sell outs

I've seen him around the club enough to recognize his face at local shows. He hangs out in the pit while I scream over the rail during a gig, so we never talked, until tonight. And when we did, I showed off the ring as a warning, and he laughed, shook his head no and showed off his own.

We get to know each other over our first round of beers. David starts off the conversation with one of my favorite questions. "Favorite band."

"Metallica."

His eyebrows shoot up. "No shit?"

"Yep. Keep it quiet, though. My husband doesn't know."

"Oh?" He smirked. "He a Megadeth fan?"

"I wish." I took a long pull from my bottle. "He doesn't like metal much really. Thinks it's useless noise for the uneducated."

David nods. "My wife's the same way, but I got her to like some Sabbath and Maiden eventually. Before me, she only liked Enter Sandman."

"At least you got her to like Sabbath."

"Thankfully. Dio Sabbath. Works every time."

We have a toast to Dio and drain our beers. He tells me Sabbath is his favorite when he pays the second round this time, and he praises Dio as God nonstop as we work through our bottles.

I don't drink so much this time. I'm paying more attention to his praises of Dio, his passion for the old metal scene that's missing in today's generation-- something I've missed all too much these past couple of years as the scene started to dwindle off.

David finishes his diatribe, and the floor is mine. So I ask about the only other thing we have in common.

"How long you and your wife been together?"

"Seven years almost. Anniversary's in a month. How about you?"

"Ten next year unofficially."

He frowns. "Unofficial?"

I slid my left hand down the bottle's neck. "Just got the ring this year, but we've known each other for some time."

He tips his bottle to me. "Congrats to both of us then."

We toast again. He finishes off his beer, buys a third, and I still nurse my second. Over the PA, I recognize 'Orgasmatron' and I wonder if he'd think of me differently if I had said Motorhead as my favorite band and not Metallica. I usually say Motorhead anyway. Metallica's too volatile of a band to say as your favorite these days, unless you say 'first four albums' only.

"So I assume he doesn't know you're here?"

I fiddle with the paper around the bottle, tearing it in places. "No, he does. He just doesn't care."

"I see." David turns his bottle round and round. I can hear the swish-swish in the glass. "My wife doesn't care either. She doesn't get it."

"They never do. They think we're still eighteen years old or some shit." The metal around my left ringfinger clinks on the glass as I rip the wrapper off. "It's fine, though. He does his own thing. I do mine."

It's a long time before he says something again. Motorhead changes into Saxon when he says, "I think that's pretty cool we have all this freedom still. We can do what we like, and they're okay with it. They might not understand it, but they're okay with it." He squeezes my shoulder. "You two must trust each other a lot."

I crush the wrapper in my left hand. The wadded paper ball falls and bounces on the floor next to my stool.

"Guess so."

The fourth round is on me, as another apology for assuming wrong about him and his intentions. He laughs and jokes, "Apologize for being a Metallica fan," and I make him pay for the fifth round because of that.

After we say goodnight, he heads north for the hills and I go south for the east-side suburbs. I don't realize how stupid my mistake is until I'm parked sideways in the driveway. Should've gotten a cab, but I wasted my money on the beer.

It's pitch dark. The electricity might be off again. Either he forgot to pay or the heater busted again. I stumble over week old empty pizza boxes and take out bags on my way to the bedroom down the hall. He's tucked in the covers naked, and I strip my clothes off, dump them on the floor and head to the shower to get rid of the sweat.

The water's frigid as hell. He must've used all the hot water. I don't spend much time in the bathroom-- quick blowdry, towel off, apply Icy Hot to my whiplashed neck, and I'm slipping into bed beside him, staring at the ceiling.

I can barely hear his voice when he mumbles as usual, "How was the show?"

"Alright. Shit opening band. The headliner was good."

He says, "Mm." As if he cares.

So I ask as usual, "How was work?"

"S'okay." Which means it was shit.

"Same old then."

"Mm."

The sheets rustle too loud as I roll onto my side, my back to his. My ears are ringing. It's probably my tinnitus, aggravated from the show. Earplugs do what they can, but the damage has been done. The damage happened ten years ago, when I met him.

I look over my shoulder and nudge his side with my elbow. "Hey."

He doesn't answer. I nudge his side harder.

"Hey. Wake up."

He lifts his head from the pillow. "Hm?"

"Why do you hate Metallica?"

"Napster."

"Yeah?"

His head flops back down. I turn my back to him, my right hand slipping underneath my head, the left hand hiding underneath the sheets. I want to tell him Napster was ten years ago, get over it, but it'd be pointless. He's set in his ways, stuck in his own narrow-mindedness. His viewpoint won't change and I know how stubborn he can be.

Ten years, and no change at all, in him, and in me.

You two must trust each other a lot.

I sigh and close my eyes.

"Okay."