Long Road to Ruin

After the show in Denver, the guys decided to go out on the town for a round of drinks. I, having lost my taste for alcohol and any establishment that was affiliated with it, decided to stay behind in the tour bus and use my time to wallow in even more self pity. This would be my life and temperament for the next two weeks. Then, the touring would come to an end until it resumed in Europe in six months, and it would be time to head back home.

Home.

I wasn’t exactly sure what the word ‘home’ even meant to me anymore. Was it merely the place where my family lived? The place I came back to when I was done on the road, and where I stored all of the belongings that couldn’t fit into my luggage? Could it be more than that? It seemed to me that home had become just another part of my infamous double life. My own thoughts were beginning to confuse me. I had formulated quite a few abstract ideas recently, mostly out of boredom.

They say that home is where the heart is, and while that statement is probably true, right now it felt like nothing more than a death wish. I wasn’t looking forward to what was in store for me once I got there.

It was then that I realized how lonely I was, with my friends-if they still were my friends-gone, and most of all, with my wife back at home. I wanted to feel better; needed to feel better. I began to touch myself, first out of loneliness and then out of desire. Soon I coaxed the zipper of my jeans down and slid my hand below my underwear. I squeezed, moved rapidly, moaning in the silence of the tour bus. For a little while, I did feel better.

Two weeks came and went, and soon I found myself walking mechanically up a smooth cement driveway, dragging my suitcase behind me. The driveway led to a yellow, two story house. I noticed that the shutters and the shed in the back yard had been given a fresh coat of paint in my absence. There was also a newly planted flower bed beneath the largest front window. Like always, life had gone on without me. I looked up at my house, squinting due to the sun, anxiously biting my lip. I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to turn around and run away from the prospect of losing my current life again.

It was so very tempting, the idea of scheduling another round of tour dates or another publicity event in order to buy myself more time. I knew better, though. The rest of my band mates were in favor of a break, and Billie Joe Armstrong alone isn’t Green Day.

I had been so absorbed in my current thoughts that I’d failed to realize the sound of the front door gently swinging open. It wasn’t brought to my attention until it slammed to a close once more.

“Dad?” I heard a young voice call. I looked up to see my twelve year old son, Jakob, walking excitedly towards me, his black hair tousled from what I assumed to be a sleep-filled Saturday morning.

“Hey, Jake,” I said affectionately. He looked so much like his mother, just like my eldest son did, that it was hard to focus on any other thought. “Missed ya.”

“We missed you too Dad, even Joey did. But especially mom.”

“Is that so?” I replied jokingly, a characteristic crooked grin on my face.

“Most definitely,” replied my wife. She had appeared on the front porch only moments earlier, I had seen her out of the corner of my eye. She flashed a smile, striding quickly towards me, leaving a cloud of dust and pebbles in her wake. Her dark hair was no longer held up in its usual mass of dreadlocks, but instead worn straight, cascading down her shoulders and several inches past her chest. Her eyes sparkled lovingly as she wrapped herself in my arms and kissed me deeply, passionately. I returned her kiss with authentic enthusiasm, savoring the moment. I held her close to me, wishing this moment would last.

My wish was in vain, though. I hadn’t meant for those few fatal words to escape my lips, but by the time I realized what I was doing the air had already been expelled from my lungs. The deed was done.

“Adrienne,” I said hesitantly, “I need to talk to you.”

Like the day we had spoken via video call, her expression rapidly changed. It was only on the rare occasion that I broadcasted the need to discuss something with her. By nature it was something I did my best to avoid, and she had come to learn that the subject of my ‘talks’ was almost never good.

“Jake, go inside for a while honey,” she said to her son, gesturing towards the house. “We’ll be in soon.” He obeyed reluctantly, dragging his feet all the way up the driveway. Once he was inside and I was sure that he wasn’t eavesdropping, I took Adrienne by the hand and led her to a couple of lawn chairs that sat in the corner of the lawn.

“What’s going on, Billie Joe?” she asked suspiciously. An anxious frown had edged the corners of her scarlet lips.

My heart raced. A million different scenarios passed through my mind; some desirable, others, not so much. I was desperately searching for the right words to say, the right way to tell her what I had done. It was obvious that there wasn’t going to be a good way. Each possible sentence combination was discarded, one after another. I felt like I was going to be sick.

I was, for lack of a better word, fucked.

“I…I’ve made a fucking terrible mistake. “

Without any further ado, I told her. I told her everything from my lonely struggle with depression to my foolishly executed encounter with alcohol, and finally the worst news of all. I broke down right before her eyes, decrepit, a pathetic shell of a man who wanted his feelings and destructive behavior to somehow be reconciled. I babbled on continuously, in run on sentences that contained even more jumbled thoughts and detail. Apologies were rampant within those minutes. I was afraid to stop speaking for even a second for fear of the outcome of my absolute confession.

Tears had begun to stream down her porcelain face, telling a haunting tale of heartbreak. I had hoped that she would have something to say in return, no matter how malicious her words would be. I just wanted to hear her say something. Anything. She just continued to cry, in shock. I knew that she wouldn’t allow me to hug her, and that any attempt at comforting words would be rejected. I was powerless. Finally, she spoke.

“Go,” she said bitterly, choked up.

I pretended not to hear her.

“Go,” she repeated a few seconds later. “I don’t want to see your fucking face around here anymore.”

“But,” I interjected, “I love y-.” She cut me off. Now she stood, trembling and furious, staring me straight in the eyes.

“Bullshit,” she snapped. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t have just proved to be like every other mother fucking egotistical musician in the business. If you loved me, you would have thought twice before going and fucking some filthy whore. If you really fucking loved me, Billie Joe Armstrong, you would have tried to be an adult for once in your god damn life. You don’t love me.”

With that being said, she turned on her heels and stomped off towards the house, never looking back. I could hear the tears come again, and I wanted to comfort her. My life had officially crumbled around me, and her words had stung more than being shot in the chest with a silver bullet.

For the first time in my life I had gotten my wish.

I was alone.