Land of Make Believe

“Fucking traffic.”

Tre growled, slumping in the driver’s seat. His elbow landed heavily on the windowsill and he rested his head in his hand with a deep sigh. As he stared through his frantically waving wipers at the seemingly endless line of cars ahead of him on the wet San Francisco street, the concept of Monday morning breakfast meetings was entirely lost on him.

He made a mental note to kill Billie Joe.

He jabbed rather clumsily for the stereo power button, wincing when he received a flood of static and he wondered which child had taken to very thoughtfully reprogramming it this time.

“…aaand the weather in the Foggy City this morning is… foggy! Yes, Monday morning has arrived, folks, and we can expect low cloud and heavy rain all morning, easing into light rain by this afternoon with a high of fifty-five degrees…”

Tre glared into his rear view at the impatient asshole sounding his horn in the car behind, then skipped forward in search of music, collecting sound bites of nine am news reports along the way.

“… Republican presidential candidate Rick Santorum is due to meet supporters in Georgia later today, after addressing… A pig called Ruby. Ruby gave birth to a record nineteen piglets in the early hours of Saturday. Owner Mable King is said to be… left devastated. The death toll from Friday’s twelve-car pile-up on the busy Australian freeway now stands at more than sixty. A derailed commuter train caused… a score of twenty-sixteen to-”

Radiohead. Well at least it was a good soundtrack to the weather. Tre leaned back in his seat and sighed again.

He arrived thirty minutes late, which he supposed was a rather average margin of lateness taking into account his timekeeping history, and he scanned the busy Telegraph Hill café impatiently, until his eyes landed on a grinning Mike Dirnt.

“Glad you could join us…” the bassist smirked, as Tre slid into the seat opposite him, rain dripping from his soaked hair and seeping into his t-shirt.

“Fucking traffic,” he grumbled, shaking the water from his hair.

“Ah, mate, tell me about it. Got a cab from my hotel and it was chocker. How about this weather, hey?”

Tre blinked in the direction of the unfamiliar voice, its owner lounging in the corner of the booth in a woollen sweater and a beanie hat. He scraped the foam from his cappuccino then smiled around his spoon.

“Bart,” he explained, extending his free hand across the table. “Bart Franklin. Tre, yeah?”

Tre nodded, shaking his hand.

“Yeah, man, good to meet you…” he murmured, momentarily distracted by Billie Joe returning to the table, then pushing an enormous cup of coffee towards him.

“Black with an extra shot. Figured you might need it. Breakfast is on its way.”

“Sweet…” he smiled, with relief. Well, perhaps he wouldn’t kill him just yet.

Their front man slid back into his seat, flipped open the notebook on the table in front of him, then nodded towards Bart Franklin.

“So, Bart’s our director down in Aus,” Billie explained, “He just flew in so, y’know, I thought we should maybe catch up and figure out a few issues with the show.”

“How are you guys doing?” Tre asked, stirring his coffee.

“Ahh, yeah, you know…” Bart sighed, sliding his hat off his head and tossing it onto the table. “It’s not easy but we’re doing alright. We’ve got some great kids and they’re really pulling shit together.”

The café door blew open in the wind and Mike shivered, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Jesus, it’s fucking freezing out here,” Bart muttered, “I don’t know how you guys stand it. Want something to take the edge off?”

Tre watched him reach into his back pocket and retrieve a hip flask, which he uncapped, before tipping a generous helping of amber liquid into his own coffee.

“Shit, yeah, hit me up…” Tre nodded enthusiastically, pushing his cup towards Bart, who did the rounds of the whole table. He grinned at Billie Joe. “Can we get him in meetings more often?”

Bart laughed, tucking the flask back under the table.

“Schedule them in Summer and I’m there. Fuck a duck...”

Billie Joe chuckled.

“So bring us up to speed, Bart… what’s the status in Perth right now?”

Bart took another spoonful of cappuccino foam and a thoughtful pause.

“The ensemble’s pretty slick. Hired our new girl last week… name’s Kim… she’s pretty good and she’s picking things up fast. All the actors are bloody brilliant – Joanna, guys, she’s a fuckin’ diamond – and everyone seems to be doing good for now, it’s just… with a leading actor missing it’s… we need to sort it out, guys, I need some help here.”

“Did you call back that kid from Brisbane?” Billie Joe asked, chewing the end of his pen.

“Conner. Yeah… he won’t do it.”

“What? Why?”

“Buggered if I know. Think he’s a bit cheesed off he wasn’t first choice and doesn’t want to be sloppy seconds.”

Mike rolled his eyes.

“Can’t you call back anyone else?”

Bart sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. Tre noticed, for the first time, how tired his eyes looked and he wondered how much of it was jetlag and how much was something else.

“Not at the moment. There’s no one else came close, I’d be settling. I’m going to hold a new round of auditions.”

Billie Joe shook his head, firmly.

“There’s no time. We don’t have time to advertise, hold auditions and train someone up for the part. It’s Saint Jimmy. They need to be fucking good and they need to know the part.”

“Yeah, no shit, mate – you got a kid up your sleeve? I’m not a fuckin’ miracle worker, Billie, and I’m not settling for less than the best. Don’t be thinking I want to spend another week listening to amateurs wailing Bon Jovi at me, either. I already found a perfect Jimmy and… now I’ve got to do it all over again. That’s hard enough as it is without having to watch someone else do a half-arsed job.”

Billie Joe rubbed his temples and said nothing. Tre took another sip of his coffee, feeling the liquor warm him from the inside out.

“Y’know… you could still hold auditions,” he ventured, setting his cup back down, “You just need to have someone stand in until you fill the part.”

“I don’t even have an understudy,” Bart moaned, “He quit last week, couldn’t hack it all. Came to me after rehearsals, white as a sheet, said he had a bad feeling and he wanted out. Something gave him the willies but then he was a bit of a wet whistle all along.”

Tre exchanged a glance with Mike, holding the bassist’s gaze for long enough to be sure that their thought patterns were on the same track. He looked back down at his coffee, then at Billie Joe.

“No,” Billie Joe blurted out, waving his hand in front of his face. “Don’t fuckin’ give me that look, you guys. I can’t.”

Bart looked from one band mate to the other, one eyebrow raised.

“Did I miss some Morse code or something? Do you guys communicate by blinking?”

Mike smiled.

“Come on, Bill… you know the part. This is the first run of shows outside the States, the kids have been through a lot for this and they’re all working their asses off for it too. We can’t let this project run off the rails, there’s too much riding on it.”

“He’s right,” Tre chimed in. He drained the last, heavily laced, drop of his coffee and set the cup back on the table with a satisfied smack of his lips. “Great coffee, man. Anyone for another?”

“It takes over my life, Mike, and I love it but… Adie’s busy with a million things, I’d be there on my own and for all we know one week will run into two and I’ll end up in Australia for a fucking six-month run and-”

“Come on, man… Australia’s fuckin’ great,” Tre pointed out, dismissing Billie Joe’s whining with a wave of one hand, as he signalled to the waitress with the other. “Great weather, great beaches, great girls-uhhh-restaurants for when Adie visits… it’ll be sweet.”

Bart leaned forward in his seat, his eyes lighting up as he finally caught onto the conversation.

“All true, Tre, all true. I can fix you up with a great penthouse in the City, too. River views… valet service... full on, mate, full on. I mean, usually, I’d put you through three auditions but I’m willing to take a punt this once. You did write the bloody thing after all.”

Billie Joe sighed, his head dropping into his hands. Tre watched his green eyes flicker, as the other three men held their breath.

“Shit…” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’d better be a fucking nice penthouse.”