X-ray vision and an iron fist

X-RAY VISION AND AN IRON FIST

With the last line, the noise in the room is so loud—the screaming guitar, Anders’s amplified voice, the voices of the crowd singing along—that it actually has weight. It presses down on me.

But then the song ends, and everything collapses into the hailstorm of applause.

Anders takes one quick little bow. He turns and walks off the stage.

Jezz and Patrick wave, hold up their sticks and their bass, soaking up a few more moments. Then they walk off, too.

The applause and screaming slowly, finally, die out. The crowd turns back into people. They look at one another. Laugh. Fracture into small groups to smoke a cigarette, make out, climb into cars. Frankie and her friends glimmer away.

I don’t move.

Once the room is mostly clear, and Ike and Janos are wiping tables and putting up chairs, the band finally comes back out onstage. They wind cords, collapse stands. A few fans, headbanger guys and some giggling girls, press up to the stage. Some of the girls ask Anders for autographs. One of them asks him to sign the skin of her arm. Then she darts off, blushing, laughing, and floats out the door with her friends.

Another journalist is here tonight. He’s recording on his cell phone, jotting notes in a tiny book now and then. He stands at the edge of the stage, leaning back in his peeling screen-printed concert T-shirt and battered black jacket. The room is quiet enough now that I can hear their conversation.

They’re talking about Mastodon. Trivium. Alaya. The journalist scatters metal band names like confetti. Jezz and Patrick are only half listening. The journalist isn’t really talking to them anyway. It’s Anders he’s speaking to. It’s always Anders.

The band put their instruments in heavy black cases. They gather armloads of cords. Climb down from the stage. The journalist doesn’t help, but he follows them out the side door to their cars, still talking.

I know, because I follow them, too.

It’s dark now. A cool April night, with thick blue sky and tangled clouds shutting out the moon. The woods are still a little too close. They’ve quieted, though. I can feel them pulling back, a loosening in the air. Patrick and Jezz hoist their stuff into the bed of Patrick’s black truck. Anders’s trunk is open. He lays his guitars inside. There are blankets in the trunk, I notice, ready to cushion the cases. It looks like the scene of a cozy abduction.

The journalist finally stops talking. He shakes hands with the band, Anders last.

“Thanks again, guys. I’ll be in touch when the piece is up.”

“Cool. Thanks,” says Jezz.

“Drive safe, man,” says Patrick.

Anders doesn’t say anything.

Patrick shuts the back of the truck. His eyes catch on me, lingering in the shadows, back by the overgrown porch. “Hey.” He nudges Anders. “Look. Your stalker is here.”

Anders finally looks in my direction. His face stays absolutely still. But his eyes meet mine for long enough that it’s almost like a greeting. This is as much as I can ask for. I have to keep hidden everywhere else. But at The Crow’s Nest, I’m just another fan. Another follower. Here, he thinks he’s safe. Anders turns back to the car, closes the trunk. He murmurs something to Jezz and Patrick. They all laugh.