the dark glasses, Dave could sense the
Ian was normally one of the first Wishbones to arrive at a job, but that night he didn't show up until twenty to six. Bythat point, Artie had worked himself into a serious lather, mainly because Stan was also AWOL, and the stage looked naked without his drum kit.
“See?” Artie said to everyone and no one as Ian unzipped the padded bag that encased his deceptively compact instrument. “What did I tell you? This is what happens when one guy in the band decides to become a fuckup. Everybody else figures it's okay for them to be a fuckup too. It's the Domino Theory of Fucking Up.”
“You need a new theory,” Ian told him, unfolding the metal stand that supported his keyboard. “The Domino Theory is widely recognized as a crock of shit.”
Artie ignored this objection. He had entered the Rant Zone, a place he liked to visit at least once per job.
“I should have fired him last month,” he said, feverishly capping and uncapping his pen. “All the warning signs were there. But you guys had to keep defending him. Poor Stan. He's going through a hard time. Poor Stan. His wife left him. Poor Stan my ass. He's not going to show, and we're the ones who are gonna be left holding the bag.”
“Why don't you call him?” Buzzy suggested.
Artie's head snapped in Buzzy's direction. His sleepy features only really came alive when invigorated by anger or contempt.
“Gee, Buzzy, why didn't I think of that?” He paused for effect, laying two fingers contemplatively on his chin. “Maybe it's because I've only left six frigging messages on his frigging answering machine in the last ten minutes. Maybe because I
do
happen to be familiar with the miraculous instrument your people call a telephone.”
“It
is
miraculous,” Buzzy pointed out between sips from a bottle of Sam Adams that had somehow fallen into his possession. “Sometimes we forget.”
The lugubrious, exceptionally tall maitre d’ stepped into the Black Forest Room and beckoned to Artie, who had no choice but to interrupt his rant and obey the summons.
On
the Wishbone hierarchy of wedding types, maitre d's generally ranked only slightly higher than DJs. The guys at the Westview weren't bad, though. They looked the other way on questions of food and drink, and sometimes plugged the band to patrons who hadn't yet made a decision on the entertainment. (If Artie paid a kickback for this service, Dave didn't know about it.)
“So what happened?” Dave asked, stepping onto the stage to address Ian. “Did you meet Scotty?”
Ian looked up from his fat briefcase full of fake books and photocopied sheet music.
“He never showed.”
“You're kidding.”
“Nope. His plane had engine trouble in Pittsburgh.”
“That's a good one,” said Dave. “Scotty stuck in an airport. Air travel must be a real comedown for him.”
Ian nodded. “The Trekkies didn't take it too well. We almost went on a rampage.”
Cocktail hour was halfway in the bag by the time Stan finally showed his face. Dave and Buzzy were lounging in the conference room, contentedly sucking on chicken bones, when the drummer suddenly appeared in the doorway, a hulking figure wearing sunglasses and carrying a cymbal under each arm.
“Artie around?” he asked cautiously. His shades weren't quite big enough to hide the discoloration under his right eye.
“Check the pay phone,” Buzzy advised. “He's describing you to the hit man.”
Stan set the cymbals down on the table; they clanged with aquick metallic huff. “You guys want to help me get unloaded? If we hustle, I can be ready by seven.”
“Sorry,” Buzzy said, quickly rising from his chair. “I was just about to get seconds.”
Stan looked at Dave. Even through the dark glasses, Dave could sense the
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