Testing the Waters

Somebody stomps on his foot again, and Billie Joe sucks in his breath like the ocean tide. His lungs swell to take in more air than they’ve had all night, and something flashes in the pit like green seaweed. His nostrils burn from all the smoke hanging just above the crowd. He holds out a protective arm between himself and the breaking wave of limbs headed his way, although it seems like an empty gesture against the chaos.

A moment before he shrugs away from the action, that bit of green catches his eye again from somewhere in the thick of all the movement. He stalls. The color was on the kid’s hair, or it was the kid’s hair, or the kid’s hair is the color. Green, green, sour but not too sour, like the lovechild of a lime and a kiwi. Billie Joe kind of wants to taste that color, kind of wouldn’t mind tasting that kid’s lips, either.

One of his eyebrows rises as if to question the intentions of the other. He looks down at his T-shirt and ratty jeans and hopes he looks cool because otherwise his intentions might not get off the ground at all. He blinks and the kid is gone, camouflaged by the collisions of other grimy teen bodies.

And it’s like the disappointment he’s surprised he feels is the abrupt blanket of quiet that hits after the H-bomb explodes. Or maybe the band’s set is over and they have to make way for the next act. He breathes out, breath shakier than he’d like. Time to track down another joint.
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Tré frowns. The set had been too short; he’d just been about to lose himself to dancing when the music cut out. If Tré has any qualms about punk, it’s that the songs aren’t long enough. What Tré loves about punk, though, is how he can crash his way through a crowd all elbows and not have to apologize. He rubs a sweaty palm past his eye and makes his way towards the edge of the Gilman floor.

He spots a girl to his left, near the stage. She rocks an aqua mohawk and looks all attitude, sneering at Tré merely for glancing her way. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think that was an invitation, and Tré almost heads in that direction. Something stops him.

He sees the back of his head first. The color irritates him before he can come up with a reason, but then he remembers that his own hair is green. There’s a bad joke to be made here somewhere, yadda yadda Christmas.

And then the asshole with the bright red, the Atomic Fireball candy red fucking red hair turns around and Tré maybe rethinks his position. The guy has a nice face. Tré digs the nose ring, digs the bold eyebrows framing soft, yet potentially devious eyes. Heck, he digs it so much he’s having trouble looking at him straight on, like the guy is some sort of eclipse. Or maybe he doesn’t want to be caught with his mouth open. He averts his eyes and brushes past him like he fucking hates baby Jesus. Time to seek out another joint.
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Billie Joe doesn’t catch the kid looking because even without the music it’s still hard to hear over everyone shouting, never mind the ringing in his ears. He has to focus if he wants what he’s saying to reach Mike’s. He tells him he’s seen someone who might be special.

Mike rolls his eyes and asks what he’s going to name the song after her, and Billie Joe laughs. He slaps him lightly on the shoulder, a wry smile on his lips as he yells over the din.

Mike flinches ever so slightly in surprise. Sometimes he forgets that Billie Joe is only nearly straight. It probably has something to do with the fact that Billie’s gay side has only existed thus far in the realm of fiction, in loose hypotheticals. It’s not his fault if he’s assumed it would stay that way.

After all, Billie Joe thought it might stay that way too. And here he is, passing a joint between himself and his best friend and all he can think about is the color of the marijuana. He wants to get that color in his lungs, he wants to get that color in his blood. He wants to fucking fuck that color in the young and impulsive way that’s all about getting yourself off. Well that escalated quickly. The flame buried in the end of the weed flares briefly as he takes another drag.
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Tré is torn between his buddy’s Coke can-concealed vodka and the slow blaze of the reefer in his right hand. There’s no need for a decision, really, but his brain has gone lazy, and in its laziness has forgotten how to wreck his body two ways at once. That’s it; he feels wrecked. It’s taking all he has not to go over there and drop his best pickup line.

But wouldn’t that be embarrassing? The guy’s probably not into dudes. And if he is into dudes, he’s definitely into that dude he’s getting high with.

Tré gulps too much vodka at once and grimaces. He’s spent the last few months arguing with himself in his bedroom about whether being gay, being the outsider, makes him more punk. He’s not sure he can take it otherwise. He’s not sure this is okay. He’s not sure it’s okay that he wants to burn himself under that guy’s touch.

Oh well, the last time Tré had aimed for okay it had still only earned him a D in math anyway.

He lowers the soda can from in front of his face and blinks. Red is gone. He hears the methodical banging of sticks start in on the snare and move to the toms. The beginning of a rushed sound check, the only kind that ever happens at Gilman, if it happens at all. He should find a spot in the crowd. Tré slinks in towards the front.
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Despite his feet being firmly planted on the ground, Billie Joe’s head floats somewhere between the clouds and outer space. With both his blessing and a winking “Good luck on the hunt,” Mike calls it a night and heads home, leaving Billie Joe to his pursuit. The latter heads back to where the pit sprang to life the last time. He hopes to find a certain color waiting there.

Instead he sighs into the push and pull when it starts, because he can’t see it. And if he can’t see it, he may as well throw himself into the crowd, or as he likes to call it, the hands of fate. Someone elbows him in the ribs, and he hasn’t stopped looking. Not yet. Not quite.
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The music kicks in, and the frenzy it kicks up makes him want to jump into it. Jump onto one of those delicious bass wavelengths and ride it over the crowd. He realizes the stage, merely a foot or so high, is more apt to be described with quotation marks around it than without. Even so, the realization slips away behind the drugs in his system.

Tré barrels his way frontward, arms catching on the closeness of other people. It’s slow going; he’s forgotten how to turn his body sideways. When he finally makes it, he falls forward on his hands. All the blood rushes to his head, surging upwards as he pushes himself back to his feet. And he’s standing on the stage now, off to the side of the singer. And he runs his fingers through his smoky hair and smirks, recalling something about Christmas.

He dives, belly flopping, into the raging pit.
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A constellation bursts before Billie Joe’s eyes.
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Somewhere mixed in with the sensation of a hell of a lot of hands gripping his extremities, Tré feels his sneaker-clad foot connect with somebody’s head. “Fuck!” he thinks he hears, but it’s hard to tell whether he simply imagines it forming out of bits of all the other sounds in the air, or if it’s really made of scorched breath. Forgetting he’s supposed to be a punk, Tré rushes to get down.

He freezes. A red light means STOP. But red has a hand at his temple, and red drips, wet, on his skin. Words tumble out of Tré’s mouth. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean—”

Billie Joe blinks owlishly back at the kid with the green hair, head throbbing. This isn’t how he expected to find him, but this works. If he can figure out how to keep the conversation going. “Uh…”

Tré grabs his wrist. “Come ‘ere, let me take a look at that.” A forest of noise swallows up his voice, too high-pitched to carry.

Billie Joe doesn’t argue with words he can’t hear, and allows himself to be pulled along. His mouth has gone dry. He fights the urge to lick his lips while he’s moving, for fear of inadvertently biting off his tongue.

When they find space, Tré feels like an idiot. How he got so ahead of himself that he mistook hair dye running into sweat for blood, he doesn’t know. The dye is thinner, brighter. He feels like an ass, and that’s not how he wanted to feel if he ever got the chance to make a move. So he goes for sorry again. “I thought—Never mind. Sorry about your head. You okay?”

“Nice hair.”

Billie Joe cringes inwardly. There’s no way he could be any worse at flirting, and he can’t even blame it on getting kicked in the head because the headache is already fading.

Tré doesn’t know what to say. “Oh. Thanks?”

Billie Joe frowns. “That wasn’t sarcasm.”

“I know, sorry. Don’t know why I made that a question. Um, I’m Tré.” He sticks out his hand, and as he does so he takes a good look at this guy with his red hair and his awkward sincerity. His clothes don’t say much, but the unfortunate state of his shoelaces indicates he frequents this place, or a dancehall full of novices attempting to tango. His eyes are green, like Tré’s hair, but also red like his own. So they’re both high, then.

Billie Joe takes Tré’s outstretched hand. “Billie,” he says. He bites his lip, reconsidering something. “Well. Billie Joe.”

Now this close to him, Billie Joe realizes how slight Tré is, smaller than himself, even. The impression he gets is that his size can’t quite contain all the energy it attempts to mask, like if you peeled back his skin you’d find a white hot star radiating white hot heat.

Their conversation dies at names. Billie Joe scratches absently behind his ear, and Tré shoves his hands in his pockets for a few seconds before deciding to remove them. It’s almost as if they’ve fallen outside of the commotion around them and things somehow seem quieter than reality should allow.

Too quiet, so they both start to speak at the same time.

“So—”

“Do you—”

They both laugh self-consciously, but try not to look it. Tré’s hands slide back into his pockets. A couple more seconds tick by, and they make another attempt at words.

“Did you wanna get out of here and get high?” Tré asks, nodding towards the exit.

Billie Joe shrugs noncommittally, playing up apathy as some kind of alternative to charm, but abandons that idea quickly. “Sure,” he blurts, and smiles nervously. He’s itching to get out of here, if only for something to distract himself from all the words he’s not saying.

Tré’s palms are sweaty, and he moves to wipe them on his shorts as they make for the door. “You don’t have anything, do you?”

“What?” Billie Joe looks up, confused. Then comprehension hits him. “Oh. Not on me, no. I already smoked what I had.”

“Same here.” Tré’s eyes pin down the way before them. Suddenly he’d rather give in to the hunger tantrum his stomach is throwing than lead an expedition. But it’s too late; he’s already suggested it. He’s locked himself into this hopelessly awkward space time bubble, and he’s got company.

Billie Joe wonders what he’s doing. If Mike was here watching he’d be laughing a riot. He surely doesn’t need any more drugs in his system, but he definitely could use some food. He doesn’t want to miss his chance, though, because he has a feeling this may be the only one afforded to him—like if he fucks this up it’s just gone. Like it wasn’t even there, forgotten outside of the occasional longing stare, or passive aggression, the child of constantly foiled sexual tension.

It sounds like something he’d rather not become a part of. He resolves to coax his first impression out from the shell of concept.

Luckily someone has set up shop in the alleyway behind the venue, so they don’t have to travel far. Neither of them has seen her around before. She’s wearing a black trench coat despite the sticky weather. The boys cast each other skeptical glances. A cigarette twitches between her fingers, and she folds her right leg over her left, leaning against the bricks. The bare skin peeking out of the coat glows pale in the dim light.

“What do you want?” Her tone is flippant. Some ashes fall from the end of the cigarette.

Billie Joe answers. “Well what do you have?”

The dealer smirks haughtily, grasps the lapels of her trench coat, and then spreads her arms wide. Tré snorts; this is like a bad crime flick.

Noticing, the girl begrudges him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, it’s just I’ve always wanted to do that.”

The boys manage to curb the impulse to laugh enough to seriously examine her wares. Five different types of pot and a couple plastic baggies with varying amounts of white powder. Billie Joe and Tré scan the white sticker labels and then look at each other.

“Well what do you want? I can’t stay spread-eagled all night.” She taps her foot.

And then Tré does what Tré does best. “Unless it’s under me,” he says, winking. It’s merely reflex at this point, reflex 16 years in the making. But he can read in the shock that registers on both their faces that his audience doesn’t yet know this as well as Tré’s friends do. Not that he cares what the girl thinks.

“I guess the Pink Lady. That okay with you, man?” Billie Joe succeeds in keeping his voice steady, although inside any courage he’s been cultivating shrinks. He assumes the worst. His new friend is straight.

Tré agrees too hastily. He wishes he could go back in time and gag himself, because he’s all too aware that he’s sent the wrong message and he’s not sure how to retract it. Why would you make a heterosexual joke if you want to leave things open to interpretation? He could smack himself. The least he can do is pay for the drugs.

The money and the bag of Pink Lady change hands. Tré crams the baggie into his pocket and spins on his heels, still berating himself mentally.

Billie Joe follows right behind him. Nearing the mouth of the alley, his thoughts worm their way to the air. “Is she your type?” He hopes to God he sounds casual.

“Eh, not really. I mean, yeah, but…” He pauses. He doesn’t think there’s any right way to answer this, but he can certainly flip it to his advantage. “Well what about you?”

“‘But’ what?”

“You know…I have other types too. Better types.” Tré shrugs, even as he means to be saying it more pointedly.

Billie Joe has to put off analyzing that statement, though, because the glint of a badge catches his eye sooner than it does Tré’s.

“Not so fast, boys. Empty your pockets.”

Taking a quick look behind him, he finds the girl has disappeared. “Officer, we don’t—” Billie Joe tries, before deciding it’s useless. He hands the cop his rolling papers, lighter, a couple crumpled up bills, and his house keys. Tré relinquishes the marijuana and his wallet.

The policeman sighs, as if he were truly hoping to find them innocent. Billie Joe doesn’t know why he expects the man’s mustache to flutter upward when he does so…the hair is too coarse for that. He chalks it up to his lingering high.

“Come on. I’ve got to take you in to the station. Let’s go.” He places a fatherly hand on Tré’s back to usher them along.

Tré is glad for the pressure, otherwise he might have just stood there like a boulder sunk to the bottom of a lake. He can’t quite believe that such a good night has so easily gone to shit. First he kicks his crush in the head, if that’s what he’s calling it, and then he accidentally drops a metaphorical no homo. And right when he’s in the process of correcting this misunderstanding, he gets busted for drug possession. Perfect.

They climb into the back seat of the patrol car, stunned into silence. The officer slams the driver’s side door shut and starts the engine. Billie Joe pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off a stress headache. His mom is going to kill him. His mom is going to kill him and he hasn’t even wound up with a boyfriend to take the edge off before he dies. How did this get so fucked?

The car pulls up to a red light, and the cop turns around to face them. “Were you guys at a Christmas in July party or something?”

Tré rolls his eyes. He should have expected this. “It’s August.”

“Well yeah, but—”

“The light’s green,” Tré butts in, thankful for the rapid change. The cop shifts his focus back to the road, perhaps also thinking better of continuing his thought.

Tré shakes his head at Billie Joe and gestures at the officer disdainfully.

Billie Joe cracks a grin, against his better judgment. He’s been holding off on saying this for a good while now. “You know, if we’re gonna be friends one of us is going to have to change his hair.”