Stan and Audrey were all set for a Sunday night sushi date. The restaurant, with a name Stan couldn’t pronounce, was a favorite, and since he hadn’t seen his November/December sixtysomething sweetheart on Saturday night, he was looking forward to a big California roll drizzled with soy sauce, a Kirin beer, and perhaps a bit of after-hours fooling around.
Surfing on his desktop however, he was surprised to find that his favorite death metal band from the 1990s, Cemetery Hill, was playing in Milpitas that very night. Weighing a date with Audrey against a night with the infamous quartet he hadn’t seen in 20 years, he made the decision.
“Go ahead,” she exclaimed when he called to beg off the dinner. “I think I probably should,” Stan replied, “These guys probably won’t be around much longer.” He meant touring. He purchased one of the last available tickets. While Audrey had a nostalgic soft-spot in her heart for vintage, mainstream metal groups like Ratt and Dokken, her Christian sensibilities would never approve of metal’s morbidly godforsaken subgenre. She’d never heard of Cemetery Hill.
Saturday night he’d visited his grandkids, and the youngest, Tate, almost one, seemed under the weather. He was cranky, not his usual ebullient self. Stan felt the boy’s forehead—definitely coming down with something. “It’s good for the immune system that they go through these things,” offered daughter Angela.
The show was killer. A mid-sized venue, so Stan could get reasonably close. He only got struck once, near the groin, by a muscular arm flying out of the mosh pit. Careful of his neck, he even managed some headbanging during his favorite song, “Rigor Mortis.” He called Audrey when he got home. “It was fucking awesome, sweetheart, thanks for understanding.”
When he called Angela Monday morning to check in with the family, the news wasn’t good. Tate was projectile vomiting and had bad diarrhea. The two older girls were feeling poorly as well, and Angela herself complained of a hollow void emanating from the pit of her stomach.
By Monday night Stan’s gut was churning. Tuesday morning it was like a horse had kicked him in the solar plexus. He puked until there was nothing left, straining his rib cartilage. Audrey was advised to steer clear, and offered to bring over some broth. Stan, prostrate on the couch, told her, “No, I don’t want to expose you to this.”
For three days he laid like that. Tate beat it first. The girls missed two days of school, but by Friday, pale and depleted, were able to catch the bus, giving Mom a needed break. Angela’s husband, Mr. Workaholic, missed a day, and Angela herself lost three pounds.
On the fourth day, Stan stopped barfing. He had a story to tell.
“Cemetery Hill saved my girlfriend from Norovirus.”