On Thursday night, Doug and his old friend, Jimmy, went to see the Metal Gods Themselves, Judas Priest. Jimmy left his car at our house, and Doug made the 57-mile drive to the Mohegan Sun.
While getting the kids ready for school Friday morning, I asked, “So how was the show?”
“Oh, man, it was f*cking impeccable,” he said. “They played everything from to the ‘The Green Manalishi’ to ‘Saints in Hell.’ It was the most savage performance I’ve ever seen. Rob Halford is 66 years old, and he still f*cking shreds the mike. I don’t know how he still does it.” Then he started to relive the moment he got to meet Rob Halford backstage in 2005, and he started to detail the entire conversation when I reminded him I was running late for work.
After I started my car, I returned to the kitchen, where he was scrambling eggs and humming “A Touch of Evil.”
“Why is Jimmy’s car still in the driveway?” I asked.
“Oh,” Doug said while pushing the spatula around the frying pan. “I had to leave him there.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He got all f*cked up and vanished,” he explained. “I looked around for him for about an hour, but then the Electric Eye came on the screen, and Halford started belting out ‘The Ripper.’”
“But…did you call him?”
“It’s 6:45 in the morning,” Doug said. “He’s probably still f*cked up.”
“But…how is he going to get home?”
“He’ll take a bus or something. He’ll be fine. Did you steal my coffee cup?”
His nonchalance was bewildering. I forged ahead with my interrogation. “Do you think he’s OK?”
Doug started shoveling the eggs in plates and cast an irritated glance in my direction. “Listen, he’ll call me if he needs a ride,” he said. “Didn’t you say you were late for work?”
All the way to work, I thought about how unsettling the conversation was. Then I started imagining it from a different angle, had I been the one at the concert with one of my friends. It sounded something like this:
Doug: “So how was the show?”
Me: “Oh, man, it was f*cking impeccable. Adele shredded the mike. I don’t know how she does it.”
Doug: “But why is Em Kline’s car still in the driveway?”
Me: “Oh. I had to leave her there.”
Doug: “I beg your pardon?”
Me: “Her hair got all f*cked up, and she vanished in the ladies’ room. I spent an hour looking for her, but then Adele started belting out ‘Hello.'”
Doug: “But…did you call her?”
Me: “It’s 6:45 in the morning. Her hair’s probably still all f*cked up.”
Doug: “But…how is she going to get home?”
Me: “She was wearing flats. She’ll be fine.”
Doug: “But…do you think she’s OK?”
Me: “Listen, she’ll call me if she needs a flatiron. Don’t you have eggs to scramble?”
Fast forward to 2020…
Doug: “Whatever happened to Emily? I haven’t seen her for a while.”
Me: “We’re not speaking to each other again. Some sh*t about how I abandoned her 57 miles away with no transportation at a casino. She can be so petty sometimes.”
I would have imagined far beyond 2020, but by that point I’d arrived at my school parking lot.
When I came home from work, Jimmy’s car was no longer in the driveway. Apparently, he’d ended up taking a cab home and spent the next morning battling a hangover. He called Doug for a ride back to our house, where the two exchanged memories of the show, which come to find out, they watched on opposite sides of the arena. They started making plans for Priest’s next Connecticut appearance. Then Jimmy brought his car back home.
Hello, John Gray? Call HarperCollins and tell them to stop the presses. I just rewrote the last chapter of your book.