The Man Who Would Not Be King

“Ah…fuck…” Tré dug his feet into the carpet and willed his muscles to cooperate enough to move his body into a seated position. The angle wasn’t right. His chin pressed into his chest, head and shoulders against the door, lower back curving downward in the most regrettable slouch, Tré’s wakeup had been less than pleasant. He relaxed again.

This time his arms enlisted in the war effort. He propped himself up, and then scooted backwards to support his spine. He wiped a patch of semi-dried drool from his cheek and worked out some of the kinks in his neck with the help of his palms. Mike roused himself gradually next to him, probably in response to the shuffling sounds that accompanied his movements.

He grimaced. “Mmm…” Bending over, he placed a hand on his rounded back to temper some sort of lingering pain from his former posture. “I feel…horrible.”

Tré bowed his head to acknowledge he felt the same. He swung around and stared at the eggshell painted wooden wall—yes, the door was far more like an impenetrable wall—and pondered what the hell Billie Joe was doing, or planning on doing once he’d found himself awake (assuming he had ever managed to fall asleep). He hoped he had at least had the good sense to lie in the bathtub.

The woeful inadequacy of the prior night’s sleep and the unease that gripped him at being confronted with a barrier sent his stomach into roiling nausea.

Something rustled inside the bathroom. Tré held his breath; Mike sat equally still. They waited.

The doorknob turned counterclockwise, then jiggled back. Mike scrunched his face, displaying either worry or exasperation depending on the vantage point. The same mixture tormented Tré.

Without warning the door was open and Billie Joe was stepping over them tacitly. He walked to the untouched bed, where he had tossed the backpack he kept his hotel clothes in the night before. Opening it roughly, he removed a wrinkled, faded T-shirt. Mike and Tré simply watched, able to interpret the waves of hostility almost visibly radiating from their friend’s body: he didn’t want to talk; he didn’t want them there.

Billie Joe put down the shirt and pulled the one he was wearing over his head, revealing a pale, thin torso. Tré thought maybe too thin, a slight depression ran along his side and his pants swallowed a hollow near his hip bone. He didn’t have long to examine him, however, as Billie Joe yanked the clean shirt down to cover his upper body.

He didn’t glance backwards on the way out.

Mike sighed.
***

Three days passed and Tré couldn’t remember saying anything to Billie Joe. That Billie Joe was moody was an understatement. He soaked up the voices of those around him like a Victorian mourner and repelled all company. Everyone was wary, but they didn’t know why.

It was a traveling day, which meant the band was confined to their bus. At a rest stop Tré opted to ride with the roadies. Two couches faced each other where Tré sat with Pete, Annabelle, and Bill.

“You wanna smoke some pot? You look like you could use some de-stressing,” Pete addressed the unusually quiet drummer. Tré was thoughtful for a moment and, not judging the consequences harmful, accepted the offer. Pete disappeared into his bunk and came back with a Ziploc bag and some rolling papers. He dropped himself back onto the couch, causing Bill to bounce upwards on the adjacent cushion.

Annabelle elbowed Tré playfully. Catching his eye, she warbled, “Guyyss, we’re having a green day with one of the members of Green Dayyy.”

A short burst of air blew out of Tré’s nostrils. “Surprisingly,” he allowed, “nobody’s actually dared make that joke before…”

Bill raised his eyebrows. “You’re kidding!” he laughed.

“It was pretty lame, Anna,” said Pete before licking a paper.

“Belle,” she returned automatically.

“You like it,” he maintained, putting the finishing touches on the joint. He grabbed a lighter and held it to the tip, dragged, and, leaning forward, passed it to Tré. “So…if you don’t mind me asking…” Pete hesitated. “What’s with you guys?” He was alluding to Green Day’s problems, that much was clear.

Tré steeled himself with a puff of marijuana. The palpable curiosity coming at him from all sides wore through his defenses; he would tell them what he had refused Jason, and that didn’t make any sense, but, frankly, Tré was tired of holding on to his reservations.

“Seriously…,” Annabelle added, “Billie Joe’s been all I don’t even know and Mike’s so bristly lately… Even you look like you’re depressed as all hell…”

Tré closed his eyes, weighing his words cautiously. When he opened them again, he gave the joint to Annabelle. Relaxing all the way into the couch with an elbow propped up on the back and a hand supporting his head, Tré spoke. “Basically things were kinda fucked up and then I really fucked them up.”

Bill nodded. Pete opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. “Could you be any more vague?” chided Annabelle, giggling, the pot already choking out her sense of seriousness.

“I’m getting to it… Okay, essentially long story short is that Billie Joe is having anxiety problems and he only told me, and then Mike found out about it, but Jason jumped to the idiotic conclusion that Billie was using cocaine because nobody told him, and then Billie found out about what Jason thought and got really upset and now he won’t talk to any of us.” Saying things out loud confirmed for him that telling Jason to begin with could have circumvented the current scenario. He felt stupid.

“Wait.” Pete blinked thoughtfully. “How is any of that your fault?”

“Well if I hadn’t kept it a fucking secret none of this would have happened.” Tré frowned.

Bill sneezed unexpectedly, and after the ritual “bless you” and “thank you” routine, asked, sniffling, “Did Billie Joe ask you to though?”

“Yeah, because if he did, you really can’t blame yourself for doing what he wanted…,” Annabelle shrugged.

“I thought it was implied, but he didn’t actually say it, no.”

“Don’t worry about it, man. You can’t beat yourself up about it. Sometimes these things just happen. And for what it’s worth, you guys still rock it every night. That’s fucking amazing, considering you’re not talking to each other.”

Tré smiled at Pete gratefully. “Thanks.”

“Please tell me someone told Jason, though?” Annabelle said, concern evidenced by her knit eyebrows.

“Uh, yeah, Mike and I took care of it. I know he feels really bad, but I can’t help still be pissed at him.”

“You said he thought Billie Joe was doing coke?” Bill confirmed.

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck?” He shook his head.

“What the fuck,” Tré repeated.
***

The rest stop was as bustling as any rest stop in the middle of Arkansas ever ought to be, although mostly this was due to the sheer number of people on tour with Green Day. “All I want is some General Tso’s, and this God damn Panda Express line is like three miles long,” Tré whined. Mike stood by, stoic, scrutinizing Tré’s conflict with where to place his hands. Thumbs hooked around belt loops. Hanging loosely by his side. Shoved in his pockets. One holding the other’s wrist.

“Will you be still? There are only nine people in front of us,” Mike reprimanded him.

“Okay, I take back what I said earlier,” Tré amended, ignoring Mike, “I think I want the General and some orange chicken and maybe even some sweet and sour pork. Or should I swap the orange with chow mein? Oh, and I need won ton soup too.”

“Fucking fat-ass, Jesus Christ.” If his words didn’t, Mike’s tone betrayed his revulsion.

Tré shrugged. “What? I have the munchies.”

“Aw, seriously, you smoked and you didn’t think to share?” Disappointment was etched onto his face.

Tré hurried to dismiss the cause. “It was on the other bus, sorry. I didn’t plan it.”

“Hey,” Mike interjected to change the subject, his voice lowered, “have you talked to Billie Joe at all?” He checked his surroundings.

“Not a word, unless you count saying ‘excuse me.’ You?”

“Tré, we talked about the weather. Best friends since we were ten and all we have to say is how the weather’s been obscenely warm lately! I can’t fucking believe it.”

Tré muttered, “At least that’s a conversation…”

Mike glanced at him. “Sorry.”

The conversation ground to a halt; neither spoke until they had finally arrived at the counter. “I’ll take the, uh, General Tso’s and the chow mein and some sweet and sour pork, and, fuck it—oops, sorry—some orange chicken too. Oh, and a small container of won ton soup. Thanks.”

Rounding the corner of the bus, Tré couldn’t avert a sharp intake of breath when he saw Billie Joe already there with a cigarette. Almost immediately he went to spin around, but before he could complete the turn, Billie Joe looked up and made eye contact. Tré froze. “No, stay,” entreated Billie Joe, raising an arm to stop him in a symbolic gesture.

He didn’t argue and took the spot next to him, so that they were both leaning with their backs to the bus. He pulled a cigarette out of the carton he was holding and lit it. Crickets. The sun had gone down a while ago; they would sleep on the bus that night.

To break the silence, Tré asked, “Are you coming out with us?” While his mouth was moving, he processed several thoughts concerning the appropriateness of his question. One, Billie Joe wasn’t supposed to drink. Two, he hadn’t exactly been subscribing to the diet anyway. In that respect, Tré could swear he was eating every food on the list deliberately. Three, it was too late; the words had already leapt from his tongue.

“No, I think I’m gonna go to bed early,” Billie Joe replied, sighing. “You have fun though,” he added.

After another drag, Tré let his arm flop down to swing below his waist as he tilted his head backwards to gaze at the sky. It was the kind of black that he swore was every hue at once. The parking lot lampposts made it difficult to pick out the stars, blurring them into a haze. “Billie, are you okay?” He wasn’t sure what in particular made him ask that now.

Billie Joe rubbed his temple and a bit of ash dropped from the end of the cigarette stuck between his fingers. “No, not really…”

Tré almost wished he hadn’t been so candid with him. He didn’t know how to respond. “Can I help somehow?”

Billie Joe stared at his sneakers. “I dunno, Tré.” He flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the concrete and ground it underfoot. Throwing his weight forward, he came away from the bus. “’Night.” Tré stared after his retreating form, feeling alone.
***

“I’m sorry to unload on you like this,” Tré slurred.

“Oh no, please, it’s part of my job description. When they asked how I was qualified I told them I had really big ears.”

“The better to eat you with?” Tré groaned, cradling his head.

“Oh, something like that.” The bartender winked at him as she wiped the counter with a rag, picking up his glass temporarily to get under it. The dim lighting did a poor job of illuminating her features, the shadows snaked across her like the lines of a net, shying away from some parts and embracing others. Despite this, Tré was pretty sure she had been a knockout when he’d first sat down sober, and now he was positive she was even better looking. “So it sounds to me,” she said, continuing an earlier thread, “like you care a lot about him, but he’s rejecting your help, and so you feel hurt. But I think the part you’re missing is that the bottom line is he needs you, and he knows it too, otherwise he never would have told you to stay.” She nodded curtly to emphasize her point.

“Maybe I’m not qualified to give it,” he mumbled dismissively, staring through the shallow remnants of his liquor. “Maybe Mike is better equipped for this sorta thing than I am.”

“What? Friendship?” she retorted mockingly. The bartender bent down low over the counter. “Let me give you a little advice. Never downplay your own role in someone’s life. You never know, you could be the one thing keeping him going.” She tapped her fingernails on the bar.

Tré studied her expression, seeking out signs of a will to lead him astray. Focused on the sloppy assembly of empty shot glasses littered about his larger glass, he said doubtfully, “I don’t know about that…”

“Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

He flipped a shot glass over, which was quickly joined by another three. He grouped them together with his fingers, and they clinked together into a row. One by one he stacked the others on top, leftover liquor dribbled out of them and down the sides below.

Tré heard laughter hovering somewhere in the air above him. “I see you’ve made yourself a pyramid.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged. “I need another shot for the top.”

“I’ll give you a shot of water. I think you’re good for a while, buddy. Do you have a ride back tonight?”

“Uh,” he thought, recalling where he was, “I was planning on a taxi.”

She frowned across from him, concerned. “It’d be kind of difficult to get a car to come way out here. Usually the regulars walk or use a designated. How about I give you a ride back?” she suggested. She checked her watch. “I get off in a half hour.”

“Sure.”
***

As they exited into the back parking lot they were pelted by a bead curtain of water running in torrents off the slight overhang above the door. They both gasped, the cold trickling down their torsos shocking them into a headlong dash to Tré’s ride, a battered Jeep Wrangler. Tré shivered in the moments it took for its owner to twist her key in the lock, open the driver’s side, and, climbing halfway in on her knees, to pop open his. He jumped in.

They pulled the doors closed and sat silently rubbing the water away from their eyes. “Ugh, now my clothes are sticking,” Tré stated, a touch of genuine misery underlying his words. “I don’t wanna go back like this and wake the guys up…” His sentenced trailed off.

“Would they be asleep?”

“Well they bailed a while ago, and Billie’s probably been sleeping since we went out.”

“My name is Cat, Catherine, whatever.”

“What?”

“I don’t invite strangers to my house, but since I already knew your name from TV, if I tell you my name you can take a shower at my place and even leave with an old pair of my brother’s clothes that I used for painting once.”

He didn’t even think. “Okay.”
***

“It doesn’t usually rain like this in Arkansas, does it?” This was Tré’s attempt at small talk, the result of being left standing awkwardly in the entrance to the house of somebody he didn’t really know. Shoes marking the linoleum with a muddy mixture.

“No,” a voice called from further inside. “You can come in, just leave your shoes at the door.”

“Okay…” Tré said under his breath, regretting more and more how much his burgeoning sobriety was making him conscious of his intrusion into this woman’s plans for quiet night. For the sake of a shower and dry clothes. And avoidance. He kicked off his sneakers gently, so as not to splatter. Regardless, his socks were soaked through, and he left a trail of footprints, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the grimy sensation created by his toes’ contact with the floor. He entered the kitchen.

Still sopping herself, she was fiddling with a pot on the stove. “You’re making tea?” asked Tré incredulously.

“Yeah,” she assured him, “now go take your shower.”

Tré paused, hesitant. “Where? And what do you want me to do with my wet clothes? Can I put them in a plastic bag or something?”

She stopped bothering with the tea and turned to him. Taking him by the shoulders, she led him, saying as they went, “Since when have you become so helpless? Do you need help undressing, too?” she giggled, pulled back black hair swaying behind her head. Halting in front of the bathroom, they locked eyes. She stepped forward and, raising herself up to his height on her tip toes, touched her lips to his. The contact was short-lived before she pulled back again. “In movies this is the part where we both say we never do this sort of thing. But I do. Sometimes. Do you ever do this with your crew?”

Tré’s eyebrows shot up in reaction to the line of questioning. “Uh, no, not anymore, I mean. I learned my lesson.”

“They get attached…” she said quietly, for him. He nodded, the most minimal bow of his head. Then their lips were connected again, and her hands were tugging his T-shirt over his head and arms, and she walked him backwards the few steps to the bedroom. They fell on the bed, her still fully clothed and Tré shirtless and trying to make her match. Between the wet material and her weight, the process became enormously difficult. They came apart.

“Here,” she said, standing up, “let me grab two towels and we can dry off first.” Tré remained seated on the edge, wondering when sex had become so perplexing. It was like he was an uncertain teenager again. Usually alcohol had the effect of emboldening him in his pursuits, but tonight his buzz was only influencing his clumsy, heavy movements.

A tan, fluffy towel landed on his lap. A plain white v-neck followed it, crumpling at his feet in a challenge. The bartender smirked at him from the doorway, drying the area around her simple black bra. Tré mirrored her position and dragged his own towel over his bare chest. His apprehension migrated to the back of his mind, replaced by amusement. She had initiated a game.

Staring him down, she stepped out of her black cigarette pants. In return he fumbled his belt loose and stripped himself of his jeans. She unhooked her bra, full breasts tumbling out. All that remained were bright blue panties emblazoned with the Superman symbol. Then those too joined the others on the floor.

Tré’s eyes roved over her naked form and he felt himself harden beneath his boxers. He removed the obstruction. Opposite each other, anticipation built to a sharp point. She closed the space between them, taking the lead.