Despicable heroes

The other night at work, at the bar, I had the good fortunate of meeting a hero of mine. It went like this.

At the start of the shift, around 6PM or so, someone walks in who is clearly a metalhead. The place is rather dead, so I’m pleased, as I suspect he might sit down for a beer, and we’ll get to have a chat. (Yes, sometimes it’s the bartender who’s dying for company.) To my chagrin, he wants only change for the meter. I acquiesce.

Later that same day, around 11PM or so, he walks back in the door. I walk over to the register, thinking he needs more change, but this time he heads for the fridge and pulls out three bottles of Heineken. Says that’ll be all. I ring him up, and while stuffing the bills in the drawer, ask him, “Where are you coming from?”

This question made a lot of sense, because there’s a venue just up the block from the bar, and when shows are over, the bar I work for typically gets overflow. I wanted to know which band this guy had chosen to see.

He misunderstood the nature of the question, however—damn present progressive tense!—and answered me in an adorable Swedish accent, “From Sweden, actually.”

“Oh, really? That’s awesome, man. What kind of music are you into?”
“Well, you know… metal, mostly.”
“Awesome. What kind of metal, though? I mean, if it’s from Sweden, it’s probably melodic death metal or something, right?”
“Yes! Yes, it is! Melodic death metal, yes. Actually, I play in a band.”
“Cool, man! What do you guys sound like?”
“Um… have you ever heard of Arch Enemy?”
“Ha, yeah, man! That’s awesome. Do you guys have a website?”
“Er… yes.”
“Great! Write it down for me, I’d love to hear your guys’ stuff.”

It was at this point that he writes carefully, deliberately, in all lowercase letters, arch enemy, and then excuses himself to piss.

I’m standing there, staring at this slip of paper, reading “arch enemy” over and over again upside-down, trying to piece this together. Maybe he thought I wanted to know the name of the more famous band? No. Maybe they’re a cover band! But with the same name, instead of some lame pun? Unlikely.

Then his girlfriend walks in and stands near the register, waiting for him to come back. As comprehension percolates through my mind, I grip the edge of the bar.

“Who was that?”
“That? That was just Chris.”
“WHAT IS HIS LAST NAME?”
“Amott. Chris Amott.”

This is the moment in the movie when the woman, wearing a corset, swoons. Fortunately, I had left my corset at home that day, and so was able to soldier on through consciousness despite my absolute certainty that the universe was playing tricks on me. I swear there was a second when I entertained the Lovecraftian suspicion that I had fallen asleep at the bar, was already fired, and merely dreaming of meeting Chris Amott.

When he came out of the bathroom, I nearly attacked him, shook his hand, told him I’d been listening to his riffs since I was a kid. All in all, I played it about as far from cool as a guy can get. I even mentioned that our bar was having an open mic night on Wednesday—he laughed, flattered, and his girlfriend poked him, meaningfully—but he didn’t come.

He did, however tip me a dollar.

\m/