pleading in his eyes. Stan's drum kit wasn't that elaborate—-just a bass drum, floor torn, rack torn, snare, hi-hat, and cymbals—but setting it up in twenty minutes would be a real bitch, especially since he'd have to do it on a crowded stage, without disturbing Ian.
“Okay,” Dave said with a sigh, eyeing the last lonely scraps of fettucini plastered to his plate like bandages. “I guess I'm done.”
“Thanks,” said Stan. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me about twelve,” Dave corrected him.
They hurried past the Black Forest Room, where Ian was playing “Misty” for the chitchatting friends and family of Staci Lambrusco and PJ. DiNardo, then continued down the stairs and through the lobby. Dave had to shade his eyes from the daylight in the parking lot; the evening breeze made him groan with gratitude.
“I'm parked way the fuck over there,” Stan informed him, waving his hand at the western horizon, where the sun was blazing like a fat penny. “I tried to pull up to the door, but that asswipe security guard wouldn't let me.”
They trudged past row upon row of more or less well-maintained vehicles until they reached Stan's LeBaron, a beat-up piece of crap that looked like someone had been using it for sledgehammer practice. The body was dented in half a dozen places and the rear bumper hung at a precarious tilt; even the license plate seemed inexplicably battered, as if someone had crumpled it into a ball like a piece of paper, then smoothed it out by hand in an attempt to remove the wrinkles. In a new touch, a piece of greengarbage bag filled the space that should have been occupied by the rear driver's-side window.
Stan popped the trunk and handed Dave the bass drum, open side up like a big round box. In the natural light, his eye looked worse than before, not so much black as a repulsive amalgam of green and purple.
“Jesus,” said Dave. “Where'd you get that shiner?”
Stan reached into the well and pulled out the pillow he used to muffle vibration inside the bass drum. The pillow was an eyesore, shapeless and sweat-stained, a sack of old feathers and bad dreams. The least he could've done was hide it in a pillowcase.
“You really want to know?”
“I'm not sure.”
Stan stuffed the pillow into the drum.
“Walter,” he said. “The piano player in Phil Hart's band.”
“The old guy with the shakes?”
Stan nodded. In spite of everything, he seemed amused.
“I've been hanging out with him the past couple of weeks. He's a great guy.”
“So why'd he slug you?”
Stan grabbed a foot pedal from the trunk and set it down on top of the pillow.
“We had one too many. I said some things I shouldn't have.”
“Like what?”
Stan's tongue made a thoughtful tour of his mouth, poking at one cheek, then the other. His expression remained inscrutable behind the glasses.
“Well, for one thing, I said Thelonious Monk could suck my dick.”
Dave couldn't help laughing. “He hit you because of that?”
“That was part of it.” Stan looked up at the sky. “Then I said something about Brubeck. That was when he popped me.”
“What'd you say?” “I can't repeat it. It's too disgusting.” “Come on,” said Dave.
Stan blew a weary raspberry and shook his head. “I'm serious,” he said. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”
ARE YOU DAVE?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Artie said, slipping easily into his MC mode as the band struck up a sprightly Spyro Gyra instrumental, “on behalf of Shelley and Frank Lambrusco and Pat and Dick DiNardo, I'd like to welcome each and every one of you to the Westview Manor on this lovely spring evening. If you're not taking photographs, would you be kind enough to please take your seats and join me in offering a
very
warm welcome to our bridal party.”
He paused while the guests drifted back to their tables. An honor guard of amateur photographers formed a wall around the dance floor, which was empty except for the camcorder mounted
“Okay,” Dave said with a sigh, eyeing the last lonely scraps of fettucini plastered to his plate like bandages. “I guess I'm done.”
“Thanks,” said Stan. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me about twelve,” Dave corrected him.
They hurried past the Black Forest Room, where Ian was playing “Misty” for the chitchatting friends and family of Staci Lambrusco and PJ. DiNardo, then continued down the stairs and through the lobby. Dave had to shade his eyes from the daylight in the parking lot; the evening breeze made him groan with gratitude.
“I'm parked way the fuck over there,” Stan informed him, waving his hand at the western horizon, where the sun was blazing like a fat penny. “I tried to pull up to the door, but that asswipe security guard wouldn't let me.”
They trudged past row upon row of more or less well-maintained vehicles until they reached Stan's LeBaron, a beat-up piece of crap that looked like someone had been using it for sledgehammer practice. The body was dented in half a dozen places and the rear bumper hung at a precarious tilt; even the license plate seemed inexplicably battered, as if someone had crumpled it into a ball like a piece of paper, then smoothed it out by hand in an attempt to remove the wrinkles. In a new touch, a piece of greengarbage bag filled the space that should have been occupied by the rear driver's-side window.
Stan popped the trunk and handed Dave the bass drum, open side up like a big round box. In the natural light, his eye looked worse than before, not so much black as a repulsive amalgam of green and purple.
“Jesus,” said Dave. “Where'd you get that shiner?”
Stan reached into the well and pulled out the pillow he used to muffle vibration inside the bass drum. The pillow was an eyesore, shapeless and sweat-stained, a sack of old feathers and bad dreams. The least he could've done was hide it in a pillowcase.
“You really want to know?”
“I'm not sure.”
Stan stuffed the pillow into the drum.
“Walter,” he said. “The piano player in Phil Hart's band.”
“The old guy with the shakes?”
Stan nodded. In spite of everything, he seemed amused.
“I've been hanging out with him the past couple of weeks. He's a great guy.”
“So why'd he slug you?”
Stan grabbed a foot pedal from the trunk and set it down on top of the pillow.
“We had one too many. I said some things I shouldn't have.”
“Like what?”
Stan's tongue made a thoughtful tour of his mouth, poking at one cheek, then the other. His expression remained inscrutable behind the glasses.
“Well, for one thing, I said Thelonious Monk could suck my dick.”
Dave couldn't help laughing. “He hit you because of that?”
“That was part of it.” Stan looked up at the sky. “Then I said something about Brubeck. That was when he popped me.”
“What'd you say?” “I can't repeat it. It's too disgusting.” “Come on,” said Dave.
Stan blew a weary raspberry and shook his head. “I'm serious,” he said. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”
ARE YOU DAVE?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Artie said, slipping easily into his MC mode as the band struck up a sprightly Spyro Gyra instrumental, “on behalf of Shelley and Frank Lambrusco and Pat and Dick DiNardo, I'd like to welcome each and every one of you to the Westview Manor on this lovely spring evening. If you're not taking photographs, would you be kind enough to please take your seats and join me in offering a
very
warm welcome to our bridal party.”
He paused while the guests drifted back to their tables. An honor guard of amateur photographers formed a wall around the dance floor, which was empty except for the camcorder mounted
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