The Man Who Would Not Be King

Tré marched up to the table. “Where is he?” He tried to keep his voice casual, but there was no mistaking its urgency; it was teetering on the edge of chaos.

They sat there staring. Finally Pete spoke up. “Who?”

“Billie Joe, God damn it.”

“He left a minute ago with Mike. They kind of rushed out of here. I take it Billie Joe’s nosebleed left him feeling like crap.”

“Shit.” Tré left.
***

She placed a platter of sandwiches on a long table with a white table cloth draped over it. They were in yet another dressing room, this one much more spacious and accommodating for a band than the one of the previous day. She stood back to make sure everything was all right before leaving them to their own devices. “Does anyone want anything else?”

Mike raised a hand to call attention to himself. “Yeah, do you have any Diet Coke? Can I get a few cans?”

She nodded. “Sure, no problem.” After taking a beat to allow anyone else to voice requests, she went on her errand.

The men crowded against the table, eager to fill their stomachs. Tré stood at the back and studied Jason as he grabbed a sandwich. Apart from a rather sullen silence, he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary since their alleyway confrontation. Tré tried not to think about that, but it was really all he could think about. Beneath his calm exterior he was seething; every time he looked up his sights settled on either Jason or Billie Joe, and one was as good as the other in drudging up the unwanted memory.

The others cleared and Tré picked the top sandwich off of the diminished pile, not caring what was inside. Let it surprise him. He sat down with it and took a bite. He remained unaware of its contents, arrested mid-chew by an abrupt realization. Hastily swallowing, Tré maneuvered himself over to Billie Joe’s side, where he squatted.

“Hi, Tré.”

Tré glanced at Billie Joe’s sandwich and was pleased to see he hadn’t started to eat. Then he lifted it from his hands. Billie Joe raised an eyebrow. Tré felt the intrigued stares of everybody in the room upon him. Self-conscious, he gave himself a little more height using his calves and leaned towards Billie Joe’s ear. Cupping it, he spoke at a low volume. “Shouldn’t we get you some wheat bread instead of that white shit? You know, for your…doesn’t it make you more anxious?”

Billie Joe’s other eyebrow shot up as he performed a mental double take. “Wow. Yeah, you’re right. I wasn’t even paying attention. That’s really sweet of you, Tré,” he said out loud, smiling.

Not sure how to respond to a compliment that contradicted everything he’d ever heard said about him, Tré practically jumped up—happy to ignore it—when their assistant or whoever walked back into the room, arms laden with a couple packs of Mike’s Diet Coke. Before she’d even set them down he was pestering her for a replacement sandwich. Billie Joe looked on in amusement, his lips twitching in vain to keep themselves disinterested.

“Sorry to bother you, but do you think you could make this sandwich on wheat bread?” He paused to pry the offending slices of bread apart. “What is this? I think it’s…tuna?” He glanced behind him for confirmation from Billie Joe, apparently too nervous to rely on his own functioning senses of sight and smell. “Uh, yeah, so, tuna on wheat…please.”

Taking Tré’s awkwardness in stride, the woman replied simply, “Sure, no problem.” Tré chewed his tongue, hoping that he hadn’t been too weird about it, but knowing that he had. His eyes fell on Billie Joe, and Tré registered that it had been he who had put that silly grin on his band mate’s face, made the corners of his eyes crinkle softly. He, Tré Cool, notorious self-absorbed idiot, had provoked a bit of genuine happiness in Billie Joe, even if it were only for the moment. A feeling of fuzzy gratification formed in his chest.

Mike’s voice disrupted his thoughts. “Hey, Tré, you wanna go for a quick walk with me?” A touch of a frown leant his expression a certain severity; Tré gathered his suggestion had a specific purpose.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he acceded and abandoned the two sandwiches right there on the table cloth. He made to pursue Mike as he exited, but before stepping completely out, Tré noted that Jason looked ill where he sat, staring dully at his shoes.

As soon as they’d taken several paces away from the door, Mike turned to Tré. “So you know, then.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

The question, laced with insinuation, recalled for Tré the precise abashedness he’d had when an ex-girlfriend had once interrogated him about his cheating. “Just since yesterday morning. I was supposed to tell you, but it never really seemed like the right time…” he mumbled.

“Jesus, Tré. You could have taken me aside like I just did with you.” They rounded a corner. Mike checked the hostility in his voice. “Sorry, I guess I don’t really care about that, it’s just it would have been nice to maybe have some warning before I got hit with one of Billie’s panic attacks.”

The repercussions of Mike’s last sentence sent a current of electric horror reverberating through Tré’s skull. “What? When?” His heart sped, racing a million crazy, fearful thoughts. It always concerned him just how much Billie Joe managed to keep hidden from people. Especially when he didn’t make the cut for confidant.

Mike sighed. “Last night. The nosebleed. He must have been worried it wouldn’t stop, not that he’d ever say. But he started to breathe pretty heavily and I’m sure the fucking toilet paper blocking his nose didn’t help things. It took like thirty seconds before he was full-on hyperventilating.”

Tré said nothing.

“Anyway, so I just held him close in that fucking closet-sized bathroom until he stopped freaking out. The little bastard got blood all over my shirt.”

The seriousness of the situation didn’t prevent Tré from exploding into laughter at Mike’s statement; it only served to heighten the contrast between the two and so encourage it. A couple people passing shot him judgmental looks. Mike resisted the urge to call Tré out on his immaturity.

“Sorry,” he apologized, breath returning to him. “He was okay after, though, right?” he asked. Recalling Billie Joe’s earlier seemingly care-free demeanor, he was aware asking was senseless.

“Yeah, but where the fuck were you? We asked the guys and they said you’d disappeared.”

The implied accusation of neglect stung, and Tré swiftly opened his mouth to remedy it. “Now that’s an interesting story…” Tré’s face darkened. “Fucking Jason…” he began. He recounted to Mike every illogical thing that Jason had spouted in what both of them could only fathom had been a fit of insanity.

“I was wondering what bug crawled up his ass. Although now that I do know I don’t really know what to think.”

“I told him he was being a fucking idiot, but he wouldn’t listen to me. And I couldn’t just blurt out that Billie Joe was having anxiety problems either without his permission.”

“Yeah, he’s intensely private about that. Makes it kind of a bitch to help him,” Mike complained. “So how do we sort this out? Are we in agreement that Billie doesn’t need to know that any of this happened? Because I don’t think, I know that it would mess him up to think he was causing problems.”

Tré agreed immediately. “Yeah, definitely. You don’t have a plan, do you?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m working on it. Maybe I should just punch him in the face.”

Tré smirked. “And I thought you were the level-headed one.”
***

The familiar Windows start-up melody blared out of the battered laptop’s speakers. Tré winced as the sharp, tinny sound grated against his eardrums. Even the hearing loss he’d accrued from drumming over the years did nothing to protect him from the shrill tones that went unbuffered by the nonexistent bass.

It had already been hours since sound check and still there remained time until the show. Giving into his boredom, Tré had retrieved his computer from the bus and sat with it now on the dressing room couch. He double-clicked to open Firefox. He scratched his head. The internet laid its vast self out before him, and yet he had almost no interest in it.

He looked up. A quick survey of the room revealed that his fellow performers were equally unsure how to fill their time. A cluster of empty Diet Coke cans congregated on the floor around Mike’s chair. Tré watched as Mike set down another and walked all too hurriedly to the adjoined bathroom. Somewhere across from him Ronnie and Jason Freese were picking through the remainder of the sandwiches. Billie Joe was out for a smoke break. Tré didn’t know Jason White’s whereabouts.

Tré’s peripheral picked up the color change he’d learned to associate with his screensaver. He dragged a finger across the touchpad to startle it back into consciousness.

Indulging a sudden whim, he pulled up Google. In the search box he typed “anxiety diet” and hit Enter. The first page of results yielded all what seemed to be credible links, so Tré clicked on the one at the top.

It brought him to a sub-page of an anxiety self-help website, titled somewhat obviously “Your Anxiety and What You Eat.” Tré skimmed a couple of paragraphs explaining the science behind certain foods’ connection to anxiety and panic prior to landing on a bulleted list of foods to avoid.

A hand descended on his shoulder. Billie Joe was craning over him, squinting at the screen. “God, I think I need glasses.”

“Shit, Billie, you scared me,” Tré exhaled, pulse thumping like he’d been caught fucking.

“So whatcha lookin’ at?” He settled himself beside Tré and snuggled up to him, resting his head on his shoulder.

Oh God, did he have to be curious?

Billie Joe felt Tré stiffen next to him.

“Promise me you won’t get mad?” Tré said warily.

Billie Joe looked at Tré sideways. “Promise.”

Tré tilted the laptop screen at a better angle for Billie Joe. “I was looking up a list of foods that you should try to avoid.”

Tré waited for an angry response, the recent alcohol incident fresh on his mind. It didn’t come. Instead, Billie Joe inquired calmly, “What’s on it?”

Relieved, Tré read off the list’s contents. “Sugary foods, anything with white flour such as white bread…sweet drinks, potatoes, cheese, things with caffeine in them like coffee and chocolate—”

“Okay, that’s bullshit. Chocolate? The caffeine in that is totally negligible.”

Tré ignored Billie Joe’s indignation for the time being and went on. “—fast foods—they list fried chicken, burger, fries, and pizza—and alcohol.”

Billie Joe’s face fell. “Even alcohol? Can I even fucking eat anything? …This sucks.” He sighed.

Keeping his PC balanced on a knee with one hand, Tré ruffled Billie Joe’s mop of hair affectionately. “It won’t be so bad,” he said, wrapping his arm around his friend and squeezing him tightly.

“Easy for you to say,” Billie Joe grumbled.
***

A drop of water rolled past Tré’s cheekbone and he wished he had towel-dried his hair better. Not that it really mattered so much. A second later he was greeted by Mike’s face from out behind the door. “Come in!” He was pulled into the hotel room, where Billie Joe waved to him from the couch.

“You should be glad I’m not kicking the shit out of you,” Mike informed him.

Tré took the bait. “Yeah, why’s that?”

Mike smirked cheekily. “Because you spent so long in the shower one might go thinking you’re a woman. I’m fucking starving, now can we please pick something to eat?” Mike stared expectantly at Tré, like his words would be the deciding factor.

“Uh, I dunno. Billie Joe, what do you want?”

The guitarist left his spot on the couch and joined the other two. “Can we just get a pizza? I really want pizza,” he opined.

Tré bit his lip. “BJ, that’s on the list…”

“What list?” Mike asked, feeling uninformed.

Billie Joe enlightened him. “He’s talking about this list of foods that you aren’t supposed to eat because they provoke anxiety symptoms.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked from Mike to Tré. “But I already had wheat bread today and I just exercised on stage and I won’t drink tonight, so…please?” he pleaded, tugging at their sympathies.

Tré struggled inwardly, aware that Billie Joe’s “evidence” as to why he’d be okay wouldn’t hold up in court. Or perhaps just later. But he had been acting fine all day, so… Ugh, why not let the fucker have his pizza?

Mike arrived to that conclusion first. “Well, why not this one time?”
***

“Why are all these celebrities living in one house? Does that make any sense to you?”

“None of this reality TV makes any sense, Bill.”

“But there must be some reason, right?”

The three of them sat, full and exhausted, on the hotel couch, the empty, grease-splotched cardboard pizza box lying forlornly on the floor in front of them.

“Tré, is that your feet I’m smelling, man? They fucking stink.”

“As if yours never do.”

“No, but I’m just saying, maybe you could move them somewhere not so close to my face.”

Tré scoffed. “Mike, back me up here. Is Billie’s lap anywhere near his face?”

“Close enough,” Mike laughed.

“You bastard!” Tré cried and launched an attack, scrambling to his feet where he swayed on the cushions for a short moment and then leapt over Billie Joe to propel himself at Mike. The bassist dug his knee into Tré’s chest to keep him at bay, and then secured his wrists with an iron grip. This resulted in a deadlock, Tré unable to push Mike’s arms backward and vice versa. It was in this inconvenient position that the knock on the door reached their ears.

“Well then, since you guys are occupied…,” Billie Joe grunted as he heaved himself out of the indent that had been patiently forming under him for the past hour. He stumbled over to the door, drunk with fatigue.

Mike and Tré stopped wrestling and looked at each other when they heard who it was. “Jason? What’s up?” Billie Joe yawned, hand in his hair.

“Billie Joe, I have to apologize.” He was slurring. Billie Joe allowed Jason to slide past him. While his back was still turned, both Mike and Tré shook their heads vigorously and mimed slit throats. Jason didn’t understand. Jason was shitfaced. Jason would do what he wanted.

Billie Joe faced Jason and smiled sleepily. He repeated his “What’s up?” Then he caught the ashamed look in his eye.

“Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I guess I was just scared when I noticed something was wrong. And it was really good of you to try and act normal around me all day. I think it helped me realize I was being an asshole sooner. I…I didn’t mean to accuse you, it just happened, but…I mean, I’m sorry.”

Billie Joe’s lips parted slightly as he tried to say something, then recognized that he had no idea what was going on here. His forehead wrinkled in confusion. He glanced toward the couch hoping for some enlightenment. What he found there took the form of two speechless, but visibly infuriated men. “Jason…I don’t know what you’re talking about. It looks like they do, though.” He nodded stiffly in their direction.

He saw Jason’s nerve falter, his eyes flickering now this way and that to evade Billie Joe’s. Billie Joe licked his lips, which had gone dry. “Jason?” The name came out in two breathy syllables.

Trapped, Jason silently implored first Mike, then Tré to come to his aid. Mike was rigid, unwavering, and controlled in his refusal. Now that the event was in the midst of unfolding he had no wish to stop it from proceeding. Tré was a den of conflict. On the one hand, Jason deserved whatever rage was coming his way, but on the other, Tré didn’t think he wanted Billie Joe to have to get angry. Hadn’t he already done that for him? But he couldn’t prevent it either. He shook his head firmly. It slipped out a little too maliciously. “Jason accused you of doing coke,” he sneered.

“I…I don’t understand…” Billie Joe mumbled, pressing his hands to his face, perhaps to bring his mind into focus, but the adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream only seemed to make his thoughts more vague, less concrete, and altogether sluggish. He trembled. “Why…How could you?” All the moisture in his mouth had fled; his words were throaty and arid. He desperately wanted to grab something, cling to something. He momentarily made do with one hand in the back of his hair and the other twisting the fabric of his T-shirt into a tight ball. Until his right leg began to quake where he stood.

His throat produced a noise, a cross between a groan and a whimper. He tried to shift his weight to still the shaking of his leg. It started up again regardless. He transferred both of his hands to rub his neck in an agitated, twitchy manner.

No one moved. In the quiet his breathing became more labored. He needed support. There was nothing to lean on. With each exhalation came a pained hum, broken by the next intake of air.

He couldn’t let this happen to him in front of people. Right now Mike and Tré and Jason were all just people.

He bolted to the bathroom.

The three others followed, concerned. “Billie Joe, are you all right?” Jason called through the door.

Mike glared at him. “Get out,” he commanded, nostrils flaring. Jason obliged and slinked away, wondering yet uncomfortable and filled to the brim with guilt.

Mike and Tré pressed their ears to the door. They couldn’t hear anything. “Billie?” Tré questioned.

Billie Joe answered—didn’t really answer—, sounding strangled. “No no no no no no no I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t—” Whatever he said next was incoherent. Silence for a few seconds. “FUCK!” he screamed. They heard something hit the ceramic toilet seat with some force, clattering.

A “Shit,” escaped beneath Mike’s breath. He tried the doorknob; it was locked. “Bill, why don’t you come out? Jason’s gone. You can let it all out in front of me and Tré, okay?”

Tré chimed in. “It’s okay, Billie, we’re here to help.”

The only response took the form of loud, racking sobs, muffled by the wood that separated him from them.