Sequel: Requiem of Revenge ›
When Three Becomes Two
Early Retirement
Mike’s PoV
The next day, Billie was noticeably quiet—even more so than he had been in the past week. He didn’t do much except stare at the wall as he sat on the couch, his eyes fixed and unmoving. After a solid two hours, I decided to bite the bullet and ask him what was wrong.
“What’re we going to do about Green Day?” he replied, twisting his neck and facing me, gray eyes burning.
“I mean, we can’t continue with it without…without Tre. The sound would suck without a drummer, and replacing him…”
“I know what you mean. But do we really want to give this all up? And if we do quit—if that’s what you’re getting at—the fans have a right to know why. We’d have to tell them he’s dead.”
“They have to find out eventually, Mike. We can’t hide it. Once we say so, reporters are going to be flocking to the doors…may as well get it over with, that way things will have subsided a little by the funeral.”
And so we grimly made the decision—there would be no more Green Day. We had made our last record, sung the last chords, written the last song, done our last band practice. There really was no choice but to leave the band we loved behind, preserved in nothing but records and memories.
Within the hour, we had pulled out the video camera and were trying to figure out how to say that the band was over. There was no time to make a script—we’d just have to wing it and post the results on our website. Settling down on our couch, I leaned over and hit the record button. The red light flickered on.
“Hi, this is Billie Joe and Mike,” my friend began.
“Last week, Tre was—was in a car accident. We both know he tried hard to stay with us, but—he didn’t pull through.” Billie clenched his jaw. I quickly took over.
“We lost a friend, and Green Day lost its drummer. So…”
“So we can’t continue with Green Day anymore.” Billie said harshly.
“We’re so sorry and we hope you understand. All our other tour dates are canceled.”
“We had an amazing near-twenty years with all of you, making music, and it made for one hell of a story to tell. But it’s over.”
I finished with “We—we couldn’t help the death. The funeral is in two days, in Oakland, and whoever wants to can come.”
“We’re sorry. Bye, guys.”
I leaned over and turned off the recorder again.
A few minutes later, we posted the video on our website, on Youtube, and sent a copy to the major fansites. We had planted the bomb. All we had to do was wait for it to explode and for all hell to break loose.
It didn’t take long. Within hours, hysterical fans, producers, and friends flooded the phone line. Adie called on Billie’s cell phone to tell him he had three hundred forty-two messages on the phone for when we got back. It was simply chaos. We spent the rest of the day talking to random people over the phone, all of whom offered condolences, sympathy, and their own grief. That evening, we flicked on the news and saw Tre’s face. It was painful to see. The newscaster stared solemnly out of the screen.
“We have a tragic story for you tonight. Tre Cool, drummer of the California punk band Green Day, is dead. The news was released today by the other two members of the band, Billie Joe Armstrong and Mike Dirnt, through home video. People are calling this death “like Kurt Cobain all over again.” The funeral for Mr. Cool is expected to—“
And so the women droned on for several minutes. Right after the news story was finished, Billie clicked the TV off and we silently departed for our bedrooms.
That night, I heard crying again. But not from Mike’s room. And when I listened closely, I recognized the laments as what had once been the voice of Tre Cool.
The next day, Billie was noticeably quiet—even more so than he had been in the past week. He didn’t do much except stare at the wall as he sat on the couch, his eyes fixed and unmoving. After a solid two hours, I decided to bite the bullet and ask him what was wrong.
“What’re we going to do about Green Day?” he replied, twisting his neck and facing me, gray eyes burning.
“I mean, we can’t continue with it without…without Tre. The sound would suck without a drummer, and replacing him…”
“I know what you mean. But do we really want to give this all up? And if we do quit—if that’s what you’re getting at—the fans have a right to know why. We’d have to tell them he’s dead.”
“They have to find out eventually, Mike. We can’t hide it. Once we say so, reporters are going to be flocking to the doors…may as well get it over with, that way things will have subsided a little by the funeral.”
And so we grimly made the decision—there would be no more Green Day. We had made our last record, sung the last chords, written the last song, done our last band practice. There really was no choice but to leave the band we loved behind, preserved in nothing but records and memories.
Within the hour, we had pulled out the video camera and were trying to figure out how to say that the band was over. There was no time to make a script—we’d just have to wing it and post the results on our website. Settling down on our couch, I leaned over and hit the record button. The red light flickered on.
“Hi, this is Billie Joe and Mike,” my friend began.
“Last week, Tre was—was in a car accident. We both know he tried hard to stay with us, but—he didn’t pull through.” Billie clenched his jaw. I quickly took over.
“We lost a friend, and Green Day lost its drummer. So…”
“So we can’t continue with Green Day anymore.” Billie said harshly.
“We’re so sorry and we hope you understand. All our other tour dates are canceled.”
“We had an amazing near-twenty years with all of you, making music, and it made for one hell of a story to tell. But it’s over.”
I finished with “We—we couldn’t help the death. The funeral is in two days, in Oakland, and whoever wants to can come.”
“We’re sorry. Bye, guys.”
I leaned over and turned off the recorder again.
A few minutes later, we posted the video on our website, on Youtube, and sent a copy to the major fansites. We had planted the bomb. All we had to do was wait for it to explode and for all hell to break loose.
It didn’t take long. Within hours, hysterical fans, producers, and friends flooded the phone line. Adie called on Billie’s cell phone to tell him he had three hundred forty-two messages on the phone for when we got back. It was simply chaos. We spent the rest of the day talking to random people over the phone, all of whom offered condolences, sympathy, and their own grief. That evening, we flicked on the news and saw Tre’s face. It was painful to see. The newscaster stared solemnly out of the screen.
“We have a tragic story for you tonight. Tre Cool, drummer of the California punk band Green Day, is dead. The news was released today by the other two members of the band, Billie Joe Armstrong and Mike Dirnt, through home video. People are calling this death “like Kurt Cobain all over again.” The funeral for Mr. Cool is expected to—“
And so the women droned on for several minutes. Right after the news story was finished, Billie clicked the TV off and we silently departed for our bedrooms.
That night, I heard crying again. But not from Mike’s room. And when I listened closely, I recognized the laments as what had once been the voice of Tre Cool.