Long Road to Ruin

I stared dumbly at the Nesser furniture semi until it was gone from my sight, vanishing into the glum, eastern sky. I couldn’t bring myself to believe the fact I’d just learned: Adrienne’s uncle, whom I’d never previously met, had just knowingly driven me away from my home and across the country. That explained the sheer awkwardness I’d encountered while accompanying him on his trip.

There was something else nagging at me as well, something that hadn’t occurred to me until this very moment. It wasn’t a shock that the man had known my identity; I’m all over the television and internet. However, he had also been aware of what had recently happened between Adrienne and I. This could mean only one thing: she had already told her whole family that her egotistical rock star husband had finally cheated on her. She’d probably assumed that I would leave and put her uncle up to shipping me out of everyone’s lives.

This stung more than anything else that had happened to me so far. I had known from the beginning that my wife would probably never forgive me for doing what I had done, but…

“She wants to get rid of me,” I said softly, my heart breaking for a third time. “She really doesn’t love me anymore.”

I stood alone at the edge of the parking lot, shaking. My green eyes were brimming with tears; tears that I was struggling fiercely to hold back. Billie Joe Armstrong, the shattered rock star. Billie Joe Armstrong, the scumbag. This seemed to be the world’s poorly formulated opinion of me. No one knew the man behind the music; they just assumed that I was like all the rest. I had no chance to prove myself otherwise. They had given me permission, and their blessing, to leave.

“Fuck them,” I mumbled angrily, picking up my luggage and walking back towards the road. “I don’t need them.”

It was then that a chill went up my spine, bringing to light the vast differences in temperature between the East and West coasts. It was nearly winter, after all. As I walked quickly towards town I decided that I’d stay at a motel tonight. Tomorrow, I would figure out where the hell I was going to go from here.

The first motel I came upon was several blocks away from the slums on the edge of town. There was no need to guess why. The small, stone building was dilapidated and in some places even crumbling. The windows were shielded from the sun by old shutters that were an ugly, faded shade of teal. A tall, steel sign broadcasted the word “Vacancy” in bright red letters. I almost went for it, but because money was one of the few things that was still on my side I decided that spending a night in a shithole like that wouldn’t be necessary. Instead, I chose a small Comfort Inn that was located much closer to the center of the town.

I was almost to the entrance, ready to shake off the bitterness of the cold when someone spoke to me.

“Sir?” A man’s raspy voice inquired sullenly. I looked sharply in the direction of the voice and was met with a rather sad sight. It was a homeless man with sunken eyes and a long, scraggly beard. He wore only a pair of tattered khaki shorts and a flannel shirt that appeared to be several sizes too big for him. What I assumed to be everything he owned was on the sidewalk next to him, in two trash bags.

“Any spare change?”

I hesitated to give him anything, just like more fortunate citizens usually do. For all I knew, he just wanted to bum change off of anyone who passed so that he could invest it in booze and drugs. But then I had an interesting, down-to-earth thought: What exactly made me any better than this man? The fact that I had money and decent clothes? No. The only thing that set us apart was my former luck and his lack thereof.

“Here,” I said, digging into my pockets and handing him all that remained from my last ATM transaction. By the look on his face, the way it lit up with happiness, you would think that he’d never seen $25 in his life. He insisted on thanking me enthusiastically multiple times. I assured him that it was no trouble; I didn’t have anyone to share my fortune with anyway. Then I entered the hotel lobby. For the first time in a while, I felt good about myself. I had actually helped someone instead of doing harm.

I instructed the receptionist to charge the $75 night’s stay to my credit card and I accepted the room key. It had been a very long day, and I was eager to get a shower and some much-needed rest. I slid the key into the slot engraved in the door of room 39 and it unlocked with a click. Once I had opened it my eyes were met with the typical arrangement. A bed, armchair, television, nightstand, and closet. It wasn’t much, but it definitely beat spending another night on the road with a trucker.

The first thing I did was strip off all of my clothes and turn on the shower. I stepped in and felt instant relief as the warm water cascaded from the shower head, massaging my back and shoulders and removing the built up dirt and grime that had accumulated on my skin over the past days. It was calming to wash your troubles away, and for the next few moments I did just that. I tried to forget Adrienne, my friends, my career, and my life. For now, I was just me. I was at ease.

That is, until I happened to hear that my phone was going off in the pocket of my jeans, which had been lazily strewn on the bathroom floor.

I wasn’t going to answer it, and I didn’t the first time. I continued to enjoy my shower. But, when it rang again, I figured that I should probably answer it. Climbing out of the shower, I wrapped a towel around my waist and went for my phone, slipping a bit on the way due to my wet feet coming into contact with the linoleum. Looking at the caller I.D., I gulped. It was Mike.

“Hello?” I said, after finally answering.

“Billie Joe!” he said loudly.

“Well, yeah,” I responded, “who did you think it would be? Arnold Schwarzenegger?” I chuckled a bit when saying this. I never missed an opportunity to make fun of California’s current governor.

“What’s going on over at your place?” he asked. “I came over to give you your guitar strap and tuner, because somehow they got mixed up with my stuff. At first it looked like no one was home. When I called the house phone Adrienne hung up on me and she wouldn’t let me in. What’s going on? Are you sick or something?” he continued to babble on, obviously worried.

“No, Mike, I’m fine.” I said. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tell him anything else, but decided to when I realized that I wasn’t going to be here after tomorrow anyway. “I’m just not at home.”

“What?” he asked, with a confused tone of voice. “What do you mean you aren’t home?”

“I’m in Indiana.”

“WHAT!?”

“Calm down,” I reassured him. “I’m a big boy now, I can take care of myself.”

“You told her, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied honestly, “And the outcome was just as shitty as I predicted it would be.”

“I’m coming to get you,” Mike said firmly. “You know as well as I do that you belong here, not in the goddamn middle of nowhere thousands of miles from home.”

“I don’t have a home, Mike,” I hissed. I was tired of people trying to get involved in my life when at this point it was none of their business. “I screwed up everyone else’s lives and no one wants me there anymore. You don’t have to fucking lie to me, I know it’s true. I am nothing but a burden that even you don’t want to bear. I’m a poster child, my only use is bringing in your’s and Tré’s paychecks. If it weren’t for that, no one would give me the damn time of day. I’m done with this. With everything. Even Green Day.”

I hung up and shut off my phone. I was too irritated to be awake any longer. It was time for bed.