"AM I PARANOID, OR AM I JUST STONED?" Billie Joe Armstrong sang. Mike Dirnt rocked out on the guitar, Tré Cool smashed it playing drums. Green Day. The not-well-known punk rock band was my favorite.
Which is probably why I wasn't one of those One Direction sluts.
And then my mom came up and yelled at me for slacking off. "And turn that shit off!" She said.
I flipped her the finger as she walked out of the room, and put my earbuds back in. Closing my eyes, I thought back to school the previous day. I had been dumped ferociously by my "perfect" boyfriend in front of the whole school. Literally. He had turned the loudspeakers on when I went to visit him before the announcements.
Even the teachers laughed.
And my single mother didn't even know about my boyfriend in the first place. She-
She came up and yelled at me again, and another regular screamfest ensued. She slapped my iPod out of my hand.
It hit the wall and broke. "Are you crazy?" I cried. "My life is in there! GREEN DAY is in there!" My mom kicked the device. "I am sick. And. Tired. Of your BULLSHIT, Adrienne!"
That was it. I grabbed the bag I had packed especially for this, and walked out into the brisk afternoon.
Don't ask me how far I walked that day. All I know is that I found myself
in the suburbs, near where Green Day had played not half a year ago. The glass-half-full part of my mind wondered if I'd ever meet them.
Little did I know, I'd soon do so much more than that.
The first thing I saw as I walked around was a small bar. I contemplated getting drunk, but in the end decided it wasn't worth it. I was 17, underage anyways, and besides I had sworn off alcohol forever after my dad was arrested for DWI. I wasn't about to break that promise because I felt sorry for myself.
I froze as movement in the alley next to the bar caught my eye. A side door opened, and a broad-shouldered ruffian pushed someone out of it, punching him even though he wasn't getting off the ground. "I should have you arrested for fake ID." The bouncer hissed at the person, slamming the door shut. The smaller person got up shakily, hand on his split cheek, and bent over a garbage can, vomiting noisily into it. "Hey! Are you okay?" I asked, leaving my bag at the corner and running to help the guy. "Leave me alone. My uncle's gonna have my ass." He turned a little towards me, face still hidden, and I could see a purple bruise running from his brow to below his collarbone. "Your uncle did that to you?" "Leave me alone." He repeated, gagging. "No. You need help." "I'll be fine." He said, turning to face me finally. The guy was petite, had black hair, full and reaching to his neck, and was wearing eyeliner. He was also 19. How did I know that?
"Holy shit." I said. "Billie Joe Armstrong? From Green Day?" He looked at me astonishedly. "You know the band?" He asked. "No shit! I love you guys!" Billie bent over the garbage can again, coughing. "You mean loved." "What do you mean?" "I mean that no one's favorite band stays their favorite after seeing them like this." He cleared his throat. "And we're breaking up the band." I almost fell over. "What? Why?" "I have no inspiration anymore. My dad is in Cali, and he left me in this shithole without Mike, Tre, my guitar, basically all the shit you need to make a band." "Well, why don't you run away?" I asked him. "I did." His eyes widened. "What?" I motioned to my bags...they were gone. "I believe you." Billie said as I stared incredulously. "Anyone nieve enough to leave a bag on the street here has to be new at it." "Thanks for that." I said sourly. Billie coughed. "No, its a good idea." He paused. "It's just..." "Just what?" I asked. "How do you run away?" He stumbled, nearly fell, and I helped him to a bus stop bench. "You just...run, I guess." I answered, shrugging. "That's what I did." He nodded. "Huh." Then he turned to face me full on, looking into my brown eyes with his sad-yet-fierce eyes, their color somehow hazel, green, and blue at the same time. "Well then, I guess I'm running away with you." My heart skipped a beat. "But—but you don't even know my name." "What is it, then?" "It's Adrienne." I said. "That's a pretty name." He answered, and my heart fluttered. I blushed. Suddenly, I realized I was still clutching a bus schedule that I'd taken from my bag. I looked at it. "Billie," I said. "I think I found our way out." I dug in my pockets. There was enough money for two bus rides.
Good. We only needed one.
We waited for the 6:30 a.m. bus, and somewhere around three a.m. Billie started to fall asleep, head dropping onto my shoulder. "We're the waiting." I said. It was simply a statement, but Billie Joe sat bolt upright. "What did you say?" He asked me, eyes wild. "We—we are the waiting." I said. "Why?" Billie scrambled around in his pockets until he found a pencil and a square piece of paper. He scribbled down some words and meaningless doodles, and then he let his body go limp against the bench. "Thank you." He murmured, before dropping off to sleep, head dropping onto my shoulder again.
We got on the bus with no trouble, though every five minutes Billie would moan and groan about his head. Finally, I sighed loudly, exasperated. "Annoyed yet?" He said, grinning suddenly. "Yes!" I said. He laughed, and I smiled absently, thinking. After a while he asked, " Are you mad?" I shook my head. "It's just...I was a nobody yesterday when I left home, and now I have Billie Joe Armstrong as my friend, and we're traveling across the country." "Don't be too proud. I'm just a nobody." He said. "No one even knows who I am." An old man leaned forwards to Billie. "I know who you are!" He said loudly. "And your punk music sucks!" Billie stood, eyes suddenly shiny with tears. "I think we'll be getting off here." He said to me. "But—" "WE'RE GETTING OFF HERE!" He yelled. Everyone on the bus was staring my now. "Don't drag that poor girl along with your emo self!" Another woman shouted. Billie stepped forwards, trembling, and I grabbed his wrist and pulled him back as people shouted more and more at him. "What's wrong with you?" A girl shouted. "What's wrong with YOU?" I shouted back. "Can't someone have a dream in this goddamn city?! Or do they have to be raised by hypocrites like you?" I grabbed Billie Joe's hand. He stared at me, incredulous, as I pulled him off the bus. We sat at the next bus stop, while I ranted. "Everyone is so full of shit. Born and raised by hypocrites." I didn't realize it then, but he was jotting those exact words down on that piece of paper. He sighed. "Hearts recycled but never saved, from the cradle to the grave." His voice got rough then, and he sniffed pitifully. "But I don't care." He broke down and cried, head in his hands, wiping the running eyeliner away. "God damn people think they're fuckin' Disciples of the Suburbs." "Jesuses of Suburbia." Billie said mournfully. "I wish I was back in Cali!" He suddenly screamed, standing and kicking the lightpost. I came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get there. I promise." He swept his tangled hair out of his eyes. "How can you be so sure?" I put my hands on his shoulders, like my father used to do before my mother divorced him, and I looked Billie dead in the eye. "Listen to me. We're going to find your dad. Believe that." He pulled away from me, turning to sit back on the bus stop bench. "But no one believes in me. It's a land of make-believe that doesn't believe in me." I sat next to him. "I believe in you." He looked at me with those strange multicolored eyes, and I realized that without his eyeliner he looked...regular. "Adrienne, you are an extraordinary girl." Blushing warmth spread from my head to my feet.
I checked a bus schedule from the ground. "I don't know this bus company." I said. "The bus isn't coming." Billie Joe said. "How do you know?" I asked. "I know this company." He simply answered, standing. "Let's find somewhere to stay for the night."
We pooled my money and the scattered change Billie had in his pockets, and realized we were broke by the standards of reality. "Four fuckin' dollars?" He said, running a hand through his hair. He stopped as his fingers got tangled in it halfway through. "Don't worry. We'll think of something." He turned around. "Adrienne?" He called. I turned. "What?" "Think fast." Thunder clouds loomed before us, quickly closing in. As if on cue, wind started whipping at our faces, bringing with it a sharp sting of fast-moving rain. Billie Joe squinted his eyes and scanned the area, searching for somewhere to go. I spotted a small coffee shop a few doors down, and together, fighting against the wind, we made our way to it.
When we finally made it inside the building, Billie Joe and I discovered it was part of a shopping mall. We walked around it and Billie suddenly murmured, "Shopping mall. Huh." "What?" I asked as he scribbled on the one piece of paper. I leaned forwards to see, but he whipped it away from me. "Sorry." He said, giving an apologetic smile, "but I'm not done." "With what?" I wanted to know." "You'll see later."
Suddenly a voice blared over the loudspeaker. "The mall will be closing in five. Clear out." People started to drift towards the exit, as did Billie and I. "Holy shit!" Billie Joe exclaimed. The door seemed to be stuck fast. "Get out of the way!" A rough man's voice said, pushing Billie and prying open the door, holding it against the ferocious wind. Billie stumbled back, and as I ran to him he put a hand in his stomach and sprinted to a garbage can. "Goddamn hangover." He groaned, gagging into the black receptacle. I put a hand on his back as he stood. "We have nowhere to go out there, and we can't stay in here." As I said it, the realization hit me. "We—have nowhere to go." I stumbled, about ready to pass out, but luckily Billie Joe steadied me just in time. "Whoa, careful." He said as I stood again. Suddenly I looked around.
The place was completely empty.
Billie walked slowly to the door, hand still on his stomach, and struggled to pull it open. I ran forwards to help, but I turned suddenly as a voice shows through the mall. "Those doors are locked." I pinpointed the speaker; an old man wheeling a cart and mop around the second floor. "Do you have a place to go?" He asked me. I hesitated, and then truthfully answered, "Well, we—BILLIE!" I cried as my friend sank to the floor, gagging violently but not vomiting. He cried out, squeezing his stomach tightly with one hand. With the other, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pill bottle, almost empty. He dropped it to the floor, and I didn't have to read the label to know he'd overdosed. "Help us, PLEASE!" I yelled to the janitor. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I looked up to see the old man. "Move over, child!" He said frantically, though not unkindly. My heart beat like Tré's drums as I moved aside to let the man kneel in front of Billie. The janitor uncapped a bottle of something—to this day I have no idea of what it was—and poured it down Billie's throat, clamping a hand over my friend's mouth. Billie's Adam's apple moved as he swallowed convulsively. The effect was instantaneous; Billie grasped my hand with his free one, tight as he could, as he turned, doubled over, and vomited everything we'd eaten that day, including the near-fatal pills, thank God. Exhausted, still retching and breathing ragged, Billie fell back and I caught him, his head resting in my lap, turned to the side as he spat the remaining bile out of his system. He groaned. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he kept repeating. "Shhh. It's okay, Billie, you're gonna be fine. Shh." I tried to calm him, running my fingers through his hair like I'd fantasized about so many times before. Billie fell into a sort of half-sleep, still apologizing, and I looked over at the old man, watching us with an expression something like interest. "What did you do?" I asked. "He needed those pills out of his system." The man replied. "He should be okay now, as long as he gets a warm bed and some food into him soon." The janitor got up and started to walk away. I looked at Billie's limp, petite body… "Wait!" I called. The janitor stopped; I could tell he'd been waiting for me to call him. "We have nowhere to go." The man turned around, eyes serious but sparkling all the same. "I have a place for you." He said simply.
I half-carried Billie Joe's emaciated body to a brown Oldsmobile in the employee section of the parking lot. The old man helped Billie into the car, head on my lap again, and got into the driver's seat. "My name's Jimmy, by the way." He said as he started the car, turning the heater on full blast. "And don't wear it out." He added. I felt a movement on the seat next to me: Billie moving to grasp my hand. I took it; it was icy cold, and I squeezed it in an attempt to calm the chills running through his body. He shut his eyes. "I meant to, you know." He said mournfully. "Shhh." I answered. "No." He said, struggling up. "I meant to take that many. I meant to...die." "Oh, Billie." I said. "I'm sorry I dragged you into all of this." "I would have tried anyways." Billie told me. "I'd been planning it. That's why I told you the band was breaking up." "Why?" "Because I'm so damn DONE with life. It's like teeth. Teeth being pulled out of your head. One at a time. Slow as molasses." "Ow, Billie!" As Billie talked, his hand tightened until his fingers dug into my skin. His eyes widened as he unclenched his hand from mine, as if he didn't quite realize what he did. He fell back. "I—I'm sorry." He said quietly. "It's okay." I reassured him. "It'll never be okay." He said. "Sure it will!" I said. I barely realized that we were driving, that Jimmy was listening to every word we said. "It will because—because—these are our lives! We ran away from rules to be free! This is our lives on holiday!" Billie tried to smile; I noticed with alarm that his teeth were tinged with red. "Thank you." He said, barely turning to address Jimmy. "You're like a saint." Jimmy smiled. "I'm not that good." "I would have died without you." Billie said. "St. Jimmy." He decided.
The name stuck, as you will see, until the end of Jimmy's days and afterwards.
We stayed with the kind old man, him bringing us food and keeping us off the police radar, me nursing Billie Joe back to health; right now, he couldn't even get out of bed on his own. We had to feed him in moderation, because if we fed him one mouthful too many...it'd all come back up.
But even so, Billie seemed to get better physically.
Mentally, he was a wreck. Some days, good days, we'd actually strike up a conversation. On bad days, he'd ignore food and company. On one of his worst he spent half the day writing on that one piece of paper, the other half groaning, "Give me novocaine..." During that period, I later saw that while he was moaning he'd taken a pen and scratched LETTERBOMB across his arm.
We gave him a pencil after that.
One bad day, when he'd fallen asleep, I crept up beside him and taken the piece of paper from the night table. In the dim light, I could only make out two lines—Homecoming and She's a Rebel—before he stirred and I'd had to leave.
But one day, Billie had enough strength to get out of bed.
One day, he had enough strength to leave St. Jimmy.
And one day, we stood at the bus station in California, Billie's arm over my shoulder, staring at the sights with relief and happiness. "It's beautiful." I said. "Homecoming." Billie said. I fainty recalled the word from the small strip of paper. He took me by the arm. "Come on! We can catch a bus to Tré's not far from here!" I was awestruck. "Oh my God. THE Tré Cool? The drummer?!" Billie grinned widely. "Is there another?" I nearly jumped up and down in ecstasy. "No way!" Billie pulled me along. "Yes way!" He answered.
Minutes later, we were on a large bus, riding bumpily along. I turned to Billie and noticed he was singing a tune I didn't know under his breath. "What are you singing?" I asked. I could tell he was lost in thought; his eyes stared but didn't see, and he seemed lost inside his own mind. "Billie." I nudged him gently. "What? Oh, just a tune." He said, recalling my question. "Ah." I answered, not satisfied with the answer. The bus stopped with a burst of air, and Billie took my hand. We'd stopped in a rough area, at a small apartment building in the slums. I followed as Billie jumped off the bus and ran into the drab and broken-down lobby. He didn't even bother to check in, just dashed up the scarred stairs, and I stopped as he did, panting, at room 2-something; the number was scratched off. "We ran up two floors?" I asked. He nodded, still breathless. I opened my mouth to say more, but he put a finger to his lips and shushed me, leaning in to press his ear carefully against the splintered door. I listened as well; two people, two young boys, by the sound of it, talked back and forth. I thought it was nothing until I heard Billie's name. "He'll never come back." MIKE, Billie mouthed to me. Another voice answered. "He's gotta sometime." TRÉ. Billie retrieved a key from a hidden drawer in the cracked, peeling wall, and soundlessly unlocked the door as the two band members kept talking. "They're in the kitchen, I think." Billie said quietly. "We'll just sneak in." He opened the door, we snuck inside, and he swiftly closed and locked it again, with a quiet, practiced motion. He waved me to a small room, the walls painted a dark shade of stormy grey, covered with papers, cracks, and doodles. "My room!" Billie collapsed onto the black-covered bed, abandoning the whispers.
The voices stopped abruptly.
"Is that—" I heard Mike say. "It can't be—" Tré started. "WELCOME TO PARADISE!" Billie yelled, and Mike and Tré sped into his room and jumped onto the creaking bed next to him, hugging and laughing. "Billie!" Mike shouted. "How are you back, man?!" Billie looked up at me. "Had some help. I ran away from that—" "Dick?" Tré suggested. "That works." Billie said, smiling. Suddenly all eyes turned to me. "What's your name?" Tré asked good -naturedly. I tried to keep my head.
"Adri—Adrienne." I answered. "And I'm a big fan, by the way." "Cool!" Mike said enthusiastically. "Mind if we call you Adri?" I shook my head. "Not at all." Billie stood. "No! Her name is Adrienne."
We all stared at him.
"It's just a nickname, man, calm down." Tré said. Billie looked around. "No, it's—her name." I went over and looked into Billie's eyes. "It's okay." I said. Billie sighed. "Fine, but if I ever forget your name..." "You won't." I said. Billie sighed. "Fine."
We all turned as the apartment door was opened loudly, in much contrast to Billie's ninja-style door-opening. "BILLIE JOE ARMSTRONG!" A man's deep voice bellowed. Billie paled. "My dad." Tré and Mike both froze. "Is he mean?" I whispered to them. "No way!" Tré answered. "He a really nice guy. But when he gets angry, he gets angry." Billie walked out of his bedroom like a shamed puppy, and the remaining three of us all listened intently. "Hi, dad." Billie said quietly. "DON'T YOU GIVE ME ANY OF THAT! WHY ARE YOU NOT WITH YOUR UNCLE?!" All was silent, but suddenly Billie's dad exclaimed, "Oh my God, Billie! If I'd have known—if I—" My best guess was that Billie had shown his dad the brown, healing bruise from his brow to his collarbone his uncle had given to him. There was a rustling of clothing material, and I assumed that they were hugging. Billie walked back into his room, his father following. "Now, Billie, why don't you tell me who this is?" "This is Adrienne, dad." Billie said. "Adrienne?" His dad asked again. Suddenly he walked right up to me and said, "I want you out of this apartment right now." Billie turned to me. "Dad! Why?!" Billie's dad faced me with a cold look. "As I was searching for you, Billie, I happened to find a recent news article about this girl." He spat the words out like they were venom, and then turned to me. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Your family is worried sick. And where are you? You're traveling across the country with Billie because you're just another one of those attention-craving bitches who'll do anything to be recognized. And I have to say, this is the best one yet. I can see the headlines now! GIRL SAVES BAND MEMBER FROM ABUSE, TRAVELS ACROSS COUNTRY FOR HIM." Billie's father paused. "Dad, please..." Billie's voice was pleading now.
"Get out of this apartment." Mr. Armstrong said again. I started for the door. "Adrienne! Please! Wait!" Billie grabbed my arm. "You don't have to leave!" Tears started pooling in my eyes. "Yes I do." I gave a short laugh and said quietly, "You know, it's funny how I thought I'd ever amount to something. How I was so optimistic about all of this." I was sobbing now. "I'm done, Billie. Good luck with the band." I pulled open the door. "No, please. You're not what my dad said!" Billie was desperate now. I faced Billie full-on. "Then what was I trying to do in the first place?"
Billie tried one more time. "Where will you stay?" "In a nameless, off the map place where I can't get any attention and where I won't use you for it. Maybe I'll take up a spot in next week's obituaries." "Adrienne, no, please!" I started walking down the hall. Billie ran a hand through his hair, tears streaming down his face as well. "I'LL DIE WITHOUT YOU!"
I kept walking.
"YOU BITCH, DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE?!" He screamed, sinking to the floor. I turned, starting to walk down the stairwell, as Mike and Tré leaned down to comfort him. I heard one more, "ADRIENNE!" And then...
Silence.
Though I didn't see him again for years, I kept tabs on him and read up on the band as they became more famous, with their first album Dookie, and one in the making.
Then, two years after I met Billie's dad for the first time, I learned Mr. Armstrong had died.
I considered going back to Billie, but in my mind I had invented a million and one reasons why he would hate me.
And so I waited for him.
For a sight.
A sound.
A song.
On one of my more depressed days, I lay in bed, unmotivated, and listened to the radio, a punk/rock station which usually played Green Day. I listened to it almost obsessively. "And now, a new song from GREEN DAY!" The announcer said cheerfully.
I sat up like a bullet and leaned in to the radio speaker. I heard a familiar voice, one I thought I'd never hear again. Billie Joe sang at a slow, almost melancholy pace for this song from his new album. "And that was Whatshername!" The announcer said when the song was done. Billie's voice rang in my head. "If I ever forget your name..."
I caught the next flight to Cali, where there was a Green Day concert hitting off their new album, American Idiot, tonight.
I got to the concert exactly when it started, and slowly fought for a path to the front; no one seemed to mind much. Finally, I made it next to the stage, fighting with screaming girls to keep my spot.
I saw him.
The look in his eyes as he sang was hollow, terrible. His shirt was off, he seemed to tremble, and tears as well as sweat ran down his cheeks.
He'd lost me, and he didn't expect to find me again.
I looked around suddenly. He stopped singing, and sank to the floor. The whole crowd went silent. Billie put his head in his hands. "I can't do it." I saw him whisper.
"American Idiot!" someone—me, I realized—screamed.
Billie's head snapped up, beautiful eyes scanning the crowd. I put one hand on the stage. Billie robotically
stood, seeing it. He ignored Mike and Tré's concerned questions. He got to me, and slowly, tiredly, bent down, sliding off of the stage.
Everyone was still quiet around us. They knew something bigger than a concert was going down. Billie stood in front of me with wide, tortured eyes. "I remember the face but I can't recall the name." "Hi, Billie." I said quietly. "Adrienne!" He cried, folding his arms around me and sobbing. "I can't—I just can't—" I pushed him a little away from me so I could see his face. Using my sleeve, I wiped the sweat and tears from it. Then, pulling him back close to me, I touched my lips to his. He pressed his to mine, wanting, desperate. His mouth was wet and his breath tasted like beer and another kind of sweet liquor, maybe brandy. We stood like that for a few seconds, wrapped in each other's passion, and finally I pulled away. "Yes you can." Suddenly Billie smiled, eyes turning happy.
I'll never forget that moment.
"Yes I can."
"Then get back on that stage, and give 'em hell."
Billie climbed back up onto the stage. Before picking up the mic, though, he turned back to me again.
"Go get 'em, Billie."
As he started to sing She's a Rebel, the crowd cheered louder than I'd ever heard, or would ever hear again.
I remember the face but I can't recall the name. Now I wonder how Whatshername has been.
-Billie Joe Armstrong, WHATSHERNAME