I plugged in that night and let it rip. I figured I could make with the rolling thundergod sound for about fifteen minutes before the neighbors called the police. It felt good to wrap my hands around the neck of my Ibanez. It felt good to stand in front of the amp and have the bass throb deep inside me.
Other than me and the Ibanez, the house was empty. Most nights that was how it went. My dad worked as a cook at the Chimes Diner and usually was gone before suppertime. So I had the house to myself.
I dug through my records. Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Judas Priest: the ancient kings of metal, all on vinyl from the olden days.
I cranked my tunes pretty loud when my dad wasn't home. I played along, real heavy and hard. And I synched up my heartbeat with the steel throb. The bass and my pulse together as one.