September Is For..
September is for..
September was always hard for Billie Joe.
September saw the most drunken fits out of him, the most discarded, half smoked joints thrown onto the patio right below his bedroom window. September saw the most rows, the most fights, the most door slamming.
September saw the most tears.
It used to be a family thing, going to the graveyard. All the Armstrongs would pile into Ollie's van and sit in silence for a heart-wrenching hour until they arrived at the cemetery Andy was buried in. Billie Joe, the youngest, complained and cried on those yearly outings. He didn't know much better.
Now, he did. One day before September 15th, the windows of his beat-up Honda were rolled down and the stereo was blasting out Operation Ivy classics. Billie, barely legal, was trekking out to see his father on his own. His eyes bloodshot and hair looking like he rolled out of bed, there was constantly a trail of cigarette smoke lingering behind the window. The cars alongside him on the highway were filled with skeptical strangers, but Billie didn't care.
September wasn't for caring.
After getting lost a couple of time and many, many, joints, Billie arrived at the graveyard. He slammed the door of his car shut and started walking on the trodden earth. Lugging his battered and faithful leather bag out of the trunk, he didn't bother to hide the clinking noise of glass bottles or to smother the odor of cigarette smoke lingering around him.
Billie never understood why people dressed their best, or tried to hide who they really were to the cemetery. “Honesty is a virtue”, isn't it? Andy Armstrong, in his opinion, deserved to see the truth. The real, honest, wreck Billie Joe Armstrong had become.
Stumbling to the far right corner of the cemetery, Billie ignored all glances at him, sympathetic or scrutinizing, or anything in between. Running his hair through his disheveled hair, Billie knew he looked like shit. His foot steps slowing, he was nearing it. It. His heart thumping loudly in his chest, Billie stopped walking reached into his pockets and took out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. Blatantly ignoring the “No Smoking” signs nailed to the fences, he lit one up and took a long drag out of it.
Dropping his messenger bag, which fell to the floor with a resonating “clink” of vodka bottles, he drew nearer to the tombstone. The cigarette still dangling loosely from his mouth, Billie slowly knelt down in front of his father's grave.
“Oh, Dad...” Billie murmured. Covered in grime and dust and wild grass, Andy Armstrong's grave was far from the handsome tombstone it used to be. Using his hands, Billie slowly brushed away the dirt from the cool stone. Taking another long drag off the cigarette, he took a long look at the grave.
Billie Joe was never one for reading. He barely finished any books – he never finished reading the words on his father's grave. He choked up after “Andy”. He never spoke to the grave too. He choked up before he said anything.
Finishing the last of the cigarette, he stamped it out on the grass. Tears forming clouds in his eye, he shook his head and grabbed his leather back, retreating to the shade of the large oak tree in the corner of the cemetery.
Sobbing slightly under his breath, Billie Joe lifted the flap of his messenger bag and took out the first bottle his hands reached. Vodka. Twisting off the cap with one swift motion, Billie lifted the bottle to his lips and chugged it down.
It burned down his throat, the vodka, twisting him into intoxication like a fiery snake. But that didn't compare to the agony, the guilt he felt drinking, smoking in front of his father. It didn't compare to the burning of the tears running down his cheeks.
September was for guilt.
A few hours later, the sky had darkened and so had Billie's heart. There were more than one pack's worth of discarded cigarettes lingering amongst the oak tree, not to mention the faint smell of marijuana. The cemetery was deserted except for Billie's lone figure, slumped onto the trunk of the large oak. Sharp bits of glass was littered next to the remains of the finished vodka bottle – Billie was halfway done with his second bottle.
Drunk, yet never hungover was how he spent his Septembers. He'd still be half-wasted when he gets up, and he'd pass out from the alcohol sooner or later after that. Squinting through the darkness, Billie's bloodshot eyes slowly passed over his surroundings, faintly illuminated by the light of the moon and the flickering lamps in the distance
Swearing loudly as his fingers groped the sharp edge of glass on the floor, Billie Joe tried to stand up. Grabbing the large tree trunk for support, he was still overcome with dizziness and nausea. His head wasn't buzzing anymore, it was pounding a loud and steady drum beat. Stumbling towards the large overgrown bushes, he felt vomit rise up his stomach and out of his throat. Gasping for breath, he wiped his mouth clean and staggered back to the silhouette of the tree. Plopping down once more, his fingers grasped hold of the half empty vodka bottle and, for the millionth time that night, took a deep and lasting swig.
The bottle still grasped in his hands, Billie's head swam again in the clouds. Collapsed in the corner of a graveyard in the dead of night – perfect. His eyesight, although blurry under the influence, had grown accustomed to the darkness. Spotting his father's tombstone, he got on his knees and slowly crawled over. Leaving the bottle somewhere along the way (he'd find it in the morning, anyway), he caved in to the tears
Wiping his bloodshot and swollen eyes, he forced them to run over the inscriptions on the tombstone.
“Andy Armstrong... Loving son, husband, and father... You will be in our memories forever...” he murmured out loud. “Loving son... husband... father... Loving father.”
The wave of nausea that had consumed him moments ago lifted, the pounding in his head subsided.
“Dad. Dad,” Billie said loudly. His voice echoed in the silence, his eyesight fogging up with tears. “Dad... I'm sorry.”
“I'm sorry for not talking to you before, I'm sorry for trying.. for trying to avoid this, sometimes. I'm sorry for doing all that right here,” Billie chuckled and sobbed at the same time, waving his hands madly to discarded glass, the half-smoked joints.
“But.. that's who I've become, Dad. I... I guess you know, but I just thought I'd come clean. I'm drunk half the time, I... I'm a drug dealer. Two Dollar Bill, that's what I'm called.. I sell joints, two dollars for one. It didn't start out that way. When you first... when you first died, I was fine. We were fine. Then Mom met Brad. He came to see you last year. They've gotten married now. Still are. That's why, that's when everything... That's when everything fell apart.” Billie Joe gulped down his tears and wiped his face clean of them. His face took on an emotionless facade, like stone.
“We began doing things... Small stuff at first. Sneaking out after hours, slacking off school. Mom was always too busy with Brad to care anyway.” Billie said softly, taking on an emotionless and calm voice. “Then we got into more things... Mike's sister left the house, we smoked pot round the corner at school. We go to the Gilman... there's no drugs in there, but plenty outside. Speed, coke, you name it. I..”
The calmness of his voice broke down. “I'm.. I'm sorry dad. I didn't want to.”
Billie Joe's voice cracked into sobs. “But it's hard, Dad. It's hard to live knowing he can harm her, it's hard living like this... I don't know why I started, but I did. And it's just going to go on, isn't it?"
He trailed off, his eyes darting up into the stars.
“Wherever you are now, Dad...” he said, murmuring under his breath, “This is who I am now. I'm Billie Joe Armstrong. Two Dollar Bill.” And with that, he rose up from the floor, not staggering but getting up gracefully as if not intoxicated at all. The dirt from the earth he knelt on remained on his jeans, but he couldn't care less.
“That's who I am, Dad. Hon.. Honesty is a virtue, isn't it? Well... this is me. Drinking, smoking, a hell of a train wreck.
“I guess... I guess that's it, then. That's who I am. And I hope you... I hope you love me, the way I am. That's the person I'll only ever be, you know. And... I love you too, Dad. I love you too.”
September was for honesty.
September saw the most drunken fits out of him, the most discarded, half smoked joints thrown onto the patio right below his bedroom window. September saw the most rows, the most fights, the most door slamming.
September saw the most tears.
It used to be a family thing, going to the graveyard. All the Armstrongs would pile into Ollie's van and sit in silence for a heart-wrenching hour until they arrived at the cemetery Andy was buried in. Billie Joe, the youngest, complained and cried on those yearly outings. He didn't know much better.
Now, he did. One day before September 15th, the windows of his beat-up Honda were rolled down and the stereo was blasting out Operation Ivy classics. Billie, barely legal, was trekking out to see his father on his own. His eyes bloodshot and hair looking like he rolled out of bed, there was constantly a trail of cigarette smoke lingering behind the window. The cars alongside him on the highway were filled with skeptical strangers, but Billie didn't care.
September wasn't for caring.
After getting lost a couple of time and many, many, joints, Billie arrived at the graveyard. He slammed the door of his car shut and started walking on the trodden earth. Lugging his battered and faithful leather bag out of the trunk, he didn't bother to hide the clinking noise of glass bottles or to smother the odor of cigarette smoke lingering around him.
Billie never understood why people dressed their best, or tried to hide who they really were to the cemetery. “Honesty is a virtue”, isn't it? Andy Armstrong, in his opinion, deserved to see the truth. The real, honest, wreck Billie Joe Armstrong had become.
Stumbling to the far right corner of the cemetery, Billie ignored all glances at him, sympathetic or scrutinizing, or anything in between. Running his hair through his disheveled hair, Billie knew he looked like shit. His foot steps slowing, he was nearing it. It. His heart thumping loudly in his chest, Billie stopped walking reached into his pockets and took out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. Blatantly ignoring the “No Smoking” signs nailed to the fences, he lit one up and took a long drag out of it.
Dropping his messenger bag, which fell to the floor with a resonating “clink” of vodka bottles, he drew nearer to the tombstone. The cigarette still dangling loosely from his mouth, Billie slowly knelt down in front of his father's grave.
“Oh, Dad...” Billie murmured. Covered in grime and dust and wild grass, Andy Armstrong's grave was far from the handsome tombstone it used to be. Using his hands, Billie slowly brushed away the dirt from the cool stone. Taking another long drag off the cigarette, he took a long look at the grave.
Billie Joe was never one for reading. He barely finished any books – he never finished reading the words on his father's grave. He choked up after “Andy”. He never spoke to the grave too. He choked up before he said anything.
Finishing the last of the cigarette, he stamped it out on the grass. Tears forming clouds in his eye, he shook his head and grabbed his leather back, retreating to the shade of the large oak tree in the corner of the cemetery.
Sobbing slightly under his breath, Billie Joe lifted the flap of his messenger bag and took out the first bottle his hands reached. Vodka. Twisting off the cap with one swift motion, Billie lifted the bottle to his lips and chugged it down.
It burned down his throat, the vodka, twisting him into intoxication like a fiery snake. But that didn't compare to the agony, the guilt he felt drinking, smoking in front of his father. It didn't compare to the burning of the tears running down his cheeks.
September was for guilt.
A few hours later, the sky had darkened and so had Billie's heart. There were more than one pack's worth of discarded cigarettes lingering amongst the oak tree, not to mention the faint smell of marijuana. The cemetery was deserted except for Billie's lone figure, slumped onto the trunk of the large oak. Sharp bits of glass was littered next to the remains of the finished vodka bottle – Billie was halfway done with his second bottle.
Drunk, yet never hungover was how he spent his Septembers. He'd still be half-wasted when he gets up, and he'd pass out from the alcohol sooner or later after that. Squinting through the darkness, Billie's bloodshot eyes slowly passed over his surroundings, faintly illuminated by the light of the moon and the flickering lamps in the distance
Swearing loudly as his fingers groped the sharp edge of glass on the floor, Billie Joe tried to stand up. Grabbing the large tree trunk for support, he was still overcome with dizziness and nausea. His head wasn't buzzing anymore, it was pounding a loud and steady drum beat. Stumbling towards the large overgrown bushes, he felt vomit rise up his stomach and out of his throat. Gasping for breath, he wiped his mouth clean and staggered back to the silhouette of the tree. Plopping down once more, his fingers grasped hold of the half empty vodka bottle and, for the millionth time that night, took a deep and lasting swig.
The bottle still grasped in his hands, Billie's head swam again in the clouds. Collapsed in the corner of a graveyard in the dead of night – perfect. His eyesight, although blurry under the influence, had grown accustomed to the darkness. Spotting his father's tombstone, he got on his knees and slowly crawled over. Leaving the bottle somewhere along the way (he'd find it in the morning, anyway), he caved in to the tears
Wiping his bloodshot and swollen eyes, he forced them to run over the inscriptions on the tombstone.
“Andy Armstrong... Loving son, husband, and father... You will be in our memories forever...” he murmured out loud. “Loving son... husband... father... Loving father.”
The wave of nausea that had consumed him moments ago lifted, the pounding in his head subsided.
“Dad. Dad,” Billie said loudly. His voice echoed in the silence, his eyesight fogging up with tears. “Dad... I'm sorry.”
“I'm sorry for not talking to you before, I'm sorry for trying.. for trying to avoid this, sometimes. I'm sorry for doing all that right here,” Billie chuckled and sobbed at the same time, waving his hands madly to discarded glass, the half-smoked joints.
“But.. that's who I've become, Dad. I... I guess you know, but I just thought I'd come clean. I'm drunk half the time, I... I'm a drug dealer. Two Dollar Bill, that's what I'm called.. I sell joints, two dollars for one. It didn't start out that way. When you first... when you first died, I was fine. We were fine. Then Mom met Brad. He came to see you last year. They've gotten married now. Still are. That's why, that's when everything... That's when everything fell apart.” Billie Joe gulped down his tears and wiped his face clean of them. His face took on an emotionless facade, like stone.
“We began doing things... Small stuff at first. Sneaking out after hours, slacking off school. Mom was always too busy with Brad to care anyway.” Billie said softly, taking on an emotionless and calm voice. “Then we got into more things... Mike's sister left the house, we smoked pot round the corner at school. We go to the Gilman... there's no drugs in there, but plenty outside. Speed, coke, you name it. I..”
The calmness of his voice broke down. “I'm.. I'm sorry dad. I didn't want to.”
Billie Joe's voice cracked into sobs. “But it's hard, Dad. It's hard to live knowing he can harm her, it's hard living like this... I don't know why I started, but I did. And it's just going to go on, isn't it?"
He trailed off, his eyes darting up into the stars.
“Wherever you are now, Dad...” he said, murmuring under his breath, “This is who I am now. I'm Billie Joe Armstrong. Two Dollar Bill.” And with that, he rose up from the floor, not staggering but getting up gracefully as if not intoxicated at all. The dirt from the earth he knelt on remained on his jeans, but he couldn't care less.
“That's who I am, Dad. Hon.. Honesty is a virtue, isn't it? Well... this is me. Drinking, smoking, a hell of a train wreck.
“I guess... I guess that's it, then. That's who I am. And I hope you... I hope you love me, the way I am. That's the person I'll only ever be, you know. And... I love you too, Dad. I love you too.”
September was for honesty.