The Man Who Would Not Be King

“I haven’t felt like this since Dookie…” Billie Joe trailed off, rubbing his temples. “If only I could just chill. Jesus.”

His green eyes looked up, startled to find he had an audience; Tré was peeking over the couch at him curiously. He grinned, registering Billie Joe’s slight discomfort at being caught in the act of talking to himself. “Wondering when I got here?” he questioned good-naturedly. “Well I was wondering that myself. Must have been roofies in my drink.”

Billie Joe snorted, now sufficiently distracted from his earlier thoughts. “In that case, someone slips you roofies every night, Tré.”

Tré lowered his voice conspiratorially. “It isn’t you, is it, Billie?” He winked. He flashed his pearly whites, smirking in response to the second snort this elicited from his band mate. “Billie…you might want to get that whole sleep apnea while you’re awake thing checked out,” he jibed.

At this, the black-haired guitarist stood up from his chair and closed the distance between him and his drummer. His intent revealed itself to Tré when Billie Joe took hold of his shoulders and gently, but forcefully shoved him off the couch. He then sat down in Tré’s place, propping his feet up on the cushions, as they didn’t quite reach the other armrest. He snapped his fingers airily and ordered, “Coffee, Mr. Cool,” before closing his eyes.

Mr. Cool waited a moment on the floor, his laziness battling the impulse to help out a friend. His head ached dully as he stretched his arms out between his spread legs, the movement spurring blood to pick up the pace to his brain. Coffee…it might do them both some good.

Instead of launching, or even creaking, into motion, however, his eyes flicked up to Billie Joe, whose own were still hidden by lids and long lashes. He frowned. He gave himself enough babbling pep talks to know that something was eating his friend. Unfortunately Tré didn’t quite know how to string together a concerned question without feeling like he was butting in where he wasn’t wanted. So the coffee would suffice.

Tré forced himself to stand wearily. He cast one more glance at Billie Joe, noting the way that his tattooed fingers splayed out on the fabric of his black T-shirt above his stomach. His breathing was steady, and Tré was no longer sure he was still awake. He sighed and walked out, hoping whatever it was that was unsettling him would be gone after breakfast.

As he pulled the door closed softly behind him, he craned his neck in order to catch the room number, 504. “Five oh four, five oh four, remember, Tré Cool. You’re a pro at hangovers and that means you can remember Billie’s room with one just fine,” he mumbled to himself. He had only passed a couple of doors, but somehow he had managed to distract himself with his own memory cue.

“Dammit,” he grumbled, deciding to forge on regardless in case he ran into the walking support column of Green Day, otherwise known as their bassist Mike. His hope was reckless, but be damned if he was going to stop now! His intense blue eyes stared ahead with drive and focus. Such focus that it took the ding of the elevator to reach his ears from behind to make him realize that he had walked straight past it. “Oh for two, Tré Cool, oh for two,” he told himself as he entered the confines of the elevator, pressing the glowing L button.

He moved into the dedicated breakfast area and grabbed two disposable coffee cups, setting down first one, then the other under the spout of the coffeemaker. As he did so, he eyed the tables absentmindedly, vaguely registering surprise at the lack of bodies. He’d figured at least some of the crew would be down by now. Unless they were just arriving to set up the venue later in the day. Yeah, he supposed, it was just the first night of their tour. He wondered, as he fit the second lid on, why no one ever deemed it important to tell him these things.

He felt an unexpected tug at his pants and turned around to find a girl of about two or three, her hair done up in blonde pigtails. “Why hello there….” He said in wonder, eyes sweeping his surroundings for a straggling mother.

Huffing into view jogged an apologetic young woman. “I’m so sorry! She went running ahead and…y’know, two-year-olds are fast.” She paused to gather up her child. “Say,” she began, uncertainty leaking through a slight squint, “aren’t you the…the guy from Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Tré affirmed, managing to keep his eye roll mental. “Tré Cool…nice to meet ya.” He stretched out a hand after fumbling one of the cups between the fingers of his other, already-occupied hand.

She took it, warmly, laughing as she realized he might be expecting an introduction himself. “I’m Kate, mother of this terror, Melanie.” She smiled at him and excused herself. “Well, you’re probably getting that for somebody, so I’ll leave you be,” she said, and relocated herself a ways down the counter, near the breakfast cereal.

Transferring the precariously gripped coffee back into his other hand, Tré re-entered the elevator. The doors slid closed in front of his face and it hit him that he was at a loss. Which floor was it, never mind which room! He cursed himself and looked at the numbers on the glossy buttons.

They didn’t exactly speak to him.

Apparently the elevator decided of its own accord to start the ascent, however; it brought him to the fifth, revealing what looked to be a very sleepy bassist. Mike yawned and put a hand on Tré’s shoulder to steady himself as he stepped in beside him. He directed the traveling box back down to the lobby before the thought to stop him was properly processed by Tré, still not quite recovered from partying the night before.

“Mike, wait! What’s Billie Joe’s room number again?” Tré cried frantically after him. He had to stop the doors from clicking back together first.

Mike waved over his shoulder. “Five oh four!”

Tré faced the door of 504 again, trying to determine the best way to knock with two cups of coffee tying up his hands. He went for his right elbow.

A shock of inky disheveled hair, followed by a bleary-eyed Billie Joe, bent around the door. His gaze lit upon what would soon be his caffeine fix, and he swung open the door the rest of the way, sending a light breeze in Tré’s direction. Taking that for an invitation, Tré edged by Billie Joe with the coffee, arms stretched over his head. Settling himself down on the couch, a touch of dismay dragged the corners of his lips in a direction contrary to his usual demeanor. Billie Joe was still on his feet, leaning against the door as though he needed its support to keep upright. Perhaps it was time to venture that question. “Hey, BJ,” he began, “you all right? You seem kinda spaced this morning.”

Billie Joe started and forced a laugh that rang hollow. “Just a little tired, that’s all.” He scratched at his chin, still standing.

Tré looked at him hard; Billie Joe made no movement to retrieve his coffee, not noticing that Tré had been waiting expectantly for him to grab it, nor remembering that he even had the extra coffee in his possession. Clearly something wasn’t right. “Hey, sit down,” Tré coaxed. He drew his legs in under him, preparing to be able to face Billie Joe if and when he finally joined Tré on the couch.

Billie Joe shook his head as if to clear it, scooped his new acquaintance—the coffee—from Tré’s outstretched grasp, and then mirrored his friend’s position. From rounded lips he blew a steady jet of air into the miniscule drinking hole in the plastic cap. He took a sip and winced, all the while avoiding eye contact.

“Billie, I know you,” attempted Tré again. He elected a straightforward approach. “What’s wrong?” After a second’s pause he added, “You’re scaring me a little; this isn’t like you. I mean, tonight’s the first night of our tour for our new record, shouldn’t you be excited? We spent a lot of time making American Idiot.”

Billie Joe sighed shakily. “I don’t know, Tré, it’s just…what if nobody likes it? What if I fuck up? What if all the audience sees is an insecure bastard up on stage?” He continued to look at the couch’s blue fabric, picking at a cushion corner with his free hand.

Surprised, Tré’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s all?” he smiled. “Billie, if they don’t love it, fuck ‘em all. We’ll still play. That’s what we do. But you know all the fucking reviews have come back positive for this thing, so that’s not gonna happen. You poured your fucking soul into these songs.”

Tré was about to congratulate himself inwardly when Billie Joe looked at him squarely, locking eyes for the first time since Tré had come back with their morning pick-me-ups. “I know!” he snapped. Instantly he regretted it and apologized. “I’m sorry…” he shook his head and squeezed his eyes tightly.

Tré reached across and rested a hand carefully on Billie Joe’s left shoulder. “It’s okay, man. I didn’t mean to upset you, I—“

“No, it’s not your fault,” Billie Joe muttered. He leveled his head again. “Tré…” He couldn’t finish.

“What?” Tré prompted, hoping that what came out of Billie Joe’s mouth would be just as trivial as the thoughts he’d given air to previously.

“Tré…” Billie Joe coughed, strained, somehow hoping that this would allow his voice to function without any help from himself. He was frightened of what he was going to say. “Tré…” he trailed helplessly, his tone wavering in frustration.

As Billie Joe sat poised on the precipice of a revelation, Tré held his breath, unable to keep his eyes from roaming over Billie Joe’s face, searching his expression for clues on how to help him. He watched as Billie Joe licked his lips for the seventh time, as he blinked—hard—, as his Adam’s apple shivered up and down, swallowing again on what must surely be parched walls, as his stubbled jaw clenched, revealing soft waves of muscle beneath the skin…. He felt Billie Joe’s shoulder shaking quietly beneath his finger tips. Waiting was agony. His mind would have been lighting on any and every possibility, flashing between them with a speed to break the sound barrier, but, strangely, he felt blank.

Just what was it? Tré almost felt annoyance when the silence stretched on longer. Every time he heard Billie Joe suck in a bit of extra oxygen, his pulse rate increased only to slow back down a fraction when still no words left Billie Joe’s mouth. Unbearable. His chest felt compressed. He closed his eyes. Another breath. Still nothing.

“I—“ Billie Joe spoke as if his lungs had cut storage capacity by eighty percent. “I— I think… Tré…that I’m…I might be…having anxiety trouble…again,” he finished.

Tré frowned, letting air escape through his nostrils. He concentrated on the texture of his cup as he formulated what to say. “BJ,” he reassured him, “you’ll be fine. You beat this once already, remember? That means you can do it again.” He forced a look of confidence and willed his voice not to betray that he felt he was walking on eggshells. “Besides, you’ll always have me and Mike. We’ll be with you no matter what,” he said firmly, trailing his fingertips in soothing circles across Billie Joe’s shoulder all the while.

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” Billie Joe responded weakly. “It just, I just feel so awful, y’know? My chest hurts, I feel dizzy, my jaw won’t fucking unclench… And I can’t stop thinking about tonight and everything else like it’s all about to fall apart right under me and I don’t know how to stop.” He was choking on his words, trying valiantly to hold back the tears he felt stinging at his eyes.

Tré felt compassion and sympathy for Billie Joe, but he had to admit to himself that he had never truly been able to understand what it must feel like to have an anxiety disorder, other than that it was terrible. He forced himself to know what to say anyway. “We’ll just, uh, well, we’ll watch your diet and, uh,” Tré thought back to the measures they had taken when Billie Joe had been freaked out after Dookie’s sudden success, “and we’ll keep you exercising and busy, and we’ll be here to talk whenever you need to.” Unable to resist throwing in a joke to lessen the tension, he added, “Except during a show.” It didn’t quite have the desired effect, he noted, as Billie Joe flinched, clearly sketching outlines of some imaginary stage debacle. Shit, he thought, not helping.

Billie Joe nodded, pulling at a lock of hair attached to the side of his head. He looked highly uncomfortable, gaze darting around the room until it came to rest on his forgotten coffee, which he then mechanically raised to his mouth. Tré was startled when his friend spoke again. “Tré, can you—would you mind telling Mike? I don’t really want to do it.” He cleared his throat before taking another drink of coffee, now lukewarm.

“Sure thing, bud.” Tré scanned Billie Joe for what felt like the thousandth time, uneasy. He couldn’t help but wish that he—they—didn’t have to deal with this at such a crucial point in their career and loathed himself for his selfishness.