The Man Who Would Not Be King

As far as he was concerned, life was a symphony, full of violin swells and heavy, booming timpani. It muffled whatever damning information was being siphoned off from Billie Joe into that laptop. Immersed in Gustav Holst, Tré simmered, the God of War in the midst of battle and weaponless. He twirled the wire to his earphones around a finger tightly, trying not to watch them.

It was all he could do, really. Stuffed inside that bus on a twelve-hour ride, practically flush against the enemy. He could feel the sweat crawl over his skin, scattering, spreading itself so thin that had he not been focused so hard on quivering woodwind reeds he might have felt suffocated, coated in a second skin with no pores.

“It’s getting hard to breathe in here,” he said.

Everyone looked up. Billie Joe with his arm around Annabelle, Annabelle with her arm around him, seated in between his legs on the couch. Dennis, back still turned, glancing behind him. Mike said something.

It took the blaring of several horns to alert Tré to the fact that he couldn’t hear anything in the outside world. “What?” he asked, tugging the earbuds from his ears.

“Oh, I was just moving my lips,” Mike joked sarcastically, earning a sharp glare from his drummer. “Well, what do you want us to do about it? The air conditioning’s on; it’s bound to be humid as hell outside. This is the east coast, and it’s summer. I don’t think you’re gonna have much luck with an open window.”

Breathing out, Tré didn’t make an attempt to argue. “Yeah, yeah…” He blocked one ear again, but before he could close the other one off, too, a snippet of the interview snuck in. He paused to listen.

“—ink the album is American precisely because it’s attacking America. If we ignore the problems here in this country they won’t, y’know, get fucking fixed. All we were trying to do with our songs is spread awareness, y’know, like other punk bands before us—Operation Ivy, for fuck’s sake, The Clash is a big one—so I just don’t understand how American Idiot is even viewed as controversial. It’s the logical progression of what came before, what punk came before it…”

Maybe he had overreacted. The reporter would have to be foolish to risk his livelihood covering something other than what he’d been assigned. The sexual liaisons of Green Day’s front man weren’t likely to be the focus of a whole article. Much less an article commissioned due to the unforeseen success of an album late in a band’s faltering career, a “controversial” one at that.

Or maybe his wariness was warranted, but, honestly, Tré would believe anything if it were one less thing to worry about. He probably could have used the distraction though, keep his mind further away from something else aiming an arrow straight for his heart.

He looked down so he couldn’t see him nock it. Circling his thumb around the iPod wheel, he scrolled through his list of artists. He came upon one that made him think for a minute. Madcap? He didn’t recognize it. He concentrated, willed himself not to envision Billie Joe with a bow cocked and a sad, sadistic smile.

It was a song he’d downloaded from Green Day Authority, that fan website they’d sent a copy of American Idiot to early on. That was mostly Mike, eager to help the little man boost web traffic. Or something.

He clicked on it, anyway. The song was called “Lovesick”. Tré was struck by the upbeat nature of the pop punk instrumentation in contrast to the dark, brooding classical music he had been listening to. The opening words broke his resolve.

Every time I look at you I wanna kill, wanna kill
Stranger things that I would do to make you feel the way I feel

The singer wore a crinkly smile below his choppy, directionless—maybe all directions?—hair. His gaze was pointed at Annabelle from behind her; maybe Dennis had moved on already from the subject of the album to that of Billie Joe’s current relationship(s). No, Tré thought, Billie Joe had brought her into it, unable to resist making a comment on the one he loved.

Once again, Tré found himself wondering just what pulled him to her when by all accounts the two of them had more history. Magic. Sex? Magic.

She had to be a siren. Threading mythic harmonies, a long, carefully linked chain to rope around Billie Joe’s neck. Impervious to the sea, she serenaded him down from his ship. It was the only explanation.
***

The driver had ordered them to find some dinner at the rest stop and return to the bus in thirty minutes or less under pain of death. For some it was a mild inconvenience, others a test of resolve, and still for others a mission. Annabelle was on a mission.

Saying she wanted to use the bathroom first and would meet him later, she slipped loose of Billie Joe. Somehow in that time Tré had disappeared into the annals of the many eateries available inside the building. She cursed under her breath and headed out in search of her target.

Annabelle evaluated her options. Tré had a penchant—well, more than a penchant—for Chinese food. She supposed she’d start at the Panda Express. It wasn’t a minute later before she found herself standing lookout for Tré in an entirely Tré-less area. Swearing again, she continued her pursuit. Before long she was going to run into Billie Joe and then her opportunity would be foiled. She modified her approach to include walking through the crowd’s thickest points.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, as she bumped into a woman sporting an outlandish neon green fanny pack. Without allowing it to distract her, she scanned the scene to her left. Her eyes lit up; she spotted Tré among the patrons of Taco Bell. She zoomed over immediately and tapped him on the shoulder to let him know she had joined him.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Hey.” He looked behind her, confused when he didn’t see her boyfriend (his boyfriend?). “Where’s—,” he started to ask.

“Billie Joe?” she filled in for him. “Presumably buying food somewhere. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. I’m probably being paranoid, you know, irrational woman,” she admitted, waving her hands in the air to exemplify a weak hold on reality, “but something’s kind of been bothering me the past couple of days.”

Tré opened his mouth to reply, but didn’t get very far in the attempt.

“I know you’re gonna ask why I’m not talking about it to my boyfriend, but I can’t, because it involves him. And if you’re thinking, ‘then why me?’ it makes sense because you’re the closest to Billie Joe. Lately even closer than Mike. So, here we are.”

“Okay.” Tré scratched his head.

“Well,” Annabelle powered ahead, “this is kind of a weird complaint for a girlfriend to have, honestly, but ever since a couple of days ago Billie’s been showering me with affection. And, I mean, I like affection, don’t get me wrong, but it just…seems a little abrupt? Maybe if we’d started off hot and heavy it would be more normal, but something feels sort of…odd. Anyway I was just wondering if Billie has said anything about us to you.”

She stood there, chewing her lip, frustrated, and Tré suddenly felt sorry for her. He had been trying to detach himself from any guilt stemming from his influence on her situation. Even resorted to imagining her as a mythical creature. If he had ever taken a college class, he would call it “othering”.

He hadn’t been expecting this encounter. He had no idea what to say to her short of the truth or nothing at all. “No, no,” he deflected, “he hasn’t said anything to me other than how glad he is to have you around. Typical ‘I have a new girlfriend’ stuff.” Tré paused thoughtfully before adding, “He’s not like a stalker or anything, you know.”

Annabelle nearly jumped to set the record straight. “No, I know, I was thinking more along the lines of…forced, maybe, like he’s trying too hard or something. I want him to know that he doesn’t have to convince me, if that’s what he’s worried about,” she sighed.

“You could tell him that,” Tré offered.

Snorting, Annabelle refused. “Clearly you are not the one to go to for relationship advice. That would only make things awkward and ruin everything.”

Tré shrugged as he moved up a spot in the line. Struck by a sudden whim, one Tré knew he should have ignored but followed anyway, he asked, “Can I ask you how your sex life has been?” He threw in a half-assed snigger to make it seem like a joke.

“Jesus, Tré, I’d heard you were inappropriate, but really?” She smacked him on the shoulder playfully. “Okay, I’ll humor you,” she said, nearly sending Tré into a whirlwind of shock. “Our sex life is great, thank you very much.”

He pulled his face down in an exaggerated frown. “That’s not a fun answer!” he whined. “You were supposed to say something about riding crops and horse noises,” he informed her in a cheeky whisper. He couldn’t believe the joke flew.
***

Annabelle had suggested he reconnect with Pete, to apologize after the incident in the bar. Tré had wanted to, but somehow his age-old habit of avoidance rather than owning up to his mistakes had won out. And now he was really missing someone to talk to since he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on with Billie Joe and him, or whether he was hallucinating seedy motives behind the reporter’s meticulously crafted façade. Too many problems for a man to face alone. He needed backup.

But he didn’t get the time, and instead boarded the bus accompanied by Annabelle and two heaping bags of Taco Bell fare. He wolfed it down, spilling some sour cream slathered lettuce and cheese down his shirt in the process. Oh well. After that he quietly listened to Mike’s account of the failed album and the road to American Idiot’s conception. Then he fell asleep for a while.

He woke as the bus was pulling into the venue parking lot. It was dark. Somehow his nap had replaced the need to talk to Pete with the need to confront Billie Joe. No dreams to blame, just an aching heart.

“Hey Billie,” he called, breaking into the living space as everyone was shuffling to get out and stretch their legs. It was a spacious tour bus with more than ample legroom, but the urge to walk on land had as much control over them as on seasick boat passengers. “You wanna walk to a gas station with me? I’m out of cigarettes.” He dangled the empty carton in the air. In reality he’d stashed the remaining cigarettes underneath his pillow.

“Yeah, sure.” Billie Joe was under no false pretenses when he accepted; he knew Tré just wanted to talk, cigarettes be damned.

Annabelle nodded at Tré as the two men exited. Someone else discerned the movement and dashed back to where he kept his things.

They walked in silence for a good five minutes before Billie Joe turned to Tré, unable to bear it. “Did you want to talk about something or do you really just need cigarettes?”

“Both,” Tré answered, unwilling to admit that he wasn’t really lacking tobacco. “I, uh,” he began, eyes on his feet, “I wouldn’t normally tell you this if you and Annabelle were a real thing, but since you’re not…she said it seems like you’re trying too hard; I believe she used the word ‘forced’… So maybe you should, uh, tone it down a bit to make it seem a bit more authentic until you officially break it off.”

Billie Joe opened his mouth. “What? She really said that? I can’t believe it!” He shoved his hands in his pockets in incredulity and unconsciously picked up the pace. “I was trying to make it more real for the reporter,” he muttered.

He had taken the bait. “Billie…she said since a few days ago. Dennis has only been here since yesterday.”

“Oh.” He wiped away the sweat that had accumulated on his brow. A bright Sunoco station loomed ahead.

Tré pretended to leaf through his wallet as they walked on, a diversion while he tried to bring his runaway heart back from his mouth. It might be a lost cause. “Billie, can I ask you a question?” His words still came out around the throbbing thing.

In the pale glow of the station sign, Billie Joe could see that he would seal his own fate. He thought he saw a flash of red behind Tré’s teeth. “Shoot.” He’d given the order.

“Wait, let me get my cigs first.”

They walked into the mini mart, each feeling like he had jumped off a cliff but for some reason hadn’t fallen yet. The transaction was quick, too quick. Too fast but too terribly slow. To hang suspended in fear of the drop or to plunge to the rocky bottom? The door, as it shut behind them, made the choice.

“Did you sleep with her last night?” Tré’s words fell like bricks tied to their feet.

Billie Joe hesitated, but he didn’t see a way out. “…Yeah.”

Tré couldn’t even be angry, because he had expected it, already known, really. Instead he felt sick, starting to sweat more than the heat allowed for. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. No, you shouldn’t have done that,” he said through gritted teeth. He hadn’t yet put the box of cigarettes in his pocket. The corners crunched in, distorting its perfect shape. “If you even loved me at all,” he spat.

“Tré, why do you always have to be so fucking cynical? I did it…well, I don’t really know why I did it, and I’m not gonna make up excuses, but I fucking love you. Right now. You know that,” Billie Joe pleaded, to a man who wouldn’t even look at him.

The Madcap lyrics rang in Tré’s head. They had been stuck there since the afternoon.

It’s just that I have been broken so many thousand times
And every time I start again I wonder why, wonder why

He shook his head. “Billie, I don’t know that, and that’s the problem. I…I think it’s best if we just forget this ever happened.”

Billie Joe’s voice cracked. “Tré, don’t—”

“Bill, it’s done.” He stopped them both at the side of the road. “I’m sorry it worked out his way,” he said, and wrapped him in a fierce hug, pulling back to kiss him one last time.

It was then that the flash bulb went off.

“Shit.”

“Fuck.”

They both swore at the same time and snapped apart.

“Thanks for the shot, guys. This will fit in great with the other photos in the article.” Dennis emerged from behind a palm tree, holding a rather conspicuous camera.

Billie Joe tensed to launch at him, but was held back by Tré. “Why, you!” he snarled.

“Billie, let it go. There’s nothing you can do to him that he won’t press charges for. Let’s go back to the bus, let him find his own place to sleep.” Tré shepherded Billie Joe away from the scene of potential violence. As he did so he turned to glare hard at Dennis; he wanted him to feel it.

Reluctant, but walking, Billie Joe spoke angrily. “I didn’t even know the fucker had a camera.” He was a ball of emotions. The rage coursing through his veins at the photo and what it would mean for him, the massive loss eating away at his chest, and a feeling of helplessness formed the hot tears splashing onto his cheeks. “I need to be alone.” He pushed Tré away and changed direction, headed back towards the gas station.

Tré was detached as he entered the bus again solo. He went straight to his iPod and played the song.

You say to me my heart feels far away
I'm lovesick now