Jameson // Metallica

LAZARUS

As the key card slid home the green light indicated passage was available. Jason pushed the door to the hotel room open, slow in his exhaustion. It had been a long trip and an even longer night. They had trouble with the plane in Detroit, causing the flight to be held up long enough to destroy any hope of relaxation or settlement before the show that evening in Charleston. They had landed on the pointy mountaintop, where no plane should be able to land successfully in his opinion, were shuttled into a bus without pretense and then driven at exceptionally high rates of speed down the sloping mountain and into downtown Charleston, West Virginia proper, sliding to a screeching halt at the venue's doors.

The front doors no less, stupid fucking bus driver. Surprised concert goers were screaming and grabbing for them with what felt like outstretched claws. Even for him it was too much, and that was saying a lot for the one member of the band that did it “for the kids.” Hour after hour of signing autographs and making moronic small talk with dopes half his age, and they always managed to ask about Cliff at some point.

Fuck.

Jason dropped his duffel behind the door in the makeshift closet space and let go of the knob, allowing the heavy metal to swish shut effortlessly. He jerked open the door to the mini-fridge, fingered a beer and kicked the small door closed with his heel. He walked over to the bed and fell into it.

Straight from the front of the venue the band had been hustled down a long circular hallway, behind a locked door and through a maze of intricate passageways that wove behind the publics' awareness. Without circumstance, each member was shoved unceremoniously into their respective dressing rooms. Ten minutes to dress, eight to warm up, five to get to the door and two to make it to the stage, a whopping twenty-five minutes from bus to stage. How that sucked. Lars had bitched the entire time and James quietly threatened people's lives and unborn children should the sound not be checked, but Kirk had taken it in stride. Not even one scowl, just his usual secret-hidden-away smile and the gentle lope of his stride to the stage door. Jason just tried to keep up with the generalized chaos and the instructions traveling on the scream that bounced harshly off the cinder block walls and tiled flooring. The whole thing was giving him a headache, but he didn't have time for headaches, all he had time for was to grab his bass and make his way onto the stage and pound out a two and a half hour set with zero mistakes to go along with zero preparation. Amazingly enough, they had almost pulled it off. The meet-and-greet after was canceled and the four of them were whisked out of the back parking lot of the venue (now there was an improvement) in a limo and around a block to the Marriott garage entrance, two blocks up and across the street. He would have walked it if he hadn't thought he would be killed by the mob of kids.

Jason cracked the top off the beer and took half the contents in one drink, his breathing labored when he finally came up for air. His mind was idle for a moment. He looked around the familiar room, over the dark rust-colored carpet, onto the beige walls with its nondescript textured coating, past the open curtains, out the glass to the view of the mall, past the mall to the river, and beyond the river up the scale of the mountain and to the stars that blinked in the blackened sky above. He sighed.

His eyes refocused on the signed building across the street. Lazarus, it read in back lit letters, probably a good four feet high.

Lazarus.

He remembered suddenly the last time he had seen those letters, that same sign, in the light of day. No lighting, none necessary, as the sun had shone brightly against the silver figures, glinting off the brushed steel finish.

He thought back to that other day, as his eyes had traced the large letters his hands had worked at the closure of his own clothing, stripping it away from his body and laying his own skin bare to the newest of experiences. His mind tripped backwards as he traced the letters once again.