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 the dead man, instead of guys he'd played in a band with.
“Candy Man” followed “Summer Wind.” Dave thought it was a peculiar song to be playing at someone's wake—he remembered hearing somewhere that it was actually about a drug dealer— but it seemed to have some sort of special meaning for the people in the receiving line. As soon as it began, the attention in the room shifted to Phil's widow, a tiny, white-haired woman with delicate features and a dazed expression on her face. She dabbed at her eyes with a pale green Kleenex, then whispered something to the overweight man standing next to her. The man, who must have been her son, smiled like he was going to cry and said something in response that sent a ripple of amusement down the line. Ian poked Dave in the ribs.
“Daryl Dragon,” he said.
“What?”
“Daryl Dragon.” Ian looked smug. “I'll be amazed if you get this one.”
Dave was in no mood for trivia, but he didn't want to hurt Ian's feelings. He pretended to think about Daryl Dragon while watching the activity on the other side of the room. Phil's widow began to sob quietly, as did Mel, the sax player in the Heartstring Orchestra. He buried his face in his hands while Joey Franco patted him awkwardly on the arm. Walter, the piano player, reached into his inside coat pocket with one trembling hand and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief. An obscure synapse fired in Dave's brain; two lost faces spiraled up at him from the dark swamp of oblivion.
“The Captain,” he said.
Ian's mouth dropped open. Despite his best efforts, Dave felt a smile spreading across his face. Mel blew his nose into Walter's handkerchief; the sound of it was audible across the room.
“Daryl Dragon was the Captain in the Captain and Tennille.”
“Son of a bitch.” Ian ran his fingers through his hair in a way that expressed his total amazement. “They should put you on Jeopardy.”
The first thing Dave noticed when he stepped up to the coffin was the microphone someone had tucked between Phil's crossed hands and white shirt, as though he'd been booked for a couple of gigs in heaven and wanted to arrive prepared. The unexpected sight of it—black, sleek, technological—made him wonder if, centuries from now, long after Phil himself had returned to dust, archaeologists from another civilization might dig up his grave and discover a pair of artificial hips and a microphone.
Dave never knew how to behave when confronted with the bodily presence of the dead. He didn't believe in God—at least not in a God who had nothing better to do than eavesdrop—so prayer seemed like a hollow gesture. Touching the corpse didn't strike him as an appealing option, either. So he just stood there, looking down at Phil, listening to his disembodied voice singing “You've Got a Friend,” and wondering why it was that the people in charge of these things had decided to use such a thick coating of powder on his face.
It seemed to him that Phil had a lot to be grateful for. He had lived a relatively long, relatively healthy life, and had remained active and clearheaded right up to the end. He had lasted long enough to make music with his grandson, and had died doing the thing he loved best. Everyone should be so lucky.
An image took hold of Dave's mind, a vision so vivid it was almost an out-of-body experience. He saw himself standing by his own coffin, gazing down at his own peaceful face. Julie stood nearby, a brave, still-attractive old woman surrounded by supportive children and the remaining Wishbones. There was music in the room, and a sadness muffled by soft music and conversation.
Ian cleared his throat, signaling Dave to move on, but he didn't feel like moving. If Ian hadn't kicked him in the ankle with the toe of his cowboy boot, he might have lingered there indefinitely, basking in the promise Phil seemed to offer of a long, satisfying life and a sudden, painless death.
Stan could only think of one thing sadder than a car with the keys locked inside, and that was a car with the keys locked inside and the engine still running.
A car like his own.
At least this time it was parked in front of his own house in the early evening, instead of after midnight in a godforsaken rest area somewhere north of Passaic. That was something to be grateful for.
He put his hands on the hood of the LeBaron and felt the living throb of the engine vibrate up his arms. It was time to pull himself together. Time to stop drinking, stop losing things, stop showing up late all the time.
Mostly, though, it was time to stop obsessing about Susie. Her nice round ass in his hands. Her sweet little tits. The way she clenched her teeth and whimpered like a puppy when she was about to come. The tattoo of a strawberry on her shoulder blade. Her habit, when the mood was right, of calling him “Garbanzo Bean.”
Hey, Garbanzo Bean, what's for supper? Gimme a kiss, Garbanzo Man. Don't be such a Garbanzo.
Garbanzo Bean. No wonder he locked his keys in the car and forgot what day it was.
He didn't have to