Words I Might Have Ate

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“Billie, I’m going the speed limit,” Tré smirks, looking at me from his peripheral vision as we coast to a stop at a red light.

I look over at the drummer and muster up the darkest scowl I can summon before I reach across the car and smack him in the back of the head as best I can. “Shut the fuck up.”

He rubs at the sore spot on his scalp as he winces melodramatically. His lower lip comes out in a pout as he covers his skull with his hands. “Mike, Billie’s abusing me up here. Come save me.”

“No thanks, Tré,” Mike replies distractedly from the back seat just as the car behind us beeps their horn since the light turned green some time ago.

“I’m going,” Tré shouts out his open window, raising his middle finger as he steps down on the gas pedal. The ancient Ford Pinto whines a bit as we go over twenty-five miles per hour but Tré doesn’t seem fazed by the strange noises emitting from the engine. “So what do you mean ‘no, thanks’, Mike? Are you trying to tell me that you wouldn’t save me if I was being mugged?”

“I’m not trying to tell you anything,” Mike answers calmly and I turn a bit in my seat so I can look at him as he speaks. “I’m flat out telling you that if you were getting mugged, I would be running in the opposite direction as fast as I can go. So no, I would not save you.”

Tré gasps indignantly, covering his mouth with one hand. “But Mikey,” He stammers, blinking rapidly as if he were keeping his tears at bay. “Mikey, I love you—I would literally stop a speeding bullet for you!” He hits the Pinto’s steering wheel for emphasis and the entire dashboard shudders horrifically.

For a brief moment, I get a terrifying mental image of the three of us sitting on a random street’s curb and watching dejectedly as the Pinto burns cheerfully from an engine fire in front of us with all of our equipment and instruments inside. Thankfully the car resumes its tinny whine and we continue driving.

Normally we would take the Volvo, especially with all of the equipment we had to haul around, because not only was it much bigger then Tré’s compact car, but it ran a lot more smoothly. Sure, both cars were pieces of shit, but at least they had crappy cars to drive around in; I still have to depend on public transport if I can’t bum a ride off of someone. Since we didn’t have enough money to buy a van to carry us from show to show, we usually ended up in Mike’s Volvo and prayed that it got us where we needed to be. But as we were walking to the car, Mike had been struggling to carry an amp and his bass and he dropped his bass in the garage. He had been frantic as he ripped open the case and searched his instrument for any breaks. And understandably so. I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to Blue.

As if to reassure myself that my most prized possession was safe, I adjust the black guitar case that rests between my legs. At any rate, the only damaged part about Mike’s bass was a broken string so he insisted that Tré drive to the show tonight so he could repair the strings. So we all crammed into the Pinto and after a quick pit-stop at a gas station where Tré carefully pumped fifteen dollars worth of gas into his car, we were on our way to the club.

Granted we were a bit early to be showing up. Even early for our standards anyway. And that was my fault. I had been anxious all day. We had stayed up far too late last night, smoking some of my best reefer and eating the majority of our kitchen’s contents, which is something I’ll be annoyed by when I have to go to the grocery store yet again because of our intense munchies.

When Mike’s alarm went off at ten, it was far too early for my tastes. After I put a call in to Rosie to explain that an emergency had come up and I wouldn’t be able to make it into work today, she gave me Blondie’s phone number so I could call and ask her to cover my shift. I ended up speaking to her room-mate, the one with the brilliant green eyes, briefly before she told me that Blondie could take my shift for me.

We were all quiet and running on too little sleep as Mike drove through San Francisco to Dale Smith’s offices. This time the receptionist knew who we were and waved us towards the elevators without a word while the snotty secretary glowered at us as we waited patiently in the waiting room outside of Dale’s office.

Though that might just have been because Tré was noisily munching on a bean burrito and attempting to get Mike to lick and identify the strange stain on the knee of his jeans.

We had been ushered inside Dale’s office soon after that where Dale sat us down and took us through the contract step by step. Reprise Records had made a few modifications of their own as well as tweaking some of the clauses we put in ourselves. Overall, we were pleased with the outcome because the recording company gave us enough leeway that we would be able to be involved with our record every step of the way. It was very important to us that our rights and creative freedom weren’t taken away by some corporate monster.

After we finished going through the contract, the stuck-up secretary bitch came in along with another man in a suit, who Dale introduced to us as Henry, one of the partners at the law firm. Apparently we needed witnesses to sign along with us so that we couldn’t claim that we were forced to sign the contract against our wills.

Dale had signed on the provided witness line with a flourish before passing the pen to Henry, who quickly scratched his signature on the dotted line before he left the room to greet a client. The contract sat in the middle of a table for a few seconds while all three of us stared at it, a bit in awe of the situation we were currently in at the moment.

In my head, all I could think about was how writing my name—just three little words—would completely change my life forever. From now on, I would be considered a part of Reprise Record’s recording family. We were recording artists and we would be able to work in a professional studio with real producers and specialized equipment. For our first two EPs, we recorded the demos in a shitty home studio where everything was done in one take and hopefully it turned out decently.

I had been the first to reach forward and pick up the pen that was still warm from being carried around in Dale’s breast pocket all morning. There were three thick black lines on the paper that were just waiting for our names. And then it was done. My chicken scratch cursive was on the paper and I passed the pen off to Tré who enthusiastically wrote his legal name with an unnecessary swirl before giving it to Mike.

Dale had promptly sealed the contract up and instructed the secretary to post it immediately. As she left, he explained to us that it would take a few days for the initial paperwork to process but Reprise would be in contact with us shortly. And then he congratulated us, shook our hands and sent us on our way.

It was back to the apartment then and since all of us didn’t have to work, we spent our afternoon laying around and relaxing before I began to drive both Tré and Mike up the wall with my incessant drumming on the coffee table. All I could think about all day was Abigail and I couldn’t stop wondering why she left so abruptly last night.

Was it really because she was getting back at me? Or had she not wanted to intrude on what probably seemed like a private moment? Maybe she really only was using me for my connections—though we had smoked her dime bag last night, so that couldn’t possibly have been it.

Eventually we had rounded together our equipment and started towards Gilman’s, despite the fact that we were dreadfully early. According to Mike and Tré, I had been just about unbearable with my sulky moodiness but personally, I think they were just anxious to get on stage and release all of the built-up energy and excitement that had been brewing all day because of our news.

Tré swings the Pinto into the parking lot across the street and as the car wheezes attractively, I relax a bit as we putter to a stop in a free parking spot. Not a lot of people drove to Gilman’s because parking was just about impossible, especially in rush hour traffic on 8th Street. But obviously we had to because we brought our instruments. Luckily, since we were so early, we managed to take one of coveted spots at the library across the street. Since it was after business hours, the city library allowed us to use their lot so we wouldn’t have to worry about getting towed for parking illegally.

I climb out of the passenger’s seat and carefully maneuver Blue out before I slide the seat forward so Mike can get out. He does so with a bit of a sigh before I put Blue back on the floor of the car. I lock and close the door and then double-check the doors before I turn and look across the street at Gilman’s.

It was only a little before eight o’clock but already the music was pouring out of the open doors and windows. There were little clusters of people out in front of the building—some were smoking, others were just waiting and talking. But none of them are that familiar blonde head that I’ve grown to recognize over the past couple of weeks.

I bounce on my feet as I wait for Tré to lock up his side of the car so we can walk into the club together. I always feel a little bit like a rock star whenever we enter Gilman’s because there are always a few kids who come up to us with excited eyes. It is an incredible feeling and one that I love, despite my insistence that we are still normal guys.

Tré slams his door shut and the car rocks on its thin tires before he walks towards us, his hands shoved in his deep pockets lazily. “So I’m just supposed to wait patiently for our turn to go on stage? That’s like a million hours away, thanks a lot Beej. We’re here too early, let’s go home.”

Mike shoves him good-naturedly as we start to cut across the street, completely ignoring the oncoming car. We earn ourselves an ear splitting horn and an angry driver, but our only response is three middle fingers as we take our time stepping up onto the sidewalk. “Just do what you normally do at shows, Tré—creep on underage girls and do cocaine off the toilet seats in the bathroom.”

I don’t catch the drummer’s response as we walk through the doorway and into Gilman’s. It isn’t very crowded right now, but I know that will change in just a little bit. The band playing on the stage has a girl singing and I watch her for a moment before I’m distracted by a kid nudging his friend not so subtly and pointing us out.

My ego swells a bit as I break away from Mike and Tré and start to walk towards the board where the list of bands playing tonight is posted. Of course this was all habit for me. Everyone knew that Green Day held the stage at Gilman’s on both Friday and Saturday nights at the same time every week; it was our set time because it was easier for the kids who only came to hear our music. And partially because all three of us hated filling out the paperwork that was mandatory for a band to take the stage.

The white-wash board holds unfamiliar writing but I don’t really pay it any mind as I run through the list hurriedly. There are a lot of recognizable names and a few new bands on the roster. I make an idle mental note that I’ll have to make sure I’m back in here at nine for my friend Rodney’s band.

I reach the end of the list without seeing Green Day’s name and immediately a frown settles on my lips. Obviously there was a mistake—there was a new person writing out the band’s schedule, they didn’t know about the unspoken rule that we didn’t have to fill out paperwork because we were such regulars here.

Just as I’m about to walk into the back offices of the club to find Mac, the owner, so that he could explain to the new kid and we could make it onto the roster when I hear a familiar laugh. It was one I heard multiple times last night and one that I was quickly becoming attracted to because of the gorgeous girl it happened to belong to.

I scan the area around me intently before I spy her sitting on a bench in the corner with a strange guy. He’s talking animatedly and she’s nodding, arching a dark eyebrow up gracefully at his words. And then her entire face dissolves into a magnificent grin as she begins to laugh.

White hot jealousy washes over me at the sight of the both of them and I’m half-tempted to wrench him out of his seat and beat his face into a bloody pulp. But before I can do so, I catch sight of Mac from across the room. It’s a split-second decision: fix Mac’s mistake or confront Abigail.

“Mac,” I call loudly, pushing through the crowd. From the corner of my eye, I see Abigail’s head come up at my voice and I dip through the crowd knowing full well that she’s following my every move closely.

He turns when he hears my voice and though I smile brightly at him, his face remains blank. “Hi Billie.”

“Hey,” I stop next to him, slightly out of breath. “What’s up with the roster? I noticed that we aren’t on it tonight, but that must be because someone new did it—I don’t recognize the handwriting, but they…” I trail off when I realize that his face is twisting into one of remorse.

He pulls at the skin on the back of his neck and jerks his head towards the back office. “Billie, why don’t we talk back there? This isn’t the kind of conversation I want to have out here in front of all of these people.”

“Why not?” I demand immediately, an unwelcome feeling building in my stomach. “We can have this conversation out here too.”

“Billie,” Mac makes to grab at my elbow but I dance out of his reach. He sighs heavily. “We need to discuss your future here at Gilman’s, but I don’t think it’s appropriate to do so in front of the kids who are here to enjoy the music. So if you would come with me—“

“What do you mean my future here?” I spit the word out venomously. I know I’m drawing some curious gazes with my raised voice and red face, but at this point, I couldn’t care less. “This is our home, Mac. We’ve played here for years.”

“I know, but certain events have come about,” Mac begins unwillingly, painfully aware of the crowd that we are drawing to us. “Billie Joe, this conversation should really be taking place in private and not in front of—“

“Because you don’t want everyone to see you fuck us over,” Mike interjects coolly from my left. Both he and Tré have materialized from seemingly nowhere and I’m thankful for the back-up because truthfully, I’m about to lose my temper completely.

Mac sighs angrily and runs a meaty hand down his shiny face. “No, because this should only be happening between you and me and not the club as a whole. You signed with a major record label today.”

“So?” My words are forced through clenched teeth and I flex my hand into a fist at my side.

He looks frustrated and a bit annoyed at this point. Finally he shakes his head and offers us a small, apologetic smile. “This is a place for bands that live outside of the major label world and you signing with a major company clashes with our philosophy here at Gilman’s. And for that, I can’t have you playing anymore. You’re more than welcome—“

“Fuck you,” I say in a low voice, my body shaking with rage. “Just—fuck off and die.”

Mac’s face contorts into one of remorse and then anger. “I’d appreciate it if you’d remove yourself from the property before I have to call the authorities.”

I spare him one last spiteful glance before Mike grabs me by the upper arm and steers me towards the exit. I know people are staring at me and I’m aware of the fact that on stage, the band has stopped playing completely to see how everything unfolded between us and Mac.

So all of the looks and whispers that seemed to be following me wasn’t because they liked my band. It was because everyone knew we were getting banned from Gilman’s. Everyone but us.

“Hey.”

Mike’s grip on my limb tightens at the voice but I yank myself out of his grasp before I straighten out my shirt. “I can walk myself,” I mutter, following Tré’s plaid shirt as we head towards the doors. All I want to do is get out of here. It’s too hot and everyone’s stares are getting to be too much.

“Hey!”

I shove a kid out of my way as I storm out of the club and he staggers into the wall before spitting colorful curses at me. But it goes over my head as I start to cross the street towards Tré’s car, humiliated and hurt by how tonight played out for us.

Someone grabs the back of my t-shirt and I’m jerked back onto the sidewalk unceremoniously. I turn quickly, preparing to unleash my fury on whoever was stupid enough to grab onto me. A pale face materializes in front of me and for just a few seconds, my mind remains blank.

But then everything clicks as I stare down into her bright eyes. And they begin to sparkle brilliantly when she sees the recognition on my face.

“Hi Holden Caulfield.”