Under the Stars and Stripes (Under Him)

It was a truly tempting option that surprisingly few students went for. Many still preferred to write by hand. At least some of the old ways still survived the Digital Revolution, which had been predicted by experts to make all previous technologies obsolete. It wouldn’t be the first time they were wrong about something, though.

Like a disciplined army, the majority of whom had opted for the pen and paper solution, all the students filed to the front of the room, adding our own contributions to the ever-increasing pile on the professor’s table. We were greeted by a nod and sweet-sounding “thanks.”

It really was a conundrum— how a professor who set such brutally difficult tests could be so sweet and engaging in her personal exchanges. Yet, like jumbo shrimp, there she was.

Once released back into the radiant world, I slipped on my Jackie-Os and headed to my favorite coffeeshop.

Herald bells chimed, announcing my arrival. The sweet smell of coffee and pastry smacked me right in the nose, shattering my once-iron resolve.

In line with the rest of the slaves to sweet, sweet chemicals, I kept an eye on the door. Ashe was expected at any moment. Fortune smiled and, just as my name was called, she came through the door in a cloud of apologies.

“It’s okay,” I said, heading for our table, “I’m used to it.”

“Relapse?” Ashe asked, stowing her purse under the table.

“Nope, just don’t care anymore.”

“You go, girl.”

She reached out a gently wiped a glob of icing from the corner of my mouth, taking it for herself, which wasn’t the strangest thing she’d ever done in search of sweetness. She was a sneaky cheater about things like that. Ashe had been on a diet as long as I’d known her, which always struck me as strange, considering there wasn’t an extra pound on her that I could see.

“How’s Hank?” I asked.

“Oh, long gone.”

“Again?”

“Regular as autumn leaves. Just when I get to really like someone - poof, he’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’ll live. I have a new guy now anyway.”

“That was quick.”

“Quick but wonderful. We’ve been together nearly a month now.”

“And this is the first time you’ve mentioned him?” I asked.

“Well, technically no, but you just seemed so distracted with the course and all. I thought it would be better to wait until you were done.”

“I’m done now, so spill.”

“Well, his name is Varg-”

“Varg? Is he a Viking?”

“In a manner of speaking. I mean, he’s from Norway, though Varg isn’t his given name. His family calls him Peter, but they’re the only ones.”

“Inventive,” I said, looking for something nice to say.

“He’s in a band, so it only stands to reason.”

That caught my attention. There were few things that excited me like meeting other musical types.

“It’s a Metal band,” Ashe amended, likely trying not to crush my dreams too hard.

Most people knew what a snob I could be. It took months for my mom to finally get me to even try Warren Zevon. It should have been a lesson to at least try and be more open minded, but the lesson had yet to really take.

“I say Metal,” Ashe corrected herself, “but it’s really not. At least not what most people would think of as Metal. Particularly if they’re going by the classic definition. They sound nothing like Black Sabbath, put it that way.”

“What do they sound like?”

“You know Wagner?”

I could only assume the question was rhetorical. Not in the least because I’d done my passing entrance essay on Wagner and his innovative use of bass to deepen tone.

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”

“A lot like that, only without the strings.”

My mind spun as I tried to imagine such a thing. In the end I decided that it just wasn’t possible. Wagner without strings would be like pie without crust.

“Here,” she said, hauling her bag up onto her lap.

From its deep, dark expanse which may, or may not, have contained its own pocket dimension, she drew a small, plastic jewel case. It was the kind of thing that CDs were held in. That was another pre-millennium technology yet to completely go the way of MySpace.

“Loki’s Laugh,” I said, reading off the front. “Are they a Marvel comics tribute band, then?”

“No, the original Loki, from Greek Mythology, Thor’s brother.”

“Oh, right,” I said, trying not to blush at my own ignorance.

“They have a gig this weekend. If you like it, you can come along. There shouldn’t be any trouble getting you on the guest list.”

“There’s a guest list?”

“Oh, always. Though that’s only for people who don’t have tickets.”

“I take it they’re not a club band.”

“Oh, goodness no. Theatres and halls all the way. They were just in Vancouver playing the Commodore Ballroom.”

I looked back at the record, as though this might give me some insight as to how such a thing were possible. I was aware that acts like Metallica could fill arenas, but had assumed it was all dive-bars and truck rallies before that.