Long Road to Ruin

I was alone. This time I was so completely, undeniably alone that my thoughts were echoing loudly through the caverns of my mind. This must have been an attempt by my consciousness to make up for the dreadful silence that surrounded me; a heavy silence that was more than unbearable.

Jay had gone without putting up too much of a fight. I fled frantically from the scene upon his growled command, and not a moment too soon, for the Chicago City Police Department had been hot on my trail. I ducked behind a dumpster and peered out at the approaching vehicles. All three police cars were adorned with brightly flashing lights. You’d think that they had been expecting a fight with an ex-con or something.

He sat frozen in the driver’s seat of the prostitute’s car. A blank, icy stare was present upon his swollen face. He was afraid. I could tell. I couldn’t help but admire the fact that he had so willingly put himself in my place, just to be handcuffed and prosecuted for an immature crime that he had not committed. I wish that I had that kind of courage.

Jay jumped suddenly when the first police officer approached the car window. His hands were hidden from the view of the car’s lone passenger. The right one was grasping the gleaming handle of his Beretta handgun.

“Step out of the vehicle with your hands up,” snarled the officer. It was a simple command. I could only imagine hearing that combination of words and knowing that they were being directed at me. Luckily, with the exception of a recent DUI, I had gotten away with all of my various crimes.

Including this one.

Jay didn’t hesitate to obey. I could clearly see him shaking; his lip was trembling as he opened the door timidly and stood with his hands raised high. Without further ado, the officer gripped him firmly and spun him around so that he was pressed forcefully up against the brightly waxed hood of the car. I heard him grunt in pain from the roughness of the impact. I winced.

“You’re under arrest,” he stated bluntly, wrestling Jay’s arms behind his back and encircling them with cold, metal handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”

The cop’s voice trailed off into the background as I lost my focus and dreamily watched those events play out. They were like sick scenes from a bad reality show. I was so busy trying to convince myself that what was happening couldn’t be real that I almost missed the fact that Jay was beginning to struggle against the force of his captors. His blue eyes were wide and child-like, filled with an obvious fear of what was yet to come.

“Billie,” he mouthed desperately, “Help me.”

I was helpless, and I had no choice but to watch glumly as my best friend was shoved into the back of a cop car and taken away.



How is it that, when confronted with an unfamiliar situation, humans have the tendency to react in an entirely different way than we would have thought? How are we able to take every moral or sense of loyalty that we’ve ever known and discard them at the time when we need their guidance most? At that moment, I desperately wished that I had the answer to those questions.

“I should have fucking stopped them,” I muttered bitterly, scolding myself. “Why the fuck did I not stop them?” I kicked absentmindedly at a pile of trash that had fallen from one of the overflowing dumpsters. Tears were streaming down my ashen face once more, but these were tears of a different kind. These were hot, angry tears. Any amount of sorrow or self-pity that I would have used as an excuse for my raucous behavior had made itself scarce.

This whole ordeal was no one’s fault but my own. The final realization that it had been my fault all along was sinking in quickly. I desperately wanted to push these feelings away as I had countless times before, but for the first time that I can remember I was unable.

Another idea was born from my distressed state of consciousness. I pleaded with myself both silently and aloud, but I couldn’t find a way for my mind to reject its dark new ideas. Babbling like some kind of madman was all that I could manage to do. This was what I had been reduced to. Billie Joe Armstrong was no longer the legend that the media knew; instead, I was a train wreck. My characteristic cocky attitude had always given others the impression that I didn’t care what they thought. At least now, that couldn’t be more wrong.

I was a cheater, a liar, a traitor, and a martyr all at once, a symbol of an American dream that was now in shambles thanks to the iron fist of reality. In those moments I was all I had ever wanted to become, and all I had ever feared of becoming. Life had certainly provided me with the best-or worst-of both categories.

What does one do when they are faced with ultimate catastrophe? How could I possibly live with the fact that I had ruined so many lives?

After managing to pick myself up off of the cold concrete, I turned to face the bay. The Chicago Skyway Bridge towered proudly in the distance, building a pathway across the sparkling body of water below. It was a refreshing sight to behold. I was drawn to it for reasons that I couldn’t explain if I tried. It was like my feet knew where they were going before my mind was able to make that connection.

I picked up my feet and almost seemed to be gliding across the ground as I walked. The scenery faded into the sky as my surroundings became a worldly blur. It didn’t matter where I was. All that mattered was where I was going, and why. Over countless years of touring I had acquired a good number of ‘connections’ in most cities, this one included. It had been years since I turned to any of them, but the time was right.

The walk to the bridge was a lot shorter than one unfamiliar with the city may have estimated. The bitter wind whipped through my hair and penetrated the thin fabric of my t-shirt.. I trudged forward, absentmindedly kicking stones and pieces of broken asphalt out of my way as I went. It was evident that I was now entering Chicago’s slums. The majesty and modernistic shine of the main street strip had gradually transitioned into a more bleak and derelict picture of middle class life. There was not a house on the block that didn’t need to be repainted, and most of them were missing at least one window or screen on the door.

It was not long before I was standing on the doorstep of a house that I only vaguely remembered. I knocked on the door and then waited. The minutes that followed felt like hours. Eventually, I could hear dull footsteps heading towards the door. It cracked open. A pair of dark eyes looked out at me briefly before their owner opened the door.

“Well now,” the heavyset Mexican man drawled quietly, looking at me in disbelief. “Didn’t anticipate seeing your face around here again, Beej. Don’t just stand there. Get your skinny white ass in here before someone sees you.”

He ushered me in and I obliged. Upon stepping into Marco’s house I was met with the overwhelmingly pungent odors of sex and whiskey.

“What do you want?” he asked impatiently, his small eyes darting from side to side as if he
expected the law to show up on the same doorstep I had just left.

I stuttered at first. I could hardly believe what I was doing, and I was now sweating profusely.

“I-I’ll take an eight-ball of the usual,” I said, while shoving a handful of crumpled fifty dollar bills into the palm of his hand. The look on his face was one of slight shock. Even so, he didn’t question my actions. What kind of a dealer does?

“Eighth ounce of speed,” he verified while handing it to me. I nodded as I took it and abruptly concealed it deep within my pocket.

“Thanks man,” I said, feigning confidence. He winked at me.

“Enjoy, fucker.”