Beyond Paradise

"What the fuck?" Billie said, glancing down at the dog, who sat unconcerned beside him on the sidewalk, scratching at a flea on his neck. "I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere," he muttered to himself, knowing he had done no such thing.

They didn't seem too intimidating, so he decided to take his chances and approach someone to see if he could get some help. As he got closer, he noticed that most of the people were young, a few almost as young as Joey, and many were dressed in black, red, and purple. A few wore dramatic makeup, black bars across their eyes, or red lightning bolts that dissected their faces. None were paying the slightest attention to him.

Sitting on an overturned crate beside a fire hydrant was a boy of about sixteen. His black jeans were ripped at regular intervals, suggesting that he had done it intentionally, and the sleeves of his zippered burgundy shirt were held on by dozens of safety pins. A silver ring gleamed from his right nostril, and both earlobes stretched around large black spiral gauges.

"Hey, how's it going?" Billie offered, his face as friendly as he could make it. The dog panted and wagged as well.

The boy looked indifferently up at him, but said nothing.

Billie swallowed hard and tried again, hoping the kid at least spoke English. "Look, I was just wondering if you knew where I could use a phone for a second. Need to check in with my people." It sounded ridiculous to him, but to say that he wanted to call his wife for a ride would have been far worse.

Again, silence.

Rubbing the back of his neck impatiently, Billie squinted against the afternoon sun, looking across the square for any sign of an adult. The dog plopped down between the boy's knees and licked his hand, bringing the first faint trace of a smile to his lips. Billie seized the opportunity to continue the conversation.

"He's a pretty nice dog for a stray. Just came right up to me like he knew me. You like dogs?"

The boy looked up at him, his head tilted to the side. "He ain't a stray. He's just his own dog." His hand, covered by tattoos of odd-looking symbols and not-quite-letters, stroked the dog's shaggy head and scratched behind its ears.

Billie wondered if he was imagining the subtle thawing between them. "Yeah, that's more like it. He's a punk dog. Cool."

"So what would you know about punk?" A sneer peeked out from under the riot of black spiky tangles.

It made Billie laugh softly. "Maybe nothing. Looks like you do, though." He offered his hand. "I'm Billie Joe. Nice to meet you."

The boy stared suspiciously at him for a long moment before sliding his palm across Billie's. "Jabril. Likewise," he said flatly, and went back to petting the dog. "How about him?" he said, jerking his head toward the mutt, who had flopped over to let his belly be scratched.

"Don't actually know his name. I just met him. What does he look like to you?"

Jabril thought for a moment. "Snot."

It caught him off guard, and he laughed into his fist. "I like it. So, me and Snot were wondering if you could hook us up with that phone."

"You might try Bollocks."

"Bollocks?"

The boy waved a lazy hand toward a battered red door on the opposite corner. Paper fliers tacked all around it waved gently in the breeze, and dim yellow light spilled out through a grimy window. Over the entrance, half-foot high tarnished aluminum letters spelled out "B-O-L-L-O-C-K-S."

"It's a bar," Jabril explained patiently, as if Billie were mildly dimwitted.

"Gotcha," he nodded, smiling good naturedly. "Listen, thanks a bunch. It was nice talking to you."

"No problem. Keep it real, man."

Snot hauled his scruffy body up off the sidewalk with a wheezy grunt, and loped along at Billie's heels as he crossed the square. He peered in through the window, but the layer of dirt obscured everything inside. Using the heel of his hand, he rubbed a clean circle on the glass.

Inside, behind a dark formica-topped bar, a tall man with thinning gray hair stood wiping glasses as he set them on the shelf. There were five or six tables, all unoccupied, and an ancient jukebox near the restrooms. One lone patron sat on a stool, nursing a beer from a pilsner glass.

"Well, boy, you better wait here," Billie told the dog, and Snot sat down obediently. The bell over the door jangled noisily as he entered, but neither the bartender nor the lone customer looked up at him.

"'Scuse me, I was wondering if I could use your phone for a second," he asked politely.

The man set the cloth down and reached under the counter. "Here you go," he said, setting an old push-button telephone on the bar in front of Billie. "Is it long distance? Have to charge you if it is."

"No, it's local," Billie said shaking his head. He lifted the receiver and began to punch in his home number.

A robotic nasal voice drifted through the receiver. "The number you are calling is out of service at this time."

"Fuck," he said under his breath. The bartender had gone back to polishing glasses, and ignored the obscenity.

He tried dialing the number again, and got the same recording. "I don't understand this," he said aloud, his brows furrowing in a frustrated frown. "It's my home number--it can't be out of service!" He pressed Adie's cell number, fingers jabbing impatiently at the square buttons.

"The cellular customer you have reached is out of the service area."

"Goddammit!" he said, slamming the receiver down into the cradle. "I can't fucking believe this!"

"Problem?" the young man sitting on the stool asked casually.

"I don't know," Billie fumed. "I just live a few miles from here, so it should go through, no problem."

"Hmm, maybe they're working on the lines," the man said, taking a long drink of the foamy beer.

"Maybe so. Well, any chance you could point me toward San Diego Boulevard?"

"Never heard of it," the bartender replied, and his customer shook his head as well, shrugging his shoulders. "Sorry, mister."

"What?" Billie asked incredulously. "I mean, it's one of the main drags through Berkeley. You really don't know how to get there?"

"Nope," the tall man answered. "Must be a new road."

Billie looked back and forth between the two men in irritation. "Then how about the bus lines? Does the BART run this far?"

"No buses either," the man replied. "Why don't you sit down and have a drink? It's on the house."

The blood was rising in Billie's face, turning his complexion ruddy. "I don't want a goddamned drink, I just want to get back to my house! What kind of fucking place is this anyway? No buses, phones don't work, and no matter where you're going, you can't get there from here!"

Despite his protest, the bartender sat a tall, frosty glass in front of him, droplets of condensation slowly winding their way down the surface. "Drink up. Sounds like you could use it."

He hadn't realized how thirsty he was, and when his hand closed around the damp coldness, his mouth began to water. He finished half of his beer in one long gulp, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

The customer slid down off the stool and wandered over to the jukebox, fishing in his pocket for some change. He dropped two quarters into the rusty coin slot, and stood looking over the selections. Finally he pressed a few buttons and returned to his seat, tapping the counter to request a refill, which the bartender obligingly provided.

The record plopped onto the turntable, and the needle settled onto it with a scratching noise. From the speakers came a ferocious guitar, snarling over a menacing bass line, and behind them both the crashing of a drum line so frantic it quickened his pulse. Billie's head bobbed in time, his fingers tapping the countertop in approval. Whoever the band was, he hadn't heard them before, but they were good...really good.

He was just about to ask the young man who the amazing new group was when the singer began the first of the lyrics. Jaw agape, he froze in astonishment.

The voice was his own.