Long Road to Ruin

I sat on a mahogany park bench, looking up dreamily at the star-studded sky above me. A slight wind whispered through the air and gave the fallen leaves the little push they needed to be swept across the sidewalk. There was an array of white marble fountains in my view, and the way that the glistening water danced and shone as it fell to the pools below seemed almost choreographed. The full moon above reflected an eerie light onto the surface of the lake in front of me. Peaceful and pristine described my current surroundings to a tee; however, I could not help but to feel restless.

I was not actually alone; I had four friends and band mates that were awaiting my return to the hotel room. No, I was far from being alone, but in a sense, I wanted to feel alone. I needed to feel alone so that I could make sure I still had my own intact separate identity after all these years. Every waking moment of my life for the past two decades had been spent among large amounts of people, whether it be friends, family, media officials, or fans. People I had never met knew me by name, knew my birthday, my favorite color, my family history. Suffocation is the only word sufficient enough to describe how I have come to feel. I needed to get away from my life, so I had taken a few hours to do so. It was just me and the world tonight.

My name is Billie Joe Armstrong and I am the singer and lead guitarist in a band called Green Day. This I know, but other than that I’m not sure of who I really am. This had been my lifestyle since I was a teenager, and though it may seem glamorous, living the life of a rock star is not something I would recommend to anyone who is unsure of their identity to begin with.

After taking some time to gather my thoughts I stood up and turned around to face the bustling city in the distance, full of light and life even at this time of night. The wind picked up and a chill ran down my spine. They don’t call Chicago the windy city for no reason. I shivered as I shoved my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket, searching for my cigarettes. I found one and lit up, taking a long drag and then letting the smoke trail wispily from my mouth. I honestly don’t know what I would do without nicotine.

Suddenly, my phone went off, disrupting the peace. I dug it out of my jeans and saw that it wasn’t a call, but a text. A text from my band mate and best friend, Mike.

Mike: Where are you man? You’ve been gone for hours.

I didn’t want to tell him, I wanted to continue to have the illusion of being alone for a while, but not responding was against my better judgment. Mike had been my friend for twenty-seven years, and I knew full well that if I didn’t answer he would be out looking for me within the hour. Might as well save him the trouble.

Billie Joe: I’m where you are, of course. Chicago.

Mike: Oh, thanks. At least I know you haven’t jumped off the Navy Pier or something. But fucking seriously, where are you?

By now I had left the garden on the edge of the city, and I laughed a little at his sarcastic use of humor.

Billie Joe: I’m just walking around, don’t freak out. I’ll be back before you know it.

Mike: I know you love to be confusing BJ, but I wish you’d tell me what’s been wrong with you lately.

Billie Joe: Eventually.

That was all I had left to say to Mike at the moment, so I shut my phone off and stuffed it back into my pocket. I knew that he wasn’t expecting me to continue to respond. I’ve always been a complicated person, tormented and troubled, but that’s just my fucking life. And he knows that. There are just some things that I don’t want to discuss with anyone, not even my wife or best friend. That is something that anyone who wants to get involved with this son of a bitch has to accept.

Alcohol was something that had always comforted me in my time of need, and now seemed like a perfect time as any to get completely shit faced and take my anger and confusion out on this town. I was feeling reckless tonight, oh yes, and I was ready to make a statement. It didn’t take long to find a bar, not in a city like this, and within another fifteen minutes I was seated on a leather stool inside a little corner place called Chuck’s. I had picked this one because it represented so much of what I remembered about my life. Neon signs with only half the letters lit, pin-up girls displayed in risqué positions, an assortment of old license plates, guitars, and sports memorabilia littering every inch of the walls and available surfaces. Complete and utter disarray.

I ordered a large glass of straight whiskey and began to drink. The alcohol burned going down my throat, a familiar sensation, and I finished it. I asked for another, and another, and another. Pretty soon I was so close to being drunk that I couldn’t be classified as sober anymore. That’s when a woman approached me and asked if I needed a taxi to get wherever I was headed.

“No,” I said wryly, “but you could help me with something else.”

Even a drunk man could tell that the woman standing in front of me was a prostitute. She wore a leather miniskirt, a piece of cloth that barely covered her chest, and red stiletto heels. She gave me a sultry little smile, and right then and there I knew that I shouldn’t have said anything. Alcohol had methodically made it into my system once more, something I promised would never happen again, and it would come with both a blessing and a price.

I finished my fifth drink, and then proceeded to be led behind the building by the little vixen. I felt my black skinny jeans, jacket, t shirt, and underwear come off, and the last thing that I remember was the feeling of being explored by her eager fingers, her bare chest against mine, and then, with one simple thrust, pure ecstasy.

“Fuck,” I thought desperately, subconsciously. “I have a wife.”