Christie Road

"Name, sir?" the desk clerk asked pleasantly.

The boys all had pseudonyms they used on the road, and the ones he'd used recently scrolled through his mind like characters in a well-loved book. "Wilhelm Fink," he finally answered, ignoring the look of surprise on the clerk's face.

"And how long will you be staying, Mr. Fink?" The young man recovered smoothly, falling into the familiar pattern of information gathering.

"I'm not sure just yet. Probably...say, two or three days. Can I keep an open reservation?"

"Certainly. Just let us know twenty-four hours in advance if you need to cancel it, please."

Credit card information was exchanged, papers signed, and he was the not-so-proud occupant of yet another generic hotel room. At least this one overlooked the beach, so the view was better than most, and it was small enough that his chances of being recognized were slim.

Upstairs, he changed into baggy shorts and flip-flops, sliding on dark sunglasses and a cap that hid his black, shaggy spikes. A long-sleeved baseball shirt concealed his tattoos from view, and he was satisfied that he could remain anonymous for a while. He threw one of the towels from the bathroom over his shoulder and shuffled down the steps and out the back entrance onto the beach.

Flat out on the big towel, he rested his chin on his arms and stared out at the waves. He had missed this, the California sun soaking into his skin, bringing out the olive tan that betrayed the Italian branch of his lineage. Here on the sand, with the constant hiss and crash of the Pacific against the beach, he wasn't Billie Joe, singer. He was just Billie, the regular guy, one you could bullshit with at the bar or bitch about politics with over a burger.

Behind the dark glasses, he closed his eyes and let his mind relax for the first time in months. No more schedules, or show times, no travel arrangements or sound checks. Just time, sweet, uninterrupted time. It was intoxicating to be free after so many nights with people hovering around him like bees, all wanting something, needing him to do or say or be something...

When he woke, his cap had fallen to the side and his toes were buried in the warm sand. The sky up the beach had started to turn rosy, and the surfers were coming in now, low tide approaching. He rolled over on his back, his arm across his forehead, and yawned luxuriously.

A strange tinkling sound caught his attention, and it was a few seconds before he realized it was his new phone ringing. With a sigh, he reached into his pocket to retrieve it. He knew the peace and quiet couldn't last forever, but a couple more hours would have been nice.

It was Lawrence, and he had a lead on a two-bedroom apartment just south of Albany. Did Billie want the number?

He considered it, rolling the idea of being that close to Lani around in his mind.

"Larry, I appreciate the tip, but I think I'd like to get a little closer to Alameda. It's just nice to have some distance, you know?" He didn't bother elaborating.

"Okay, I got one other possibility, but it's a long shot. You know Vann, the guy at Razor? His family has a condo down there, where they stay when they come from Rhode Island to visit him. They only come a couple times a year. You might ask him about something short-term."

The mention of the 'zine triggered a cascade of thoughts and emotions, but he brushed them aside, knowing he needed to focus on the problem at hand. When they finished, he called the office and left Vann a voice mail message, explaining that he was looking for new digs and that Lawrence had given him the tip. He was just about to hang up when he remembered to leave his new phone number, checking the front panel of the phone to make sure he had it right.

As soon as he snapped the phone shut, he realized he'd made a mistake.

Shit, he thought, now Jazz is going to find out, and if I know her, she's going to beat herself up for letting me leave without having anything worked out. Oh well, the damage was done, and he'd just have to explain to her that he didn't want to impose on her. If he had to, in order to save her worrying, then he might just have to bend the truth a bit. He just didn't want her feeling guilty. He'd done enough of that for both of them.

The irony struck him like the punch line of a subtle joke. He was trying to hide his homeless state from her so that she wouldn't feel the need to go out of her way to help him out. History certainly had a way of repeating itself in the most unlikely ways. His circumstances were different, but the bottom line was similar enough to make him laugh.

Shaking out his towel, he made his way back to his room, and decided to order room service instead of going out alone. A night of tube wouldn't be so bad, he thought, switching on the set and flipping through the channels. He had settled on a marathon of "I Love Lucy" reruns and was finishing his fries when the music-box tinkle of his phone interrupted him again. The caller ID read "Razor".

"Hey, Vann?" he answered.

"No, Billie, it isn't Vann," Jazz said, in mock irritation. "I picked up your message off the machine--why didn't you just keep your butt here instead of wandering around like an idiot? Jeez, sometimes you are so stubborn!"

"Boy, look who's talking!" he laughed. "Don't get bent, I just didn't know how long it would take me to find a place and I didn't want to crowd you."

"I know my place is small, but it wasn't any trouble. You just didn't like the couch, did you? I told you it was more comfortable opened out!" He could hear her grinning as she spoke.

"No, the couch was fine. I just felt like I was imposing on you, and--"

"And you're used to being the hero, I get it. But another freaking hotel? Come on, Billie, you've got to be sick of that by now. What's the real problem? Did I get on your nerves?" Was it his imagination, or did she sound a little vulnerable?

He was startled that she would even ask. "God, no, Jazz! I had the best time with you that I've had in--well, in ages!" he exclaimed.

"Then why are you staying in that crummy hotel instead of here?" she asked in exasperation. "Why won't you let me do something for you for a change?"

"You don't owe me, Jazz, you know that," he said kindly. "I'm fine, really."

"I don't feel like I owe you," she said. "I just...I really enjoyed hanging out with you, you know? It was nice having you around."

Hearing her say it made him smile. "Yeah, me too. You're pretty good company--for a little squirt, that is." He found himself adopting the tone of brotherly affection he'd always shown her, whenever these new feelings he had for her threatened to break the surface and betray him.

She blew a raspberry into the phone, making him laugh. "Listen, it's up to you. If you want to spend your time feeding corporate America so you can sit all by yourself in that little box, it's your choice. But I want you to know that I really, truly would be happy for you to come back and stay here for as long as you want. That's all."

She made it so easy, so relaxed. So why was he hesitating? Maybe it was because it was too easy, being there with her, having her close to him. And maybe he wasn't sure he could trust himself to settle for the friendly relationship they'd fallen into, without wanting it to be something more.

"Jazz, I--" He stopped, unsure what to say. "I'm just not sure it would be a good idea." How could he tell her the reason, without risking ruining the friendship they'd just recaptured?

"Sure, I...I understand, no problem," she said, and he could tell that despite her cavalier tone, she was wounded. "Well, I just wanted to offer, but if you need anything else, just call me, okay?"

His face twisted into a miserable scowl, and he silently smacked himself on the forehead. He hadn't meant to hurt her feelings, but he'd done it anyway. "No, I really appreciate the offer, honest. I just feel like I'd be in the way, you know?"

"Oh, yeah, that's okay," she said airily, smoothing things over as she always did. "I'll see you at the Gilman gig, and you can catch me up then."

Another can of worms. "I'm hoping that's gonna work out--Lawrence isn't so sure they're going to welcome us back with open arms."

"Are you serious?" She was indignant at the idea. "They better, after all the work you guys did there!" It was true, they'd done a lot more for the club than just get on stage and play. They'd taken out trash, collected money, printed tee shirts, worked the front door--you name it, they'd done it. He didn't feel they owed him, exactly, but a little loyalty would be nice.

"I know, I'm just keeping my fingers crossed and waiting to hear back from him. And if they say no, then fuck 'em, we'll find somewhere else to play." It was easy to say, but he didn't feel nearly as nonchalant about it as he sounded. Gilman was more than a club for him, it was a family, the birthplace of his band and his philosophy.

"Damn right," she agreed. "Well, good luck with it, and let me know when you need me to bring my camera."

"Will do. And thanks for the offer, Jazz. You're the best, you know that?"

"You're welcome. You...you're sure you won't reconsider?" she said sweetly, tempting him to change his mind. "For me?"

He thought about last night, lying on the couch only a few yards from her, so conscious of her that he could still smell the fragrance of her soft hair, could hear her breathing, the warmth of her skin still clinging to his... The siren's song of her voice, inviting him into the intimacy of her life and her home, wound its way into his mind, and he found himself weakening, wavering.

He sighed, knowing he was beaten. "First, let me ask you one thing. If I did agree, it would have to be with conditions."

"Well, I guess so...like what?" she asked. She hadn't expected him to blink, and was so pleased that she seemed to have persuaded him that she was nearly speechless.

"Number one--I split this month's rent with you. Fifty-fifty."

"If you just need something temporary, there's no need for that," she protested.

"Ah-ah, this isn't negotiable. Fifty-fifty?" he said firmly.

"Alright, fine then," she agreed. "What else?"

"Halvsies on the groceries and utilities. It's only fair."

"Billie, you're being impossible."

"Okay, then, I'll just stay here in Motel Hell," he said melodramatically. "If that's really how you feel..."

"Armstrong, you are the biggest pain in the ass ever," she said, and he could picture her eyes rolling. "Okay, you can buy half the fucking ramen and peanut butter. Happy now?"

His eyes twinkled mischievously. "Not yet."

"There's more?" she said in disbelief.

"Yep. I give you a ride to and from work, and--"

"I told you I like walking!" she said.

"It's not safe," he answered.

"Will you stop for one second and think about who you're talking to?" she scolded. "Jesus!"

He considered for a moment, and finally consented. "Okay, I'll give in on the ride--but on one condition. You have to let me take you when it's raining."

"Alright, if I agree to your list of demands, will you please just get your shit and come over here and sleep on my couch?" She was giggling in spite of exasperation with him.

"Yes, I will," he said, quite pleased with the outcome of his negotiations. "And I'm expecting popcorn, so you better have that microwave humming when I get there."

"Slave driver!" she chuckled, and hung up the phone.

It took him less than ten minutes to check out.