To Love/Hate the Spotlight

To the left... to the right... a little air guitar... back to the left, loosen the lips, ringing up and down... more air guitar... now to the right... stop, take a swig of beer... and the cycle continues.

It took eleven and a half repetitions to establish consistency and gain my boredom. Who knew Billie Joe could lose my interest... ever? Well, I should be used to it. Before a show, he doesn't want conversation. He doesn't want distractions nor social interactions and I wish I could come up with something else that rhymes but also applies, because there is nothing else for me to do and playing Dr. Seuss sounds like a hell of a time. Back at 924 Fickle Street, it only lasted a minute or two, but here it was different. We could hear through the walls shrieking and chanting of fans filling the seats and crowding in the pits.

It was understandable that the first night all three were all silent in a jittery trance. I grinned at the notion of asking if they were nervous and most likely having a drumstick thrown at me, just to slake my thirst for solace.

Neither of them dressed out of their comfort of what was familiar to them. This was not a small club tucked away in a lackluster town. Their initial attitudes that this: Fame, notoriety, maybe blindsided glory was inevitable -deserved- but confidence crippled into fear when it was time to play the music. Their ongoing outfits from four AM may not pause to impress but depreciate this and possibly misrepresent themselves. Not for myself, but I can be such a fashionista.

I sat up, leaving my negativity to sink into the couch cushions. I'm reading way too fucking far into things. So what if I was a little freaked out by this? Big deal- wait, it is a big deal. Fuck, stop thinking!

Mike stood off to the side like a ticking time bomb until he broke into motion, bouncing in place then pacing to hop some more. I'll just go ahead and assume that's anxiety. Next is Tre propped up on the counter of the dressing room, leaning against one of the mirrors in the row. The Broadway-esque bulbs were lifeless. Tre tapped in the air with his sticks. His "1-2-3-4" a hushed tension in this redundant and tortuous wait. It had to start soon, because I was getting a tad iffy when Billie Joe cracked open beer number three since he'd done his hair and "Guy-liner." I prayed none of the members of the other band would intrude since they were somewhere around here. Possibly making worse the anticipation with their distracting presence and years of "Arena Experience." There had to be something for me to do instead of lounging on the sofa like a bum.

With two quick knocks on the door, a stage hand poked his head in announcing a drive by "Five minutes." More concerned about Billie Joe, I turned around and checked on him, the perfect example of a deer in headlights. On a snap decision he took strides towards one of the mirrors and sat his bottle down with a shaky hand and a close mess. His reflection posed for scrutiny.

"Five minutes--- that should be enough time to find the stage all over again," Mike mumbled to himself and prepared to leave. Tre followed, too wrapped up in concentration for a silly, twisted one-liner. They understood Billie's ritual and left without another word. Unlike them I wasn't aware of this part: Staring himself down. Usually I wandered towards the crowd and kept to the side, allowing others a view I've seen times before.

"Are you ready?" I threw it out there on the off chance for a reply.

His mirrored eyes looked at me. "Do you think I need more eyeliner?" Even though he was the expert in my book, he searched for the pencil, patting himself down, and delving in his pockets like a solitary frisk.

In fact, I had it in my pocket though I wouldn't dare reveal that information now.

"Babe, do you have it?"

"... no."

"Fuck," he huffed. Hands frozen in the air.

"Billie, you have to get going."

"But I don't look right," he fired back.

"Yes, you look great. Does it even matter?" I marched up to him, debating on dragging him.

"Well- no..."

"Okay - so, you know I don't wear a watch, but you need to go do your job."

At that moment it dawned on him like a Blues Brother in church. He nodded, appearing stable. "... yeah, you're right."

"Tell me what I don't know." I tried not to yank him out the door. I like punctuality. "So we're off the eyeliner thing? We can go?"

Biting his lip, he glanced back at his reflection. So unsure. This wasn't cool, calm, collected at all.

"Billie Joe Armstrong," I snapped and jolted him by the shoulders. His attention as of now was a high bid. "It's just eyeliner. Forget about it. You wear more eyeliner than most drag queens today."

"I do not."

I touched my finger to just under his eye and presented the stain the act left. "Yeah-- you do and no, you're not wearing too much either." I had to cover that base before he thought of it. Then I latched onto his forearm and pulled him out to the hall. I walked; he sauntered.

So I tugged like a string with bait and picked my pace. "Come on--warm up with me."

"What?" He stumbled behind like a drunk date.

"What's your first song?"

"Paradise?"

"Okay..." Air filled my lungs; it drew to a shudder. "... Dear Mother, can you hear me whining?" -I despise singing in front of others- "It's been six whole weeks since that I have left your home--- this sudden fear has left me tremblin'-" How appropriate, my voice is trembling. This is so much easier in the shower. "Cause now it seems that I am out here on my own."

"And I'm feeling so alone..." He picked up for me and accelerated to my side. His hand took mine instead of accepting my grasp on his arm. I didn't feel like such a dork now.

So from there we jogged through the chorus and towards signs of life:Crewmen, roadies, and people I couldn't determine their function but they were there scurrying around nevertheless. The growing volume of the crowd yards away arrested my breathing; the duet faded into the demands. I felt feint, and I'm not even in the band. When I turned to Billie Joe, expecting to mirror my anxiety, he was vastly different: Strong upright posture, sniper eyes locked on his target, and the confidence of a murderer; The make up obsessed wreck from the dressing room was obviously dead. He was ready for this. Since the age five, he's been ready for this.

Mike and Tre stood with the greatest caution as close as they could to side stage but not enough that part of their persons crossed into visibility. Reluctant to have their singer/guitarist with a renewed self-esteem, they each exchanged nods and set out to their respective spots on stage. The cheers heightened once strangers not checking the mikes and other equipment had made themselves known. Roadies can be so cruel sometimes. I grinned watching Tre jog up to his brand new drum set and tripping onto the platform. His rooster hairstyle grazed a cymbal.

"I guess this is my cue," Billie muttered to himself. His eyes wide with the legions of kilowatts highlighting his two best friends. I had been in the talent show once when I was a freshman. It was back when I was normal and head over heels for Ben, so you definitely know that was a long, long time ago. I danced in a quartet to an auditorium of a hundred at most. But then again all I saw was white.

He turned me by the shoulders, and I realized he had continued talking. "Wish me luck?" His clean shaven face softened like a child waiting for anyone to tell him he'll do great, when that was never in doubt. Why now would he be insecure about anything? He's perfect in every way.

"Babe, you don't need luck." My words might have been lost in the complaints of the waiting fans. One bass player, one drummer, but no guitar? That's a tweaked version of The White Stripes. A third microphone without a singer? Unheard of. A cause for an impending riot.

"Please just say it for my peace of mind?" His eyes were begging for a classic taboo.

The loud splash of a cymbal separated us. Tre and Mike squinted through the darkness of offstage, anxious for Billie Joe to literally get the show on the road. He should be; I'm keeping him here.

My volume struggled within that of the masses. "Okay, you have to get out there." His t-shirt appeared suddenly wrinkled to my distaste. Tugging at the bottom hem, I spoke directly into his ear. I don't need a sore throat in the morning. "Go - I love you - Have fun - Go." And with that I pecked him on the cheek and pushed him in the right direction.

Friction caused him to stumble a few steps. That crooked smile of his peeked over his shoulder. He wasn't going fast enough for me. My hand came around like a whip and smacked him on the ass. He jumped at the impact, casting an all together different expression. Massaging the abused cheek, his lips curved into the "Ooo" response. "You should do that more often."

"Go!" I pointed at the stage. After he stuck his tongue out at me, he strode into the spotlight like he never had a hair-trigger nerve in his life. Sometimes I think he fucks with my head just for the hell of it.

The venue erupted for finally the lonely guitar and microphone had a purpose. As he swung Blue's strap and fitted it just right on his shoulder, Mike and Tre paid special attention to Billie's signal, which was usually a look to them, nothing flashy. After that if the show ended right there, I would be happy. He was soon to be mesmerizing and at that point, I want him all to myself. I'm all for his success and fame, but I'm selfish when he performs.

Tre counted; he sounded so far away. All three of them. Mike and Billie Joe are so separate. Nothing like Gilman. My heart thudded in my gut when "Paradise" started. It was surreal watching the lights slap them and twist and distort their silhouettes. Billie's song moments before in the hall boomed through the huge speakers. I jumped back at the sheer force of the vibrations. It took some time getting used to before moving closer.

They sounded fantastic. Nothing like Gilman. They were great there, but something about performing for a larger audience and a huge stage to play around in made it more of a splash -a party- instead of just intimacy. I like to think he's saving that just for me.

Tre hit the drums with such precision; Mike was just wild: Hardcore snarl and moving as if he were a puppet to the thump thump thumping of his bass. Billie Joe, of course, is perfect with everything he does. Me starting that Tourettes influenced warm up must have helped. He was right on, and when that happens it gets dangerous.

That's my aphrodisiac.

Making sure I wouldn't get in the way at all, I moved to the very edge of side stage and sat down pretzel-style. I was hypnotized by the way he kisses up to the mike -who knows how many girls or boys wanting to be that mike- and then backs away to strike the strings with all the power in his shoulder instead of his wrist. He said that it gave him more of a raw sound, but I think it's the fear of carpal tunnel. He probably is right. I will never be an instrument expert. (The Recorder, third grade. That's as far as my expertise goes.) I thought it was more about energy and passion.

The song was close to its end, and I was proud of myself for not daring to sing along. Sometimes, even when you know the words, it's refreshing to just listen. You hear certain things you've missed or forgotten. Singing and dancing are flattery; Taking the time to simply listen, that's appreciation at its most.

My Spidey Senses were tingling at the presence of another settling down beside me. Maybe it was Frank; We get along pretty well. Wait. Think about it: How's my luck?

"They are amazing." The Original stared at the side profiles of the trio. My muscles tensed by his very being. I kept my eyes forward and ignored him. Just be lost in the music. A tunnel-visioned fink with ears at full capacity.

"Well aren't you rude? Why so arrogant? He's actually worth something, and you're just scum he'd scrap off the bottom of his shoe."

"... I'm sorry about earlier. Billie Joe straightened me out."

My ear twitched to attention. Now that I think about it, I guess it could be helpful to talk to this older model. Billie wasn't counting on this. "What did he tell you exactly?"

"When he and I were alone on the bus he told me that you hate to be touched and etc. And if I were to do that again, there would be serious problems. So again, I'm sorry."

Was that it? I don't like to be touched and etc.? I don't think Billie knows I loved to be touched and not always in a sexual way. I adore the human contact. Reminds me I'm here. But seriously, Billie Joe made just an ultimatum? No broken fingers but the hint of possible pain in the future?

Billie Joe orchestrated the crowd into a mosh. It was the happiest I've ever seen him. His feral features and fragile form was strong against the hard hitting lights. So he isn't The Incredible Hulk. He's more of a lover than a fighter, physically speaking.

It was silent between The Original and I; Billie's rolling count of "1,2-1,2,3,4" kept me content, but I still wanted more than anything for The Original to leave. I don't want to be this close to him and on my own. It's not that I don't feel safe around him, but he's the one whose safety I'm worried about.

He shifted and cleared his throat like he had just heard my thoughts. "Vampires are really cool if that's what you were going for-"

"So why were you guys laughing off the bus?" You would have cut him off too if you were me.

"Well-" He chuckled after one fucking word. "I-it's-it's not important. It was a stupid guy thing. It wasn't that funny." And that's when I knew the joke was on me. Sometimes I wonder if my existence is based off of humiliation. Right then I needed him to leave.

So to avoid saying some choice words, I struggled to keep every cell in my body enthralled with the music going on in front of me.

A good half hour later or so later, three sweat-soaked men paraded off the stage in a worn out frenzy. The one bleeding beads of it from locks of his hair trapped me in his arms. I cringed when excess sprinkled on me.

They gushed. I gushed. We were totally in the roadies' way.

The applause didn't seem to lower in volume when moving completely out of the stage area. Naturally everyone was talking over each other at high speeds. It was confusing to determine who said what or what the hell they said for that matter, but the excitement enough was easy to follow. I was glad The Original left to "prepare" so I could enjoy this with my guys.

"Tre, what was up with throwing your drum stick?" Billie shot, tugging my hand in the direction of outside.

"It was like a souvenir thing."

"But you practically hit that one girl in the eye!" Mike looked flat out flabbergasted. I saw the act myself and "Lawsuit" was the only word that came to mind.

"Yeah, practically. I didn't though." Tre had a point there.

"Whatever." Mike rolled his eyes (a rarity for him) and shuddered. "I need a shower. Bad."

"No!" Billie blurted. His brilliant greens were wild. His footing had more of a head start to go down the hall. "You two, stay." His free hand was held in the air as a warning. I didn't know who he meant until he was urging me to come with him.

"But Bill- ohhh..." Mike went from a naive freshman to a high school senior now fully understanding the concept of American Pie. Maybe because they have been friends for so long they possessed that secret communication most siblings practice. Rachel and I forgot how to. "You have an hour."

Billie Joe started to protest, "but-"

"One hour starting now."

"Fuck!"

"What's going on?" I was in the dark with Tre.

"Come on." For a split-second I swear I felt my arm pop out of its socket and slipp back into place by the strength Billie Joe used to start dragging me. His hand was slick trapping my own. It was gross to say the least.

"Billie Joe, what the hell's wrong?" My converse have great traction.

Still insistent on motion, he whipped his head around. Clinging drops of sweat flew in the process. Then I knew. I recognized the crazed tint in his eyes and determined urgency his perspired face tensed. I wanted to refuse by whining, "Ew, you're all wet and icky," but I zoomed in on the melting Kohl circling his eyes. One of its black veins embarked on a slow dribble onto his cheek. For some odd reason it was irresistible, and I was on board with his raw intentions.

Fire rushed to my chest. My initial response was vaporized. "How about we run?" His devilish hint of a curved half smile was fuel to the flames.

Two pairs of ratty, old sneakers raced down the hall that once before was a trail for a leisurely jog. Along the way we passed the main act all painted up. Like me, Billie wasn't stopping for anything. I gave a pathetic wave to the men in black. They called after us.

"Where's the fire?!"
"Bec, aren't you going to watch?!"
And then I felt guilty for me and Billie Joe for having over-active libidos.

We burst open the side door, swallowing the night's heat and swooning in the perfume of freshly fallen rain. Dashing around the other bus, we attracted the attention of the few security guards securing the perimeter at the empty fan gates. I guess in a way we were alone. We tripped up the stairs of our humble bus. It was desperately dark and disorienting. My vision worked like mad to adjust, so there was no possible way to see the twirl-around slam against what could have only been the refrigerator. The cool surface was startling but nothing compared to the shock of drenched lips and slippery form pressed against me. The pressure was great. My back now felt the ache of the impact.

This morning was so long ago.