Part III.
We stepped inside and purchased entrance to the show immediately. To our luck, the band Tom wanted to see, The Agonist, had not performed yet and were still setting up after another group just finished.
Awesome. Tom purchased us two beers and two shots after getting our hands stamped and we then entered the secondary lounge which doubled as an event stage.
Pure metal is not for the tame. The band started their show a few minutes later with amplifiers raised to ear drum-shattering decibels of distortion. A row of large, guitar-strapped men banged their bodies towards the audience – who stood inches away – their long cascading hair flowing forward like whips. The drummer thrashed high-tempo triplets against the toms, smashed the cymbals, and kicked out unceasing double bass which ached inside the walls of my chest. The singer was a beautiful young woman who wore knee-high leather boots, torn clothes, and bright blue hair. What little light shone on the stage caused her many piercings to shimmer. With the microphone pressed against the seductive lips of her regal face, she clenched her eyes and unleashed guttural screams juxtaposed every few moments with her classically-trained vocal range – a maniacal dynamic.
I could see Tom smiling unabashedly like he rarely does. Standing only few feet away from his metal goddess was a dream coming true. “Dude, I can’t believe we were that close,” he commented after their short set.
Buzzed from our pre-gaming, we returned to the main bar and sat on cracked vinyl stools. I looked around, finally trying to take this place in.
Across the black countertop bordered by a faded brass railing, was a Megatouch arcade screen sounding off vintage Atari beeps. Behind the large bar mirror sat three rows of alcohol, including the rarely seen redneck favorite, Red Stag by Jim Beam. A sign near the bar well ordered: “Don’t stand here ever.”
On the far side of the room were drop ceilings and wood panel walls. The AC window units along the wall only seemed tolerable in their output when combined with the two ceiling fans over the bar. Two bar-sized pool tables stood atop of busted tiles, torn up carpet, and worn metal trim. The only things that made this place seem like a sports bar at all were ESPN on the wall-mounted plasma TVs and a mantle of APA pool awards reminiscent of childhood everyone’s-a-winner-style plastic trophies.
After analyzing my surroundings, I tried to order the appropriate drink. “Can I get a Pabst Blue Ribbon please?”
“No way,” the tall bartender responded bending down slightly. “Try this instead,” he said popping open a Black Label, a splash of foam streaking down the side. “It’s from Canada.”
“Can we get some shots of Jager, too?” I added.
He raised an eyebrow. Without speaking, he grinned slightly and stacked five rocks glasses up as a tower. The bartender held the chilled Jagermeister bottle upside down over the top glass, letting it overflow into each lower level. “I get the top glass,” he said.
“That’s so metal,” Tom remarked, his face growing animated. And we smiled and quickly consumed both of our shots. We continued this tempo for two hours.
A sloppy drunkenness took over our filters and our bromance came out. “You’re my best friend,” I told him. “I missed you. I didn’t know what to do when you weren’t here.”
“I missed you, too, but we’re always going to be brothers,” he responded, while we high-fived and hugged. And that was true. Tom’s real brother had died of a drug overdose a few years before I met him, and I never had any brothers. Since we met in seventh grade we had become as close as straight men who aren’t biologically linked could be.
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