The Man Who Would Not Be King

Tré almost fell out of the tour bus. When he had managed to regain his balance, he blinked into sunlight that didn’t seem to have a source, but was instead rather like a violent blanket of energy. Next thing he knew he was caught in a crushing bear-hug. Once finally released he pulled back to find Jason White attached to the offending pair of arms.

“Tré!” Jason shouted, reeling him in for another hug, this one complete with a few superfluous pats on the back.

“Jason!” Tré mimicked his greeting. “Hey, dude, how’ve you been?” He looked him up and down exaggeratedly.

Jason smirked. “Oh, you know, as good as I can be considering I’m about to become your groupies’ consolation prize. Real blow to the ol’ self esteem, you know.” He ruffled the back of his hair.

“Well, let’s go see where the crew’s at with setup,” Tré suggested, not sure light banter was really his area of expertise this morning. He pivoted, briefly taking in a fidgety Billie Joe talking to a calm Mike. Billie Joe was rocking back and forth on his heels, worrying his hands. Tré didn’t think that Mike even noticed. If he did, he certainly made no indication. There had been no time to take him aside earlier; their tour manager running over last minute details had dominated the band’s attention since leaving the hotel.

Jason waited patiently with a raised eyebrow. “Something up?” he asked when they started walking.

Tré shook his head. “Nah, man…”

Jason understood that sometimes the guys in Green Day liked to keep quiet about any inner-band trouble, but he found Tré’s silence in particular unnerving. “You sure?” he persisted.

“Yeah, Jason.” Oops. There had been a note of irritation in Tré’s voice. Not going to touch on that one again.

They continued on, their silence accentuated as they passed a couple people barking orders and hurrying about with clipboards. Soon they had located backstage. Various crew members milled about the stage structure, double checking there was no ill-mannered or rogue equipment among the lighting and pyrotechnics.

Having already met some of the roadies earlier, Jason took it upon himself to identify the ones he hadn’t immediately forgotten. He grabbed one of them by the arm as she was passing by unawares. She swiveled in mid-stride, coming into view with a soft giggle. After ten years of fame, Tré still found himself off-guard whenever a beautiful woman operated in close proximity and actually acknowledged his presence.

“Oh,” she said, surprised when she saw who it was that had apprehended her. “You’re Tré Cool,” she stated, eyes wide.

“Yep,” replied Tré, absorbing the details of her appearance. Chestnut waves of hair fell just over her thin shoulders and contrasted with her plain black STAFF T-shirt. She wore loose-fitting dark-washed jeans, barely held up by an unassuming cloth belt of the same color as her shirt. Tré guessed she was in her mid-to-upper twenties.

Jason interrupted Tré before he could say anything else. “Tré, this is the gal who’s doing our lighting, Annabelle.”

“Mucho gusto,” Tré said, bowing, not sure which culture he was really trying to evoke.

“Ditto. I have high expectations. Rumor has it you’re crazy.”

Annabelle struggled not to laugh as Tré spoke again, this time cross-eyed. “Oh, well now, I just don’t know if I can keep up with you young’uns nowadays. See, I think I’m entering middle age. My vision’s going. It might be cataracts. Where are you?” he asked, reaching his arm out into the air, feigning a search. Jason just shook his head, accustomed to Tré’s antics.

“Well,” chuckled Annabelle, looking down and then back up rapidly, “I should probably get back to work so your show isn’t screwed up and you fire me before we get to have any fun. I’ll see you around.” She bounced away, a spring in her step.

“She’s cool, isn’t she?” Jason squealed once she was out of earshot, which wasn’t long at all thanks to the noisy atmosphere surrounding them.

Tré nodded enthusiastically. “I’m thinking later tonight we make some good memories with the roadies.”

“Mmm.” Just then Jason caught sight of someone else he had met that morning who had piqued his interest. He called out to a man with a buzz cut and a stocky build, currently bending over the edge of the stage, adjusting a speaker. “Yo, Pete!” Jason waved him over.

“This,” Jason bellowed, despite the fact that Pete was now a mere five feet away, “is the drummer of a pretty famous band. Have you heard of them? They’re called Green Day.”

Tré was amazed that Jason could make this exchange with a straight face. It reminded him of Billie Joe’s extravagant stage introductions; he told Jason this.

“That’s the idea. Anyway, this is Pete, in charge of all things sound.”

Tré dipped his head in acknowledgement, then shook Pete’s hand. “Nice to make your acquaintance, kind sir.”

Trying to contain a smile, Pete rubbed his head and looked at the floor. “Wow, man, I kinda woulda figured you guys wouldn’t want anything to do with us grunts. I’m glad you’re not like that.” He shifted his weight awkwardly.

Tré recoiled in mock hurt, doing an excellent job of covering up the small part of him that was offended that anyone would think that of his band. “I’m glad I’m not like that too,” he replied sincerely. He paused, ever more aware that he just wasn’t in the mood for all of this today. He would much rather be off in a corner, sleeping off a night’s indulgences, but he couldn’t just disappear, so instead he put forth an invitation. “Are you doing anything after the show tonight?” Tré asked, addressing Pete; to Jason, post-concert drinking was an assumed part of his duties. “You wanna catch a drink with us?”

An expression of pure shock and delight adorned Pete’s face suddenly with an air of childlike enthusiasm that belied his masculine exterior. “Is that a question I have to even answer?” he shouted to the high ceiling, incredulous. “Of course!” His eyes shown with what Tré would have termed a “mystical light;” he was delirious with happiness.

As Pete slapped a hand on his shoulder to stress his super-charged answer, Tré tried to grin back. He was still feeling bothered and so didn’t really commit, but by then Pete was far gone into a land of wish fulfillment. Jason picked up on it again, but wisely chose to keep his mouth shut in lieu of causing a possible scene; he wasn’t sure what exactly Tré would do if pressed further.

***

Things hadn’t gone so well from there. By the time he and Jason had finished making rounds, Tré’s facial muscles felt strained, he had already lost the names of everyone except Annabelle and Pete, and he was left with an intense craving for alcohol. Thankfully he didn’t have to bother shaking off Jason because he had excused himself to see to his guitars.

Now alone, Tré searched for his band’s dressing room. He rounded a corner and found himself in a deserted hallway. One of the doors bore a paper sign with GREEN DAY printed on it in bold, black capitals. He twisted the doorknob and plowed his shoulder into the thick slab, pitching himself into the room. It was empty.

The room was furnished sparely, with only a mirror and a few metal folding chairs spread out randomly in front of a rack from which their stage outfits hung. There was also a square wooden table, barely three feet across. In the corner stood a full-sized refrigerator, toward which Tré gravitated.

As he opened it he sighed with relief that despite the overall shabby appearance of the place they had at least managed to stock the fridge full of liquor. The drummer reached into a sizeable crate of beers and came back with a bottle. He saw, retracting his head from the cold enclosure, that he hadn’t been the one to christen the batch; someone else had been there before.

He spotted a yellow bottle opener lying forlornly on a stool next to the refrigerator and grabbed it. The cap popped off easily and Tré took a swig of his beer. He lowered himself onto the stool and sat there quietly, squeezing the bottle opener in his hand.

It was strange being in a dressing room devoid of people. Usually Billie Joe would be navigating between people desensitized to his otherwise distracting warm up routine. Tré pictured him bouncing on the balls of his feet through his black Converse while shaking out his arms and hands, lips vibrating in a bid to adapt his vocal chords to singing for two hours. In his mind’s eye Tré added Mike to the scene: he cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers, and then plucked at invisible bass strings stretched from one molecule of air to another. Jason was there too, and Ronnie and the other Jason.

So where was everyone now? He supposed it was too early.

Tré sipped at his beer, tracking its passage down to his stomach, where it swirled coolly. He stared at the sweating honey-colored glass, but didn’t see it.

This whole thing with Billie Joe, he thought, Billie Joe’s anxiety…why did it make everything seem so ominous? Tré knew, rationally, that it was all of the added pressure he was placing on himself to be the perfect friend in this situation. He inhaled and held it. He felt hot and resentful suddenly. He wished he could just lay it all on Mike and take a back seat to this damned uncomfortable affair.

Something in the back of his mind tugged at him, challenging this thought. He usually harbored a sliver of envy toward Mike for being the one Billie Joe always put his faith in. This time he had, in a way, gotten the turn he’d secretly longed for. Just why had it had to be this time? His lungs released their breath finally.

Tré ran a hand through his hair, and then gripped his bottle again. His gaze, which had taken another quick sweep of the room, returned to it. He followed a bead of condensation from the curve at the bottom of the neck past the label until it lost itself at the end.

Tré’s inner dialogue snagged on Mike, reminding him that he still had to fulfill his promise to Billie Joe. He didn’t quite understand why he had been charged with this task, but if Billie Joe felt more comfortable this way, who was he to argue? Then again he realized he didn’t want to. At all. It was bound to be awkward. Too many questions.

“Why are you the one telling me?”

“Didn’t he trust me?”

“Well, fuck, what do we do?”

Tré had no answers, not one grain of confidence. He was no good! What the fuck had he done prying into Billie Joe’s feelings?

Another hot bubble of anger and confusion rose up inside of his chest. He didn’t know what to do.

Before he could ponder his options, his musing was interrupted by the motion of the door swinging open. He heard a surprisingly boisterous mixture of talking and laughter coming from the other side. Juxtaposed with the silence he’d been set adrift in for the past ten minutes it was jarring; the dressing room must be soundproof. Tré straightened his posture, as he was previously bent forward, elbows resting on his thighs. This was the best snap to attention he could muster, too apathetic to abandon his stool.

Entering the room was the very subject of his agonizing deliberations. Billie Joe swayed a little, holding a glass of ice and some unidentified form of alcohol. Tré had no trouble guessing the missing beer’s fate. He eyed his band mate carefully and assessed his level of intoxication.

Billie Joe was now standing by the still-open door, using it as a support. The image was eerily like that of the morning. He was wearing the same clothes. So, Tré realized, was he. It seemed very far away.

Noise filtered through the gap as Billie Joe continued to stand there, immobile. Tré blinked. Slowly a grin unfurled across Billie Joe’s features. He jerked away from his position, towards Tré.

“Y’know,” he said, and stood in front of the other man, leaning precariously.

Tré waited for him to finish his sentence, but he didn’t. Instead he began to chuckle, and those chuckles slowly evolved into outright giggles. Tré didn’t really know what to make of Billie Joe’s behavior.

“Billie…” he began uncertainly, “I think maybe you should sober up in the rest of the time before the show.” He moved to take Billie Joe’s glass. He wondered fleetingly where he’d even gotten a glass instead of the cheap, standard red Solo cup.

Although somewhat slower than when at fully functioning capacity, Billie Joe effectively avoided his companion’s reach at the cost of some of his balance. He steadied himself. His voice dripped with contempt as he said, “Oh sweetie, Billie Joe can take care of himself just fine.”

Quickly Tré retaliated. “Oh, bite me, Billie Joe. If you want to fuck up this tour already then just go right ahead,” he flashed.

Billie Joe looked affronted, recovered, then—in a move that thoroughly stunned Tré—proffered him his glass to confiscate.

Tré flinched. He accepted it sheepishly and stated, “I thought you were going to dump it on me.”

Billie Joe, who had been standing there rigidly for some time, appeared to more or less relax when Tré admitted this: his shoulders dropped lower and he looked at the floor, which he then ground his right foot into, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice cracked.

Recognizing that Billie Joe was on the verge of tears, Tré leaped up and embraced him gingerly, pulling his head down into his shoulder. Billie Joe’s body felt immediately warm and sticky. A muffled hiccough sounded next to Tré’s ear, and Billie Joe compressed himself tighter to Tré as if there were no single existence to go back to. A blazing wetness creeped into the fabric of Tré’s shirt.

“Billie, it’s okay…” Tré wasn’t exactly used to comforting people, and wondered whether he was failing at it. It sounded like Billie Joe choked.

Several seconds went by without any further development, the two men locked in a ball of damp heat. They didn’t speak.

Tré’s fingers untangled themselves from the hair at the nape of Billie Joe’s neck; he hoped he wasn’t being premature. Billie Joe loosened his own grip in response and took another moment before he let Tré go. He sniffled, wiping away the collective mass of tear streaks on his cheeks with the back of a hand.

Tré looked in concern at this man he had known forever, who suddenly seemed like a thin, crumpled version of himself, a half-opened umbrella. “Billie Joe, are you gonna be all right?” he questioned.

Billie Joe nodded slowly. His eyes were thoroughly bloodshot, as if they’d been rubbed raw, his complexion gaunt.

“It’s only like twelve, why don’t you get some sleep? I’m sure if I asked, someone could rig up some sort of arrangement.” Billie Joe only nodded again, docilely.