Dave always enjoyed this part of the ceremony. It was the moment when the evening began to take shape, to transform itself from a generic wedding reception into a unique occasion with a particular cast of characters. By the time the second couple had been introduced (Lori Lambrusco and Joe Tresh), he already knew that the bride had identical twin sisters (sturdy-looking girls with big hair and toothy smiles) and that the groom's buddies spent a lot of time at the gym.
The bridesmaids’ dresses always merited a moment's consideration. Julie had once told him that they were designed ugly to make the bride appear more beautiful by comparison, and he was beginning to believe her. Tonight's weren't the most hideous he'd seen by a long shot, though no one in her right mind would have worn one of her own free will. They were shiny green, with puffy sleeves, a scalloped neckline, and a tight bodice that exploded into a big rustling bell of a skirt, really pretty tasteful as far as these things went, except for the yellow bow in the back, so large that it seemed like some kind of practical joke. None of the Lambrusco women seemed to mind—the third sister's name was Heidi—but the fourth bridesmaid (Gretchen Something-or-Other) gave the impression of being deeply chastened to be seen in public in such an outrageous get-up. She was a thin, glum-looking woman with men's eyeglasses and sexily bobbed hair, who didn't even pretend to smile as she shuffled across the dance floor attached to the elbow of the first usher who didn't look like he injected steroids for breakfast. Lighten up, Gretchen, Dave thought to himself. Your secret's safe with us.
The flower girl and ring bearer were introduced right after the Best Man and Maid of Honor; as usual, they hammed it up shamelessly and got the biggest ovation of the night (Dave made a mental note not to allow any kids in his own wedding party). Then the parents of the groom and the parents of the bride came bounding out, the Lambruscos looking markedly more comfortable than the DiNardos (this was also typical, the bride's family possessing the home-field advantage). Finally, the big moment had arrived. The happy couple appeared in the doorway, staggered slightly on account of the bride's prodigious hoop skirt.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for the guests of honor, the brand-new Mr. and Mrs. PJ. DiNardo.”
Despite unspecified “gown problems” that had delayed the start of the reception by twenty minutes, the bride was glowing as she made her entrance. She was a tall, broad-shouldered, athletic-looking girl—maybe a basketball player, Dave thought—with a crown of flowers on her head and so much makeup that she didn't look completely human. The groom was a muscle-bound behemoth in white tails, black pants, and a black vest decorated with a pattern of white dots meant to suggest champagne bubbles, currently a popular touch. Like his parents, he appeared a bit perplexed to find himself playing such a large role in this particular ceremony.
Mr. and Mrs. DiNardo stopped in the middle of the dance floor and waited for the cheering to die down. The groom's friends had climbed onto their chairs and begun shaking their fists and woofing Arsenio-style, apparently unaware that this particular fad had run its course some time ago. The maitre d’ kept slitting his throat with one finger to get them to stop, a gesture that just egged them on all the more. They only stopped woofing when the bride began slitting her throat as well. Artie pressed his lips to the mike.
“For their first dance of the evening, Staci and PJ. have chosen the unforgettable ‘Unchained Melody,’ a ballad originally recorded by the legendary Righteous Brothers and later immortalized in the hit movie Ghost, starring the gorgeous Demi Moore and the inimitable Patrick Swayze.” Dave had never understood why all this information was necessary, but Artie insisted that people expected long-winded introductions, and would be disappointed if the Wishbones didn't provide them.
The song had barely started when Staci stood up on tiptoe, grabbed the back of PJ.'s neck, and kissed him. It wasn't an ordinary first dance smooch, though; it was long and hard and slow, the kind of kiss that made promises for later, as if the very fact of the wedding weren't promise enough. In the heat of the moment, PJ. forgot himself and grabbed the bride's ass with both hands through the various layers of lace and satin and whatnot. The kiss and grope lasted the entire length of the song and embarrassed pretty much everyone in the room with the possible exception of Buzzy, who kept licking his lips and shooting Dave wide-eyed smirks of prurient approval.
The next phase of the reception followed a fairly rigid script. The bride danced with her father (“Daddy's Little Girl,” even though the little girl had at least five inches on Daddy), and then, probably for the sake of symmetry, the groom danced with his mother. It was hard to say what the purpose of this ritual was, except to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that slow-dancing was a dying art. P.J., in particular, didn't seem to grasp the fact that his feet were supposed to move. He stood rooted to the floor, gazing pensively at nothing, while his tiny mother held on to his waist and smiled gamely, shifting her weight from one leg to another to provide the illusion of movement.
Then the Best Man climbed onto the stage and delivered the toast through Dave's microphone. He was short and blond and surprisingly confident, like a talk show host or professional toast-master. You saw this now and again, though the usual Best Man could barely mumble his way through the standard boilerplate about a lifetime of health and happiness, etc.
The Best Man spoke at length about a trip he and PJ. and a couple of other brothers from Alpha Chi Rho had taken to Day-tona Beach during spring break of their senior year. He recalled the camaraderie of the nonstop drive, the partying, and a couple of long serious talks on the beach, the kind of talks people he knew no longer seemed to have time for.
“Now I don't remember a whole lot about those talks,” he said, “and I don't guess PJ. does either. We were probably hung over and distracted by those Duke girls playing volleyball about ten feet away in their bikinis. But one thing I do remember is that we both agreed that we weren't going to get married for a long time, if ever. At least until we were forty.”
The Best Man lifted his glass. “PJ. was twenty-five last summer when he met Staci at a barbecue.”
Dave looked out at the crowd. All sorts of people stood with glasses in hand, smiling at the stage. P J. himself was shaking his head, remembering what a foolish kid he'd been. Staci looked triumphant.
“Here's to you both,” the Best Man concluded. “We love you.”
All through the room, glass clinked against glass. The Best Man stepped down from the stage. Artie turned around and looked at the band.
“‘ Twist and Shout,’ “he told them.
Ian seemed depressed. He sat across from Dave during the set break, printing circles on a paper napkin with the wet bottom of a glass. It was just the two of them in the conference room. Artie was in the hallway, having “a little chat” with Stan, and Buzzy had excused himself to investigate the rumored sighting of a dessert cart at the early reception downstairs.
“What's the matter?” Dave asked.
“Nothing.” Ian lifted the glass and examined his handiwork. “What makes you think something's the matter?”
“I don't know. You just seem kind of down.”
“Why should I be down?” Ian fished an ice cube out of his glass and popped it into his mouth. “Here we are at the Westview, playing another wedding.”
Dave chuckled, as if the remark had been meant as a joke. Through the floor, he could hear the pulsing bass and tinny-sounding drums of the downstairs band, probably Sparkle. He imagined Father Mike out on the dance floor, shaking his clerical booty, and for some reason was reminded of Julie's curiosity about Ian's sex life.
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.
Ian looked up. “Women, you mean?”
Dave tried not to look surprised; maybe Julie was a lot smarter than he was about these things.
“Women … whoever,” Dave managed to mutter, swiping feebly at the air as if to suggest that it was all the same to him.
Now it was Ian's turn to look alarmed.
“
No no no,” he said quickly. “I thought maybe you were asking if I was seeing a psychiatrist or something. I've been kind of depressed lately.”
“No,” Dave assured him. “I was asking about women. Actually, it was Julie who was wondering. She couldn't understand why a guy as good-looking and talented as you didn't have a girlfriend.”
Ian combed his fingers through his wavy brown curls. He seemed flattered by the explanation.
“I've been out of circulation for a while, trying to finish up this big project.”
Just then the doorknob clicked and a woman's head peeped into the room. It was Gretchen, the bridesmaid with the bobbed hair and glasses. She was prettier up close than she'd been from a distance.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn't realize you were in here. I was just looking for a place to hide out.”
“Have a seat,” Ian told her. “We're just killing time between sets.”
Gretchen considered the offer. She had wide-set eyes and a pouty mouth.
“Thanks anyway. I don't want to intrude.”
The door clicked softly into place. Dave and Ian kept staring at her long after she'd gone.
“Nice glasses,” said Ian. He sounded like he meant it.
Dave nodded. He felt sorry to see her go. He wanted to ask her what she was hiding from.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “You were telling me about a project.”
“I've been writing a musical,” Ian said proudly. “It's pretty much taken over my life the past year or so. I really haven't had time for anything else.”
“I didn't know that.”
“There wasn't any point in talking about it. The world is full of bullshitters who don't finish what they start.”
“A musical,” said Dave. “That's pretty ambitious.”
Ian closed his eyes and played some piano chords on the table-top, a dreamy Stevie Wonderish expression on his face. He was a supremely weird guy, Dave decided. No one wrote musicals anymore except for Andrew Lloyd Webber.
“What's it about?”
Ian's hands flattened out. He opened his eyes and frowned.
“Sorry. State secret.”
“Corne on.”
“I mean it. When I'm done, I'll play you a few of the songs.”
“When'll that be?”
“Couple of months.” Ian knocked on wood. “This could be my big break. My ticket out of Palookaville.”
“Just as long as you still talk to me when you're famous.”
“Don't worry. I won't forget the little people.”
“Uh, listen,” said Dave. “The reason the whole subject came up is that Julie's got this friend she thought you might hit it off with. Her name's Tammi.”
Ian shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”
“Really?”
“Why not? Is she cute?”
“Yeah. She's a nurse. Great sense of humor.”
“Cool,” said Ian. “Get me her number. I'm ready to get back in the game.”
Dave sat back in his chair, relieved and amazed that the conversation had turned out so well after such a terrible beginning. The door opened again. Stan slipped into the conference room, shut the door behind him, and sat down at the far end of the table.
“So what happened?” asked Ian.
“Not a thing,” Stan whispered.
“You're kidding.”
Stan shook his head, smirking like a kid who'd gotten away with murder.
“I thought he was going to fire my ass, but he only put me on probation.”
“Probation?” said Dave. “What the fuck is that?”
Stan took off his sunglasses and touched two fingers to the bruised, puffy skin below his eye. He looked happier than Dave had seen him in a long time.
“It could have been worse,” he admitted. “He could have given me detention.”
The second Set filled the space between dinner and dessert, when people were ready to get up and work off a few calories. Artie sensed the mood and called for three surefire rockers in quick succession—” Good Lovin’,” “Grapevine,” and “Hang On, Sloopy.” Energized by his reprieve—or maybe just the sunglasses —Stan kicked the tempo up a notch, banging his drums like a teenager trying to irritate the neighbors. At one point, a scowling senior citizen charged past the stage with his index fingers plugged into his ears, but Dave was having too much fun to care. The floor was packed and the dancers were starting to get a little crazy, especially the bride, who kept raising her hands and shaking them like a gospel singer praising Jesus.
Artie eased up a bit, letting Ian impress the crowd with one of the Bryan Adams power ballads that were his specialty, then began to pick up the pace again with crowd-pleasers like “Love Shack” and “Surfin’ USA.” After a couple of swing tunes tossed like bones to the oldster contingent, it was time for the disco portion of the show.
This began, as usual, with a tried-and-true piece of Wishbone theater. Apparently unable to decide what to play next, Artie, Ian, Dave, and Buzzy huddled together in the middle of the bandstand and pretended to have a heated discussion. No one actually spoke; they just stood there, making faces and waving their arms around like idiots. When they had done this long enough to attract attention, Dave and Ian traded a couple of shoves, as if in preparation for a fistfight, but were quickly restrained by Buzzy and Artie. Then everyone returned to their places.
“Maybe you can help us out,” Ian told the crowd. He glanced distastefully at Dave. “Our guitar player doesn't think there are ten people here who know how to do the Electric Slide. I say there have to be at least twenty.”
Dave stepped up to his mike. “No way,” he scoffed. “Not in this bunch.”
Ian waved his arms, as if summoning the audience onstage.
“Come on,” he said. “Get up and show us how it's done.”
This invitation sparked a complex round of negotiations throughout the room. A handful of women, including the bride and her three sisters, jumped up and began coaxing others to join them. Some flatly refused, but a fair number allowed themselves to be persuaded, including a few who had to be forcibly escorted to the dance floor, as though they'd been taken into custody. Pretty soon a respectable group of the usual suspects—young women, couples who'd taken dance lessons, fun-loving aunts and grandmothers, plus several smirking men of various ages, some of them obviously drunk—had been herded into three more or less straight lines. Dave was pleased to see Gretchen in the front row, trapped between the Lambrusco twins, a reluctant conscript in the good-time army.
“All right!” Ian raised his fist in solidarity with the dancers, then turned to Dave, shaking his head in a haughty, what-did-I tell-you sort of way. “Oh ye of little faith. I think you owe these people an apology.”
Dave approached the mike, a study in contrition. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I must have been thinking about the losers at our last wedding.”
Artie counted to four and the bodies began to move. From the stage, the Electric Slide looked like an easy line dance—a couple steps up, a couple steps back, slide, spin, clap—but Dave knew better. Julie had made him try it at her office Christmas party, and he'd found himself hopelessly lost within seconds, clapping and spinning when everyone else was still stepping up and stepping back. It was almost as bad as the time he got kicked out of a low-impact aerobics class during Bring-a-Guest-Free Week at Julie's health club.
Tonight's dancers were better than average, almost as if they'd gotten together earlier in the day and practiced. All three rows did a half-decent imitation of unison—even the drunks managed to turn on the beat, usually in the right direction—and a few of the women looked like ringers smuggled in from an MTV dance party. For someone who hadn't wanted to get up at all, Gretchen seemed suspiciously competent, improvising her own private dance around the basic steps of the Electric Slide, her easy grace heightened by the presence of the no-frills Lambrusco twins on either side of her, stomping around like bodyguards. She seemed to sense him watching and looked up quizzically near th
e end of the song, doing a startled double take at the moment of eye contact. Before he could react she spun away, leaving him to smile at the yellow bow pinned above her butt like an award.
Seamlessly, the band segued into a ten-minute medley that included “I Will Survive,” “Boogie-Oogie-Oogie,” “Get Down Tonight,” and “On the Radio,” capped by a full-length version of “Y.M.C.A.,” a song that had returned with a vengeance from the land of musical oblivion. The Disco Revival had not been a happy development for the Wishbones, highlighting as it did a number of their weaknesses, the most prominent being the lack of a female vocalist (as hard as Ian tried, “I Will Survive” was not something a man could pull off with any credibility, let alone panache), as well as the band's stylistic discomfort with the entire genre. Dave had to fake the choppy strumming, and Buzzy couldn't quite coax the fat, funky bottom notes out of his usually eloquent bass; Ian had recently begun programming his keyboard drum machine to supplement Stan's none-too-subtle attack. In the end, though, none of this seemed to matter. The dancers waved their arms and sang along as though the Wishbones were just the Village People in black tie.
Artie closed off the set with a couple of Golden Oldies. Gretchen returned to her table during “Under the Boardwalk,” but was immediately accosted by the Best Man, who seemed eager to drag her back out for a slow dance. She shook her head and dabbed her brow with a napkin, apparently pleading exhaustion, but the cocky little guy persisted. Finally she relented, allowing herself to be led back onto the floor for “The Great Pretender.” Watching this mini drama from the stage, Dave found himself seized by a sudden and violent dislike for the Best Man, who looked like a puffed-up pigeon in his tightly buttoned vest and shirtsleeves.
They danced at arm's-length like the strangers (he hoped) they were, drifting closer and closer to the stage as the song progressed. Dave tried to concentrate on his playing, but it gradually became clear that Gretchen wanted to reestablish the eye contact that had been broken off during the Electric Slide. Her gaze was frank and curious rather than flirtatious, but he was flattered nonetheless. He even began to feel a bit sorry for the Best Man, the poor guy dancing in a dreamworld, thinking he was making progress with the most intriguing woman in the room while she was busy flirting over his head with someone else. He smiled at her and she smiled back.