Bastards
unseasonable.
Even the fireplace was cold and empty. Tre couldn’t bring himself to get off the couch and start a fire, even though the week before he’d gone to the trouble of buying firewood and lighter fluid and matches… but that was when he thought he’d have other people to light the fire for. Bastards, he thought bitterly, wrapping his old threadbare blanket around himself. The sun was setting outside his bay window, chilling him more. It was unnaturally cold for California, but it matched Tre’s mood, so he didn’t really mind.
Tre was almost worried about his sanity lately. He stayed on his couch, the TV dark and dead, muttering to himself or singing Christmas carols under his breath. He supposed it was an overreaction, but on the same hand, he really didn’t care. Every December 9th, for the past… lifetime, it felt like, he had spent it with Billie and Mike by his side. And now, here he was, 2010, an alien year in itself coming to an end… alone.
Billie was down in New Orleans, building another house for humanity. Mike was with his new baby, hadn’t even called or texted Tre besides the initial one, right after she was born: shes a beautiful girl, 7lbs 6oz, can’t wait for you to see her! Everyday, Tre obsessively checked his phone, waiting for confirmation from them, even a simple see you soon, old man! would have raised his spirits spectacularly.
But time came and went and still there was nothing.
---
The morning of his birthday dawned colder than ever, the kind of cold that creeps in through the cracks of your windows and under the door, curling around your bones and icing your heart.
“Fuck,” Tre said to himself as his eyes grudgingly opened, sticky with sleep. His blankets were tangled around his legs and his sheets were coming halfway off the bed, like he had tossed and turned in the night. He sort of remembered a dream of being in a cage while Billie and Mike stood outside, watching him struggle to get to them while they serenely ate popcorn. Or something like that.
He trudged down the stairs, his feet tingling from the cold wooden floors, and fell right back onto the couch. He was actually impressed he had managed to get out of bed. He dug in the couch cushions for his phone and, finding it amidst droppings of pennies and chips, checked it.
Nothing. A screen telling him the time - a pathetic, way-too-early 7 am - glowed up at him, but no missed alerts. Nothing.
“Bastards!” he said aloud, a tiny scream, vocalizing his main thought of the past few days. As the empty sound echoed around the empty house, Tre felt more alone than ever. He felt like a old hag, never mind that he was a man, he felt like a lonely old maid, one without friends or relatives who cared. Fuck it, when had his relatives ever cared? For the years since his dad had died, he had been on his own - except for Billie and Mike.
Or so he thought.
Tre turned his face into the cushions of his couch and let himself cry.
---
But he didn’t wallow all day; oh no! He got up out of the couch, his eyes still leaking, feeling his 38 year old bones positively creak in protest, and shuffled into the kitchen, his feet starting to kinda hurt now from the cold.
“I am not doing this,” he said to himself, opening the cupboard. “It’s my b-birthday, and I’m not gonna…” he paused to give a great sniff, “waste it cry-crying.”
And at last, his hands clasped on what he was looking for.
---
“In retrospect, Tre, this was probably not a good idea.”
Tre had taken up the habit of speaking to himself as of late, along with, of course, his old habit of singing small Christmas carols.
“Well, it’s not like I have anyone else to talk to,” he admonished himself, trying to justify his actions.
But even for Tre, this was kinda weird. He was laying on the couch in his underwear, the heat gauge in his house turned to ninety, eating Funfetti cake mix mixed with water out of a large bowl, and alternating between watching old home videos of himself as a baby and old and new Green Day videos, remembering what it was like to make them, the amazing feeling of accomplishment that came out of creating a successful video. Each video marked the good times in his life, and he felt a bitter nostalgia watching them.
His stomach was starting to hurt from all the cake mix along with gurgling unpleasantly, almost as if to remind him it was there.
“I feel you, I feel you!” he told it, massaging it gingerly, setting down the bowl and steadying his breathing, trying to keep his gorge down. He burped spectacularly. Suddenly, the storm in his stomach was over. Self satisfied smile on his face, he leant back into the couch cushions.
“Maybe that was a good idea, after all,” he said to the ceiling as Boulevard of Broken Dreams played on his computer. He remembered Mike tripped on the treadmill they used in that video and falling on his face and laughed heartily for a while. But even as he laughed, he felt a kind of hollowness inside him, because Mike and Billie weren’t there to laugh with him (or rather, Billie wasn’t there to laugh, Mike wasn’t there to scowl at them both - it wasn’t exactly his favorite memory.)
He missed them. That much was painfully obvious. And as much as he didn’t want to sound like a bitch, he wished they could drop everything and come visit him, like he would have done for them.
---
12 pm. 4 pm. 7 pm. As the clock neared 9, Tre had given up on his fantasies of his best friends knocking down his door, arms full of presents and mouths full of apologies, maybe bundled against the unseasonable, weird cold, but all there nonetheless. It wasn’t too late, he thought desperately. They could still come, he just needed to be patient. And even if they didn’t come - fine! Grand! Excellent! He was a 38 year old man, he could handle anything life decided to throw at him. He handled two divorces and kids who didn’t call, he handled months on the road and raucous crowds and endless interviews and photoshoots… he could handle this.
Sure.
Easy.
No problem.
“No problem,” Tre said, echoing his thoughts, as tears snuck out of his eyes. He stuffed his face into the couch cushions - again - and let himself cry, all the while echoing that there was no problem, none whatsoever.
---
The early morning sunlight poured in through the bay window, and the cold poured in through the door as Billie opened it to let Mike in. They stood next to the TV, looking down at the couch and the pathetic scene portrayed there. Tre was laying on the couch, a threadbare blanket tangled in his legs, naked except for a pair of black boxer briefs that were pulled all the way up. His stocky frame was twisted strangely, and Mike and Billie both turned their heads in unison, trying to gather how in the hell he could sleep in that position. There was a bowl of some weird multicolored substance on the floor next to the couch, along with one giant spoon.
As Tre heaved a great snore, Billie and Mike dissolved into giggles, clutching each other like little girls.
“Should we wake him up?” Billie asked as Mike tiptoed towards the couch, setting the presents down on the cluttered coffee table and looking down at Tre, smiling, his hands on his hips.
“Yeah, probably… he just looks kinda peaceful… albeit really uncomfortable…” Mike replied, giggling a little more.
So, together, on the count of three, they gave Tre a great shove. He leapt up, stuck his foot in the bowl of congealed cake mix, and shrieked.
“You bastards!” he yelled, splattering cake mix all over the floor. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
At this Billie and Mike looked a little sheepish. Tre was sitting up, glaring at them, face growing red from anger, waiting for an explanation.
“Well, Tre, you see…” Billie started, taking a hesitant step forward but slipping a little on the cake mix and losing his nerve. “Mike?” he said pleadingly, needing a rescue.
“Tre… Billie was in New Orleans, I was with my baby… Billie took the first flight he could get coming back, but nothing was available until this morning… you know, holidays and stuff... He’s been up since midnight at airports, if that helps you any. And I knew you’d be pissed because we were late, so I waited for him. And Brittney, she…” but Mike had also lost his nerve at the look on Tre’s face, which was very, very dangerous. Billie tried again.
“Tre, look. I tried to make it on time, I really did, but flights are fucked up. And Mike was rightfully afraid of your wrath, wasn’t he? Tre, just… I’m sorry, alright? But you can’t act like this. You’re a big boy.”
Tre’s eyes widened, and in one dramatic movement, he stood and stalked away, up to his bedroom, his exit slightly ruined by the fact that he was leaving cake mix footprints behind him. Mike and Billie sighed and followed, used to dramatics, as they were all quite dramatic themselves.
“Tre! Stop it! Come on! I didn’t mean it!” Billie shouted through the door, banging between each word. Mike heaved against the door with his shoulder and it cracked, causing both men to gasp and scurry away from it, not wanting to incite Tre’s anger further by breaking his door down.
“Yes you did!” Tre wailed from the other side of the door. “You meant it! I know what I am! Just a big fat 38 year old baby!”
“No you’re not!” Mike and Billie chorused together, approaching the door again.
There was the sound of more crying, and Billie and Mike exchanged looks. They hadn’t really realized how hard Tre would take their absence, and it was a bit unnerving. And very guilt inducing.
Some time passed before anyone spoke. Mike and Billie were sitting with their backs against the door, sweating from the too-hot heat in Tre’s house. The sound of Tre’s crying had ebbed a little while before, and now the only sound coming from the bedroom was tiny sniffles. Finally, after what must have been twenty minutes where everyone stewed in their own thoughts, Mike tried again.
“Tre, please,” he cajoled, “you’ve got presents to open, and we’re gonna be here for a long time, we’re not going anywhere. Plus, I have pictures of Ryan to show you…”
There was a pause, and the door opened a bit. Tre’s red eye poked out. “Is she pretty, Mike?”
“Beautiful,” Mike said, smiling warmly.
Tre opened the door all the way, his nose and eyes still red, still in his underwear and nothing else.
“I’m sorry for freaking out,” he said, looking down at the floor and shuffling his feet.
“And we’re sorry for being so late and missing your birthday,” Billie said quickly, Mike nodding.
“S’okay,” Tre said, looking up sheepishly.
Tre held out his arms, and both Mike and Billie rushed towards him, getting stuck in the doorway, causing a momentary scuffle. When that was sorted out, Tre’s arms were still accepting and Mike and Tre were engulfed in them, falling backwards onto the bed together, laughing.
Tre was almost worried about his sanity lately. He stayed on his couch, the TV dark and dead, muttering to himself or singing Christmas carols under his breath. He supposed it was an overreaction, but on the same hand, he really didn’t care. Every December 9th, for the past… lifetime, it felt like, he had spent it with Billie and Mike by his side. And now, here he was, 2010, an alien year in itself coming to an end… alone.
Billie was down in New Orleans, building another house for humanity. Mike was with his new baby, hadn’t even called or texted Tre besides the initial one, right after she was born: shes a beautiful girl, 7lbs 6oz, can’t wait for you to see her! Everyday, Tre obsessively checked his phone, waiting for confirmation from them, even a simple see you soon, old man! would have raised his spirits spectacularly.
But time came and went and still there was nothing.
---
The morning of his birthday dawned colder than ever, the kind of cold that creeps in through the cracks of your windows and under the door, curling around your bones and icing your heart.
“Fuck,” Tre said to himself as his eyes grudgingly opened, sticky with sleep. His blankets were tangled around his legs and his sheets were coming halfway off the bed, like he had tossed and turned in the night. He sort of remembered a dream of being in a cage while Billie and Mike stood outside, watching him struggle to get to them while they serenely ate popcorn. Or something like that.
He trudged down the stairs, his feet tingling from the cold wooden floors, and fell right back onto the couch. He was actually impressed he had managed to get out of bed. He dug in the couch cushions for his phone and, finding it amidst droppings of pennies and chips, checked it.
Nothing. A screen telling him the time - a pathetic, way-too-early 7 am - glowed up at him, but no missed alerts. Nothing.
“Bastards!” he said aloud, a tiny scream, vocalizing his main thought of the past few days. As the empty sound echoed around the empty house, Tre felt more alone than ever. He felt like a old hag, never mind that he was a man, he felt like a lonely old maid, one without friends or relatives who cared. Fuck it, when had his relatives ever cared? For the years since his dad had died, he had been on his own - except for Billie and Mike.
Or so he thought.
Tre turned his face into the cushions of his couch and let himself cry.
---
But he didn’t wallow all day; oh no! He got up out of the couch, his eyes still leaking, feeling his 38 year old bones positively creak in protest, and shuffled into the kitchen, his feet starting to kinda hurt now from the cold.
“I am not doing this,” he said to himself, opening the cupboard. “It’s my b-birthday, and I’m not gonna…” he paused to give a great sniff, “waste it cry-crying.”
And at last, his hands clasped on what he was looking for.
---
“In retrospect, Tre, this was probably not a good idea.”
Tre had taken up the habit of speaking to himself as of late, along with, of course, his old habit of singing small Christmas carols.
“Well, it’s not like I have anyone else to talk to,” he admonished himself, trying to justify his actions.
But even for Tre, this was kinda weird. He was laying on the couch in his underwear, the heat gauge in his house turned to ninety, eating Funfetti cake mix mixed with water out of a large bowl, and alternating between watching old home videos of himself as a baby and old and new Green Day videos, remembering what it was like to make them, the amazing feeling of accomplishment that came out of creating a successful video. Each video marked the good times in his life, and he felt a bitter nostalgia watching them.
His stomach was starting to hurt from all the cake mix along with gurgling unpleasantly, almost as if to remind him it was there.
“I feel you, I feel you!” he told it, massaging it gingerly, setting down the bowl and steadying his breathing, trying to keep his gorge down. He burped spectacularly. Suddenly, the storm in his stomach was over. Self satisfied smile on his face, he leant back into the couch cushions.
“Maybe that was a good idea, after all,” he said to the ceiling as Boulevard of Broken Dreams played on his computer. He remembered Mike tripped on the treadmill they used in that video and falling on his face and laughed heartily for a while. But even as he laughed, he felt a kind of hollowness inside him, because Mike and Billie weren’t there to laugh with him (or rather, Billie wasn’t there to laugh, Mike wasn’t there to scowl at them both - it wasn’t exactly his favorite memory.)
He missed them. That much was painfully obvious. And as much as he didn’t want to sound like a bitch, he wished they could drop everything and come visit him, like he would have done for them.
---
12 pm. 4 pm. 7 pm. As the clock neared 9, Tre had given up on his fantasies of his best friends knocking down his door, arms full of presents and mouths full of apologies, maybe bundled against the unseasonable, weird cold, but all there nonetheless. It wasn’t too late, he thought desperately. They could still come, he just needed to be patient. And even if they didn’t come - fine! Grand! Excellent! He was a 38 year old man, he could handle anything life decided to throw at him. He handled two divorces and kids who didn’t call, he handled months on the road and raucous crowds and endless interviews and photoshoots… he could handle this.
Sure.
Easy.
No problem.
“No problem,” Tre said, echoing his thoughts, as tears snuck out of his eyes. He stuffed his face into the couch cushions - again - and let himself cry, all the while echoing that there was no problem, none whatsoever.
---
The early morning sunlight poured in through the bay window, and the cold poured in through the door as Billie opened it to let Mike in. They stood next to the TV, looking down at the couch and the pathetic scene portrayed there. Tre was laying on the couch, a threadbare blanket tangled in his legs, naked except for a pair of black boxer briefs that were pulled all the way up. His stocky frame was twisted strangely, and Mike and Billie both turned their heads in unison, trying to gather how in the hell he could sleep in that position. There was a bowl of some weird multicolored substance on the floor next to the couch, along with one giant spoon.
As Tre heaved a great snore, Billie and Mike dissolved into giggles, clutching each other like little girls.
“Should we wake him up?” Billie asked as Mike tiptoed towards the couch, setting the presents down on the cluttered coffee table and looking down at Tre, smiling, his hands on his hips.
“Yeah, probably… he just looks kinda peaceful… albeit really uncomfortable…” Mike replied, giggling a little more.
So, together, on the count of three, they gave Tre a great shove. He leapt up, stuck his foot in the bowl of congealed cake mix, and shrieked.
“You bastards!” he yelled, splattering cake mix all over the floor. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
At this Billie and Mike looked a little sheepish. Tre was sitting up, glaring at them, face growing red from anger, waiting for an explanation.
“Well, Tre, you see…” Billie started, taking a hesitant step forward but slipping a little on the cake mix and losing his nerve. “Mike?” he said pleadingly, needing a rescue.
“Tre… Billie was in New Orleans, I was with my baby… Billie took the first flight he could get coming back, but nothing was available until this morning… you know, holidays and stuff... He’s been up since midnight at airports, if that helps you any. And I knew you’d be pissed because we were late, so I waited for him. And Brittney, she…” but Mike had also lost his nerve at the look on Tre’s face, which was very, very dangerous. Billie tried again.
“Tre, look. I tried to make it on time, I really did, but flights are fucked up. And Mike was rightfully afraid of your wrath, wasn’t he? Tre, just… I’m sorry, alright? But you can’t act like this. You’re a big boy.”
Tre’s eyes widened, and in one dramatic movement, he stood and stalked away, up to his bedroom, his exit slightly ruined by the fact that he was leaving cake mix footprints behind him. Mike and Billie sighed and followed, used to dramatics, as they were all quite dramatic themselves.
“Tre! Stop it! Come on! I didn’t mean it!” Billie shouted through the door, banging between each word. Mike heaved against the door with his shoulder and it cracked, causing both men to gasp and scurry away from it, not wanting to incite Tre’s anger further by breaking his door down.
“Yes you did!” Tre wailed from the other side of the door. “You meant it! I know what I am! Just a big fat 38 year old baby!”
“No you’re not!” Mike and Billie chorused together, approaching the door again.
There was the sound of more crying, and Billie and Mike exchanged looks. They hadn’t really realized how hard Tre would take their absence, and it was a bit unnerving. And very guilt inducing.
Some time passed before anyone spoke. Mike and Billie were sitting with their backs against the door, sweating from the too-hot heat in Tre’s house. The sound of Tre’s crying had ebbed a little while before, and now the only sound coming from the bedroom was tiny sniffles. Finally, after what must have been twenty minutes where everyone stewed in their own thoughts, Mike tried again.
“Tre, please,” he cajoled, “you’ve got presents to open, and we’re gonna be here for a long time, we’re not going anywhere. Plus, I have pictures of Ryan to show you…”
There was a pause, and the door opened a bit. Tre’s red eye poked out. “Is she pretty, Mike?”
“Beautiful,” Mike said, smiling warmly.
Tre opened the door all the way, his nose and eyes still red, still in his underwear and nothing else.
“I’m sorry for freaking out,” he said, looking down at the floor and shuffling his feet.
“And we’re sorry for being so late and missing your birthday,” Billie said quickly, Mike nodding.
“S’okay,” Tre said, looking up sheepishly.
Tre held out his arms, and both Mike and Billie rushed towards him, getting stuck in the doorway, causing a momentary scuffle. When that was sorted out, Tre’s arms were still accepting and Mike and Tre were engulfed in them, falling backwards onto the bed together, laughing.