To Love/Hate the Spotlight

I had lost count of days after that.

When we returned home, I barely mumbled a word on my own volition. I spoke only when asked a question, but lately all three of them had been skeptical of that. Billie was the only one that put real effort into trying.

Obsessive worry over Little Jimmy spun over and over in my head. Is he okay? Is he happy? Is he in pain? Has he done is first... anything? I never thought it could eat me up inside like this.
And I couldn't help but wonder why I saw The Jimmy during labor. It had never gotten thaat far before. It was terrifying. I would really have to keep my mind in check.

So I was basically useless to everyone. Living inside myself, struggling to suppress the guilt and anxiety. Vacant expression, monotone one-word answers, a perfect extra for Night of the Living Dead. The only drawback was that zombies have a bigger appetite compared to my own, currently facing extinction.

After awhile for Billie Joe's sake, I got up earlier -actually left the bed- and prepared for the day that was nothing but a lie.When Billie and Mike went off to band-related things, I would pretend to be off to work at the record store that -with a lot of explaining- took me back. Even with their generosity, I couldn't bring myself to go and ring up three, maybe five CDs a day. Illegal downloading is a bitch to the music biz.

Instead, I spent hours lounging around the apartment -mostly in Billie and I's dark bedroom- and waiting for the sick emotions to fade on their own. My attempts were feeble when pitted against the constant yammering circulating in my brain.

"You couldn't even take care of it yourself. You're pathetic!"
"It would have been put to better use if it was donated to stem cell research just like I told you to."
"So when are you gonna get rid of all that weight? Very unattractive."
"Are you shooting for Anorexia, or are you too heavy to lug yourself out of bed?"
"Blow Job's not going to touch you anymore, and what a shame too? I need a good laugh."

Ignoring it was my only defense, since I was already thinking those things myself, though that last one about Billie Joe wasn't true. On the contrary, he was eager to get me from the long wait of the third trimester. But -I'd never tell him this- I was afraid of this happening all over again. I'm not capable of making another Little Jimmy.

To my surprise, I rolled over onto my back and my side ached for laying so long. All this energy building up had to be used. I needed to get out of here. I couldn't live as a shut-in. Most importantly, I needed to wake up from this catatonic state I forced myself in.

My eyes latched onto the red glow of the clock. 6:48... (PM if you needed to know).

My tongue clicked against my gums. I was already dressed... nothing was stopping me... fresh air was very tempting.

I've been beyond lame.

Trotting down the last flight of stairs in non-maternal clothing -reluctant to wear black skinnies again and a plain white t-shirt- I smiled to myself seeing sunlight pouring from the glass doors. Its vibrant shine reflected off the ivory tiles ahead of me, briefly stinging since my vision was fed only darkness for weeks. Too excited with a trying fresh outlook, I jumped from the fourth stair and landed firmly on the soles of my converse with a thud. Delicious heat embraced me, spreading until the cold was forgotten for another day.

The row of small lockers to my right screamed for a chance to redeem myself, responsibility-wise. Getting the mail sounded like a good start, as strenuous as it was. It took me no time at all to pick out 4D from the other grays. I fished out my modest key ring I had shoved in my pocket as a last thought before leaving.

"'She moves through moon beams slowly.
She knows just how to hold me," I sang under my breath, flipping through the few keys for the right one. "'And when her edges softer, her body is my coffin...'"

Found it.

"'I know she drains me slowly.
She wears me down to bones in bed...'"

I pushed it in and turned it, the small door swung open. My hand snatched the lack of mail and pushed the door closed.

"'It must be the sign on my head...'"

Junk, junk, cable bill.

"'It says, Oh love me de-'" The song ended abruptly in my throat. "... Write Words? Publishing?"

It was addressed to me, which didn't make sense in the least. That ridiculous story I had started writing after Billie and I's unconventional dating was finished, revised, some actual first names included when it wouldn't do any harm to that person. When I was polishing up the ending, I decided it was just too intimate. My heart was mapped out too perfectly in typed pages well into the five hundreds.

So... why did I have a letter from a publishing company?

"They have psychics working for them. They saw what was coming and rejected you before you even bothered." ... perhaps.

Fighting back the crazy possibilities by digging my teeth into my lip (almost healed), I folded up the bill and letter and stuffed them in my back pocket, carrying the junk to throw out. It was time to think about something else; My ears felt barren and lonely anyways.

It was a shorter walk to 924 Gilman than I wanted. My mind -insistent on solving its current mysteries- was distracted from everything around me. The sun-soaked street, the cloudless blue sky, and the weary buildings were all a blur. I was lucky to not be ran over, but for the most part tourism was dead. Why come here in the summer when there's L.A. and Sacramento?

When I arrived, they were between sets when I slid onto one of the few unoccupied bar stools. The lighting was dim, and the absent reek of smoke disappointed me. With being pregnant, Billie Joe refused to smoke around me. I love the way the scent of burning tobacco polluted my nostrils, and my tongue tasting the bitterness. I wasn't into sucking down cancer sticks myself, but secondhand smoking didn't sooth me any less.

Through the chatter of reviews about the garage band getting off stage, I hardly noticed that someone was talking to me. Whoever spoke loudly, dragging out the words as if I were deaf. "Hello? Earth to Miss Armstrong. Do you respond?"

Hands waved in my peripheral vision. I turned, mildly aggravated, and smiled when I recognized the shaggy red hair and translucent blue eyes.

Interested in new company, I piped. "Hey Ricky Ricardo!"

He scowled. "I told you not to call me that. I'm not even Cuban for Chrissake.

"Fine, fine, Rick."

"Can I get you something to drink?"

I wasn't necessarily thirsty but whatever. "Sure, I'll take a Dry Martini, two olives."

"Right, mhmm. I'll just overlook the fact this place has been alcohol-free since the beginning."

"But I always try."

He glanced at the other patrons around me and leaned in. "You know I'd get you a beer from the fridge in back but with all the teens here on summer break, it'd be too risky."

I couldn't help but grin as he forgot again that I was eighteen. "Got it. Water then?"

"Coming right up." He snickered and went to get other orders as well.

It was nice seeing Rick again. It had been too long, but knowledge of my pregnancy was limited to a few. Hell, my mom and sister don't even know about it! I hadn't seen them since the wedding last November and Christmas would have been too much. But Rick was a good friend of the band. He had even set Tre up with his younger sister, but that ended with a beatnik druggie in a bathroom stall. No harm, no foul though. Tre already had his eye on the new cashier at 7-11. Never before have I seen a grown man buy so many slurpies in one day.

"Here ya go." A glass was pushed in front of me. "So where have you been? It's been close to a year."

I took a sip to construct a good enough excuse. "... Everything with the album has been so time consuming. It's just -er- hard to get some free time."

His face hardened and answered curtly, "Yeah, I heard about that."

"And...? Isn't it exciting? It's about time Billie, Mike, and Tre are being recognized for all their hard work. So when is Green Day going to grace the Gilman stage again?" My social skills were easily returning.

Rick's eyes focused on the next band setting up. "They're not."

"What?" I coughed out a laugh.

"They know the rules; They can't perform here anymore." His voice was flat.

"Why the hell not?" I wasn't liking this joke.

"Reprise?" His features twisted in disgust.

"Yeah, so?"

"Reprise is a major label. They sold-out."

"Sold-out?" I hated that term more than ever. Anger ruptured inside my chest. "You like their music just as much as I do. What does the manager have to say about this?"

He bit his lip and shrugged. "It's sort of unanimous... but hey you can still come in here but Billie and them aren't really welcomed."

"But you're their friend! They practically grew up here. Does Billie Joe know about this?"

His jaw tightened and he nodded.

"Hey Bartender Guy, can we get some service?!" A pink-topped woman called further down the bar. The band called, "Zero Divide" were starting their first song. In the matter of ten seconds I knew it was so wrong and uncoordinated. It punished everyone in this room. After being with Billie so long, Green Day was my perfect fix.

Rick looked at me helplessly, inching away. "I'm sorry, okay? I gotta go take this."

"But this is fucking stupid and you know it!" I snapped, my voice acidic. He kept on moving, his back to me now. "Rick!"

"Aw, you're married to a sell-out. Tell me, how does it feel to be fucking a loser? It's difficult to tell when I'm just so amused."

My temper exploded out of its mercury bulb. With the glass clutched in my hand, rage got the better of me. I spun around and whipped it at the wall. It sailed through the air -some splashing my arm- and burst against a litter of "Local Legends" posters, drenching and ruining them. I had everyone's attention after that, even that pathetic excuse of a band stopped wrecking their instruments.

Fist balled-nails digging-air rushing in and out of my flared nostrils. A hiss escaped past my gritted teeth.

"Who here know Green Day and like their music?" I fought to keep my voice even, hinting an underlying growl. A good majority raised their hands. "But Green Day are sell-outs, is that right?"

"Hell yeah, they're on America's Top 40 for fuck's-sake!" A guy -I couldn't see him in the back- shouted. Others nodded in agreement and the rest were still, unsure what this fem psycho was going to do.

I bared my teeth at his smug attitude. "And how is that a bad thing? Explain to me, 'Big' man hiding in the crowd." I thought it would provoke him to reveal himself so I could gladly rip his tongue out and try feeding it to him.

He remained invisible. "They sold-out! They're MTV mainstream pussies!"

Shaking, feeling the beast inside me clawing to get out, I wanted blood. Adrenaline pumped through me, distorting my thought process. The murderous growling voice that came out was one I didn't recognize.

"Let me enlighten you all on something..." My words were razor sharp -piercing- as I glared at everyone in my sight. "You're mad because they're making something of themselves. You're here for honest music, no bullshit. For once a band came here that didn't want their only message to be about symbolic 'Fuck yous' to the government. Green Day are the spokes people for the underdogs. Is that what you all consider to be? They're not the ones that are sell-outs-- You are for turning your backs on them and being so selfish! You guys are so desperate to be punk. You want bands all to yourselves so you can feel special to enjoy something others don't know about, and when they move from your clubhouse, you despise them! Fickle as you are-- like children!

"News Flash: Deep down You're no different from everyone else! So progressive but so close minded. Green Day are the real punks, because their doing what they want and not conforming to your standards! So I hope you're happy that you get to listen to those unsigned worthless pieces of shit humping their instruments on stage instead of actual music! Have fun, you Mainstream Fucks!"

Once I was finished ranting, I turned on my heel and started storming out. It was silent at first; The only sound was my heart screaming in my ears. Then, like a fire cracker, they shouted, "Shut up, Bitch!" - "Cunt!" - "We're going to kick your ass!" - but "Fuck you!" seemed to be the crowd favorite.

I wasn't scared of them doing anything. The chemical reactions surging inside had me invincible, but I also distinctly heard Rick yell, "Let her go," amongst the mob of vulgarities when I kicked the door open to leave.