The Brink of Destruction

The hall leading to Mr. Blake's office looked like nothing so much as the last walk of a condemned prisoner. In the back of my brain, "no, no, no" kept a steady drumbeat, insistent but pointless. There was no way out, no avoiding the inevitable.

The list of student ID numbers was so sterile and cold. This one passes, this one fails, this one barely limps by...the power of this simple piece of paper was awe-inspiring. And what did this oracle portend for me?

Oh, come on, you knew as well as I did.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the Hideaway, deep in conversation with a Pabst Blue Ribbon. Shite day, shite beer. The place was deserted; everyone else had gone home for the holidays, and when the bar closed at 1 am, it wouldn't reopen until January. It was like being at the carnival after all the rides have gone dark and the barkers have retired to their campers for the night, with the sticky remains of the day clinging to the soles of my shoes.

Billie would be coming home soon, I thought. He'd want to know. And I'd have to tell him. Of course, there was always the slender hope that overall I might squeak by, in spite of this one disaster. With a clearer mind, it might have been possible to figure out how likely it was, but tonight was not the night. Defeated, disillusioned, and lost, I tapped the bartop half-heartedly. "Let's go with a Glenfidditch this time. Three fingers, on the rocks."

Doug, the grizzly bear of a bartender, cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "You sure you want to lay that on top of two beers? That's playing with fire."

Tap, tap.

"Okay, suit yourself. Rough day?"

"You could say that. But what the fuck, huh? I mean, it'll all work out somehow," I muttered.
"Or not."

The liquid amber fire went down smoother than I expected, leaving a molten path down my throat. In its wake, I felt a slow melting sensation in my elbows, and my ears began to warm. Maybe it wasn't such a big deal, after all. I'd always been wound too tight, and this was a perfect opportunity to loosen up and roll with whatever life had to throw at me.

Doug was right about the scotch. I shifted a little on the stool, the first hint of seasickness settling in, but like so many other things, I decided to ignore it. Digging a bedraggled twenty out of my jeans pocket, I slid it across the bar.

"Keep the difference, man. Merry fuckin' Christmas," I drawled. My southern accent always tried to assert itself whenever I drank too much, no matter how hard I fought it.

"You too. See ya next year!" his deep voice rumbled.

My hip hit the release bar on the exit door. "Maybe, maybe not," I muttered.

When I got off the bus on East Campus and started toward the houses across Buchanan Boulevard, my head was down, watching the cracked sidewalk slide under my feet. Deep in thought, I found myself at the apartment as if by autopilot, and was startled to see Billie's car already in the driveway. He had told me he had to work until at least 9:00, maybe later if it was busy.

Instead of letting myself in, I knocked cautiously. Thudding footsteps reached the door, and Billie swung it open, pulling me inside and crushing me in his arms.

"You'll never believe what happened," he said against my hair, in a voice hushed with astonishment. "I've been trying for an hour to call you."

The cold air was pouring in the front door, and I reached behind him to push it shut. "What's going on?" I asked him. His green eyes, shining with emotion, stared out from a face slack with shock.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and guided me to the sofa, sitting me down carefully. Taking my coat, he dumped it unceremoniously on the floor, and pulled a long white envelope out of his back pocket.

"Gina took me back into her office this afternoon after we'd cleaned up from lunch, and told me that the attorneys had called her in for the reading of Bat's will. She said that even though she was just his niece, she was the only family he had in the States, so he left the restaurant to her. That means Mike and I still have jobs, and we'll be working for the same people!"

"That's wonderful!" I replied. He'd been so worried about someone buying the business and bringing in a new crew, turning things upside down and trying to change what had worked for so many years. If it came down to it, he'd quit before he'd work for a bunch of assholes.
"But this is the part I can't believe," he went on. "Gina asked the lawyers to make a copy of this page for her, so she could give it to me. I still have to make an appointment to go in and meet with them, but---well, read it!" He held the crumpled envelope out to me, still shaking his head incredulously.

"As regards the remainder of my estate after settlement of outstanding debt," I read, "consisting of the proceeds from any applicable life insurance, investments, and funds from bank accounts, whether checking or savings, I leave all my remaining assets to Billie Joe Armstrong."

My breath caught in my throat, and it was hard to see the writing through the film of tears. Below the typed legal wording, Bat had written, in his unmistakable spiky hand, his own personal note that would speak for him when he could speak no more.

"In my life," he wrote, "I was never lucky enough to have a child. My wife, she died many years ago, and since then, I live alone. But Billie Joe came to me, a young man who wanted no handout, just a chance to work hard, and he reminded me of how I was before I come to America. Now he is more a son to me than any flesh and blood I could have raised myself. He come to see me when I'm sick, he visit me at Father's Day, he sit and watch football with me on Sundays. Never he ask for anything for himself. And I see, I hear from his friends, how he make wonderful music, but he work so hard he don't have much time for his dream. I want he should have his dream, just like I have when I come to this country. So I leave this to my son with all my prayers it will help him make it come true, and with all my love. --Bat"

The old man's face smiled from my memory, and it was as if I could hear the battered old guitar once again as he wandered between the tables, his rich baritone voice filling the air with the romantic songs of his beloved Italy. My hand went limp, and the letter fell into my lap. Billie's face was hidden in his hands, and a melancholy sigh escaped his throat, breaking my heart.

"I miss him so fucking much, Gen. I try not to think about it all the time, but every day that I go in to work, I keep expecting him to come around the corner yelling 'Spags and balls'! Sometimes I can't believe he's really gone. And now he--he's done this, and I never deserved it, never could--" His voice wavered, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders in support.

"Billie, when someone loves you, they don't expect you to earn it. It's unconditional. Bat loved you for who you are, and for how you treated him. You didn't have to prove anything to him. He just loved you, simple as that, because you made him happy."

There was a desperate vulnerability in his eyes, an aching need to believe what he was hearing.

"He's given you a gift," I went on, "a chance to do what you've always wanted to. You owe it to him to give it everything you've got."

"You're right," he nodded. "I've got to make this the best fucking band in the world. So help me God, I'll do it for him. For you, too. I'm gonna bust my ass so hard, nobody'll believe it's that same runt little fuckup that used to wash their damn greasy dishes!"

He stood and stuffed the letter back in his pocket. "When will you meet with the attorneys?" I asked.

"Probably tomorrow afternoon, I guess. I gotta call 'em in the morning."

"Have you told Mike and Tre?"

"Not yet. I'll tell them after I know exactly what's going on." He was pacing slowly around the living room, nervously twirling a drumstick he'd picked up off the floor. "It'd be great if we could finally pay for studio time to do a demo. Maybe we could even trade that piece of shit van and get something a little newer to drive to shows. Nothing fancy, just something we didn't have to spend half our weekends duct taping together." The wheels were turning fast in his mind, and it excited me to see him lost in planning his future.

And though I couldn't let it show, it also made me very sad.

There was no real way to know yet how much to pack for the holidays. Should I save myself another trip, face the inevitable and just take everything, or cling to my Tic-Tac sized hope that I might be coming back? The hell with it, I threw a few outfits and the measly presents I'd bought into my duffel bag and sat waiting for Billie to come by. He'd spent the night at his mother's house while his stepfather was out of town, an early Christmas just for the two of them, and had excitedly agreed when I invited him to come home with me.

His meeting at the law firm had been this morning, but there'd been no call from him yet. I found it hard not to think about how this might change the direction of our lives, but I hoped the best for him. It was the break he'd been hoping for all his life, the one his own father had wanted so much to give him, had he lived long enough.

BAM BAM BAM!! The door bowed inward and threatened to burst off its hinges. "Let me in, woman!" Billie's voiced boomed through the hallway. "Hurry up, or I'll huff and puff and--"

"Oh, for God's sake, get IN here!" I cried, as I swung the door open and grabbed his arm, dragging him inside. His green eyes were dancing over a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

"Oooh, baby likes it rough!" he snickered as I glared at him.

"Could you be a little louder, perhaps? I don't think the fifth floor heard you!"

He wrapped his arms around me and twirled me in a circle, evil laughter bubbling from him. "But there's no one left in here except you and me!" he crowed. He thrust his head out the door and shouted, "I'm going to fuck my woman now, does anyone mind?" Turning to look at
me, as if the silence proved his point, he said, "See? We have it all to ourselves!"

"Put me down, you giant testicle!" I scolded him, and he loosened his hold on me so slightly that my body slid slowly down his until my feet touched the floor.

The innocence on his face faded into something more sensuous, and his head tilted to the side, eyes growing wide and smoky. "Now, where were we?" he crooned smoothly, taking a lazy step closer to the bed, forcing me to mirror his movements. His fingers touched my wrists, gliding up my arms and across my shoulders. The scent of cinnamon touched his warm breath as his face bent toward mine, and his eyes drifted closed, languid and unhurried.

He took another step, his body pressing mine backwards. The flannel shirt he wore was soft as kitten fur, and a few tiny snowflakes still clung to his hair, sparkling in the light that streamed through the window.

Another step. Now my calves were touching the edge of the bed. His arms circled me, and I had nowhere to go. He was holding me now, lowering my body until he knelt beside me, and it felt as if his caresses were warming every part of me...

"Ho ho HO, motherfuckers!!" the nasal cackle burst through the open door. All to ourselves, my ass! "Do you guys ever do anything but screw?" Tre giggled, as Criss moved the fluffy pompom at the end of his Santa hat to one side to see what the commotion was all about. Behind them stood Wynn, holding a huge shopping bag, and in back, Mike was wound head to foot in miniature Christmas tree lights.

"Where can I plug this in?" he asked, his face a solemn mask. Wynn looked up at him, and burst out laughing. He wagged a long, thin finger at her, trying to fight a smile himself.
"You naughty girl! There'll be no candy in your stocking this year!" he warned, shaking his shaggy head.

"Who needs candy?" she said, setting the bag down on her bed and smacking his butt wickedly. The grin that spread across his face was priceless.

Billie and I scrambled to sit up, and I could feel my face burning as we glanced sideways at each other. Criss winked slyly at us as she set a plate of brownies down on my desk, and Tre produced a big thermos and cups.

"Apple cider, anyone?" he said, in a decidedly upper class English accent. "Or perhaps you prefer a spot of tea?"

"Okay, what the hell's going on?" Billie grumbled. Festive as they looked, he was less than happy at being interrupted.

"It's our first annual Red Nose Mistlebell Jingleclaus Blitzmas party!" Tre announced happily. "You guys are going off and leaving us and we had to have Christmas together before you abandoned us! Brownies, anyone?"

Billie's hand hovered over the plate, and stopped in midair. "Tre, did you make these?" he asked suspiciously.

"Of course!" Tre said, indignant. "I'm a very good baker, thank you very much!"

"Oh, no doubt. You just have a very special recipe for brownies." He held one out to me, and smirked as I took the first bite. They were delicious--moist and fudgy, with some hint of flavor I couldn't quite figure out.

"Aren't you hungry?" I asked Billie, as he took a sip from the steaming cup of cider. "These are really good!"

"I'm sure they are!" he nodded smugly. "No, I think I'll pass on those. I've got driving to do."

I was licking the last crumbs from my fingers when Tre bent down in front of me, leering like an escapee from a clown asylum. "Did you like my magic brownies?" he chirped, waggling his fingers in front of my eyes.

Suddenly it dawned on me what he meant, and I felt like an idiot. Billie was laughing, head thrown back and holding his stomach, and Mike just rolled his eyes. "Are these--" I started.

"Oh, yes!" Billie sputtered. "In about half an hour you'll most definitely be in the Christmas spirit!"

It must have shown that I was getting nervous. Billie knelt down beside me and put a reassuring arm around my shoulders. "It's okay, baby--this is nowhere near as strong as that rotgut you were drinking the other night. Just relax and enjoy."

Wynn and Criss were munching happily, and Tre was sporting a chocolate mustache as he stuffed the third fudgy square into his mouth. "Hey, Billie, I'll send a couple with you for later! Maybe you can leave one for Santa!" he said excitedly through a mouthful of chocolate. His eyes had begun to glaze over, and the whites had gone a dull shade of pink.

"Jesus, you're hopeless," Billie chuckled. "It's not even ten in the morning and you're totally baked! Criss, you've really got to do something about him."

She shrugged, holding her hands up helplessly. "What could I say? He ate the first pan last night by himself, and had to stay up until two am making another one. It's a miracle he could read the recipe!"

As the laughter died down, Billie cleared his throat. "Guys, I've got something important I need to tell you, and since we're all here, it seems like a good time."

"You finally got that third nipple removed!" Mike clapped joyously.

"Fuck you, Dirnt. Listen, this is for real. I've--I've been named in Bat's will. Gina got the restaurant, which is great. And the rest of it, well..."

The silence was tangible. I realized I was holding my breath.

"The house is mine. Ours, I mean. To move in, or sell, or whatever. And it seems Bat had some insurance and stocks and stuff, money he'd just squirreled away over time. More than anyone probably realized. That's the other part of it."

Mike's voice was sober now, out of respect. "Bill, did you know about this before...before he died?"

"No, he never said anything. I guess he wouldn't, though--he knew I'd have said no. This way, he knew I couldn't argue."

Tre was biting his lower lip, his fingers picking at the hem of his shirt.

"I know you want to ask, asshole, so just go ahead and ask," Billie grunted.

Tre's eyes dropped in embarrassment. "I just wondered, is all. Maybe we could get a new--"

"Van?" Billie finished for him. "Yeah, I don't think that'll be a problem. Not at all." He looked around at us, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was about to say.

"All in, it came to just shy of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Mike gasped.

"Holy fuck!" Tre whispered. "Billie's rich!"