Two Dollar Bill

My alarm clock sounded with an annoying, high pitched buzz, which could only mean one thing: It was time to drag my lazy ass out of bed and, against my will, prepare for yet another hell of a day in high school.

I let out a loud groan. I grasped my pillow and shoved it over my head, failing miserably at my attempt to block out the shrill sound that had succeeded in pulling me out of the one place where I found any comfort: sleep.

I resisted the insane urge to hop out of bed and smash the demonic thing to pieces for several more long minutes, hoping desperately for sleep to overcome me once more. Suddenly, it was quiet, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I had only just rolled over and placed the pillow back under my head when I felt the blanket slip off of me.

"Billie! Get up, or you'll be late for school," my mother said loudly, shaking my shoulder briskly in an attempt to wake me. I muttered a string of profanity into my pillow, just loud enough for her to hear, deciding right then and there that I was not getting out of bed without a fight.

"Watch your mouth, young man," she snapped, her voice raised slightly. "Get out of bed, NOW! You have to go to school whether you like it or not!"

"Forget school, it's not like it's ever going to get me anywhere." I spat. I opened my eyes and shot her a cold stare.

"Fine," she said with finality. "Don't go then. Waste the rest of your life, moving from town to town, living a life of poverty in the slums, in and out of work and unhappy. Go ahead. But I hope you know just how much this would have disappointed your father. He always wanted you to graduate and to move on to college. Do what you want, because I'm through with this parenting thing!" She was choked up now, her haunted eyes forcing me to remember the one tragedy that had changed my life forever.

A little over seven years ago my father, Andy Armstrong died of esophageal cancer, leaving my mother Ollie to raise six children alone. I was only ten years old. After his death, I spiraled into a deep depression. My dad was, and still is, a big part of me, and when I watched him die a big piece of my heart was gone forever.

As I got a little older, it only got worse. My mother remarried a man whom my siblings and I all hate, and inspired by their relationship came my first real song, "Why Do You Want Him?"

When I just needed to be alone, I would lock myself in my bedroom, the same room in which I lay now for days on end. I would sleep through the daylight. I lived a mostly nocturnal life. I would pick up my Fernandez Stratocaster electric guitar, which I had recieved for my eleventh birthday and christened "Blue", sit by my bedroom window and strum for hours, staring out through the glass at the deserted streets, dark houses, cracked sidewalks, and the luminous crescent moon that lit up the sky...the only bit of light that was left in my life, shining through the threatening shadow of a scarred past.

As I got older, I found a new way to ease my pain. Drugs and alcohol. I drank from time to time, getting severely drunk once or twice but never caught. Then, being the stupid boy that I was, I went to a party and against my better judgment tried marijuana for the first time. I can still vividly remember that night. I felt happier, more carefree than I had in years. The way it made me feel is physically indescribable. It was almost as if I was floating away on a cloud, leaving behind any recollection of my past and identity.

That one night left me hooked on the stuff. I was ashamed of myself, and I know that dad would have been, too.

In my high school, I had become a complete outcast. None of my classmates ever gave me any indication that they wanted to get to know the real me, the boy behind the appearance. I was nothing but a disheveled druggie to everyone except my best friend, Mike Pritchard, whom I had met in the cafeteria of our California elementary school. He was more of a brother to me than any of my own brothers.

Money became an enormous desire of mine. I went through extensive amounts of it buying records, concert tickets, and other musical things. I didn't have much, neither did Mike, so we both got a job at Rod's Hickory Pit where we were both hired as busboys. (That's also where my mom works, as a waitress).

Not too long after we met, Mike and I met up with a boy named John Kiffmeyer, and formed our own band, Sweet Children. We were often paid to play at gigs around town, and all three of us were enthralled with the crazy prospect of a rockstar lifestyle.

I wasn't making as much money as I wanted to, which led me to come up with a morally wrong but brilliant idea. It didn’t take a lot of effort to find and get a hold of a local drug dealer. I began rolling my own marijuana joints, and selling them for two dollars apiece. They sold faster than the speed of light, and by the time the day was over, I would always have a pocket full of cash. This "business" came with a new nickname.

From then on, Billie Joe Armstrong would be widely known as "Two Dollar Bill".

"Man," I sighed. Mom just HAD to bring up dad, didn't she? She was a genius when it came to making me feel guilty.

I sighed deeply and lifted myself off of my creaky spring mattress, pushing my shaggy, reddish-brown hair out of my eyes with one hand. I glanced over at the clock. 6:30. I had just over a half an hour to be out the door and headed for school. Plenty of time.

I padded, barefoot out of my room and down the hallway of our small house. Once in the bathroom, I slammed the door shut and turned the lock. I twisted the small shower knobs to the right, allowing a stream of water to gush out of the shower head. I slipped out of my pajamas and stepped in, letting the water hit full blast and trickle down my body.

"Damn!" I cursed aloud. The water was freezing cold. On impact it felt like being jabbed with a million tiny needles. I bared my teeth and continued. My stepfather had probably used all the hot water before leaving for work. Again.

Five minutes later, I was done. I dried my hair with a starched white towel, then wrapped it around my waist.

I went back to my room and searched through my dresser drawers. I threw on a wrinkled, gray t-shirt and a pair of jeans, which I had worn several times the previous week, and had never gotten around to washing.

Once back in the bathroom, I opened the medicine cabinet and picked up two earrings, a black post and a small silver stud. I shoved the post into my left ear, and the stud into my nose. I squeezed a generous amount of hair gel into the palm of my hand and rubbed it through my hair, creating uneven spikes.

I picked up my tattered bookbag, which was worn from three years of use. The seams were coming loose, threatening to fall apart with the weight of several thick textbooks, most of which I had only opened once or twice. I threw it over my shoulders and walked casually into the kitchen. My mom was at the sink, washing last night's dinner dishes. Grabbing a Styrofoam cup from the cupboard, I picked up the coffee pot, still warm, and filled it to the top.

"Love you, mom," I said, giving her a small hug, picking up my coffee, and making my way to the door.

"Wait."

I spun around slowly. My mom's eyes were filled with tears. The composure she had always so painstakingly tried to maintain was melting away.

"Billie," she faltered, putting her head in her hands, "I...I'm sorry...I shouldn't have brought your father into the argument...you always did take his...his passing the hardest out of all of your brothers and sisters. What you do with your life is your choice. It's just, well, you're my baby boy, and your dad wanted the best for you, and so do I."

"I know mom, I know, but school just isn’t for me," I said in a gentle voice.

"Just try," she pleaded.

"I will mom," I promised halfheartedly. I slipped on my converse sneakers, and reached out for the doorknob.

"Oh, and Billie?"

"Yes?"

"It'll make focusing on school much harder if you're running on an empty stomach, so take this to go with your coffee." She opened a drawer,pulled out a package of pop tarts, and tossed it to me. I easily caught it and finally left, several minutes ahead of schedule.

I walked down our short, paved driveway and opened the driver's door to my red pickup truck. I set my bookbag on the passenger's seat, my coffee in the cupholder, and hungrily ripped open the package of pop tarts. I took a large bite, chewing slowly, savoring the flavor. Blueberry. My favorite. I washed it down with a long swig of coffee, then set them both down. My car keys were cleverly hidden under the passenger's seat cushion, so I reached out and took them, shoving them into the ignition, starting the car, and stepping on the gas as I put it in reverse.

I flipped on the radio, and began my ten minute drive to school, one hand on the wheel and the other holding a pop tart, munching away. I eventually came to an intersection, but was too busy singing along to the radio to notice and drove right through a red light.

Just as I finshed my coffee, I pulled into the senior parking lot of Pinole Valley High School. I threw on the brake and grabbed my stuff, throwing my keys into the truck and walking nonchalantly towards the entrance.

I had just turned the corner and reached out to grab the rusty, old handle on the door when I heard someone nearby hiss my name.

"Hey, Billie!"

I jerked around and eyed the open parking lot suspiciously. I was not very popular here and had come to expect harsh treatment and pranks from fellow students. I couldn't trust anybody.

Leaning cautiously over into the alleyway, I found myself staring directly at Mike. He was leaning up against the aged brick wall, wearing his typical sleeveless white shirt, one hand stuffed into the back pocket of his faded denim jeans.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, a smile slipping onto my pallid, normally serious face as I whipped my bookbag off of my shoulder and jogged over to join him. In his hand he held a lighted cigarette. He lifted it up to his mouth and took a long drag, shutting his eyes as he did so.

"Hey, this cig is pretty plain, "He said skeptically, a smirk edging its way onto his face."You wouldn't, by any chance have anything to spice it up with, would ya Bill?" I returned the smirk.

"You bet! In fact, why don't you get rid of it. I've got something BETTER than a plain cigarette."

I eagerly unzipped the hidden pocket inside my backpack, stuffing my hand inside as he stamped out his cigarette on the cold, stone floor of the alley. I looked around watchfully for anyone nearby. I didn’t want to risk being caught. I pulled out two joints, threw one to Mike, and kept the other for myself. Mike pulled out a chrome lighter and lit us up, and we puffed away contentedly, staring fondly at the graffiti-covered walls, most of which we had decorated ourselves throughout the years.

The final bell rang with a high pitched echo, signaling the start of first period.

"Well, I'll see ya at lunch," Mike drawled, stamping out his joint as I did the same.

We split up and headed in different directions. I shifted my bookbag across my shoulders and headed into the hallway.

Up a flight of stairs, down a long hallway lined with shabby, gray steel lockers and broken drinking fountains, past the girls’ bathroom, and two doors down was my final destination for the hour. Calculus. I had always been terrible at math, so I never quite understood how I had ended up in this class. I couldn’t quite recall if I had even passed algebra.

I cracked open the door and let myself in, shuffling to my desk in the front of the room. I could feel all eyes turn to me, staring me down, causing my face to turn red. I slumped into my chair and dropped my bag to the floor with a crash and was silent.

My teacher, Mr. Giammadi, had paused at the chalkboard in the middle of copying down an equation from the previous day's homework. He was staring at me with that stern face of his, the one I hated with a passion, his sharp, gray eyes glaring at me through thick, wire-rimmed glasses.

"Late again, Mr.Armstrong?" He pronounced every syllable of his rhetorical question with extreme distaste. His whiney, hoarse voice cracked with every word. I didn't answer. I just gave him a rebellious sneer and lowered my head.

*20 minutes later*

I was caught in a daydream, and on the verge of slipping into a short nap. This was a regular routine in most of my classes. My forehead was resting on the hard, ebony cover of my calculus book when I felt something dig into the back of my head, prodding my scalp and weightlessly bouncing off.

I heard it hit the floor and shut my eyes angrily. It didn't even matter what it was that had been thrown; I had learned by now to just ignore it. Suddenly, it hit me again and I growled darkly, brushing the back of my head and roughly balling my hand into a fist. Mr. Giammadi looked up from his desk and asked,

"Anything wrong, Mr. Armstrong?"

"No," I muttered. Admitting to the teacher that I was being harrassed would only make matters worse.

I turned around in my seat just in time to see Eric Halloway, a total airhead, class president and sports jock, throw a pencil at what should have been the back of my head. It spiraled through the air and hit me right between the eyes before I could react and move out of the way. I sat there, in shock, as everyone around me erupted into a fit of laughter.

Once I realized what had just happened to me I stood up. I couldn’t take this anymore. I slammed my chair sideways, down onto the ground and walked briskly over to the idiot.

"Throw that at me ONE MORE TIME Halloway , and I'll shove it so far up your ass that it'll become one with your tonsils," I whispered ferociously, gritting my teeth.

"Detention, Mr. Armstrong," Mr. Giammadi commanded dully, beckoning for me to come. I threw everything into my bag, trudged over to his desk, and whipped a blue detention pass out of his outstreched hands. This was the third one I had recieved in a week.

"Good riddance," Hollaway said with satisfaction, making sure that I could hear. "All the fucker cares about is sex, drugs, and music. And that's all he's good for, too." His friends chuckled as if he had just said the funniest thing in the world.

It took all the self restraint I had to keep myself from punching him in the face.I looked him directly in the eye and hissed with an almost poisonous edge to my voice,

"Damn straight."

I then left the room, slamming the door so hard behind me that it nearly fell off the hinges.
My face burned with anger as I walked down the hall, heading to the detention room that I had become so familiar with. Those hurtful words were still ringing in my ears.

"All the fucker cares about is sex, drugs, and music. And that’s all he’s good for, too.”

"Fuck this!" I yelled out loud at the top of my lungs.

I stopped in my tracks in the middle of the hall as sudden realization came over me.

I seriously, honest to god couldn't take any of this anymore! I knew very well that this school shit wasn't worth my time, so I made a life changing decision right then and there. I rushed towards the main door, ready to escape this place for good.

I kicked it open, stepped out, and breathed a much needed breath of fresh air. Truly smiling for the first time in a long time, I ran down the street and out of sight. This was the last time I would ever be confined in that death-trap ever again. Tomorrow I would turn 18 years old.

I was leaving this life behind, never to look back.

Epilogue

Billie Joe Armstrong dropped out of high school on February 16th, 1990, one day before his 18th birthday to pursue his dream of having a musical career. Little did he know at the time that Sweet Children would soon transform into Green Day. With a new drummer and a new name, and after years of playing as an underground band and working themselves to death, Green Day would soon become outrageously famous, starting a punk rock revolution and a major rebellion against society as we know it.

Kudos to them for their inspirational music, and for working so hard to be the best and most unique band that I have ever had the privilege to listen to in my life. Keep on rocking, and thanks so much for sharing this important message with young people of all ages: Just be yourself, no matter what others think, and if they have a problem with who you are, just give them the finger and tell them to fuck off!

This story was written in honor of Green Day: 1987-2009 and still going strong, and Andrew Marciano Armstrong, R.I.P.