Beyond Paradise
Frustration Makes Him Crazy
"Little Miss Disaster,
Bouncin' off the rafters,
I know what you're after,
But you won't find it here.
Lookin' for attention,
Living in suspension,
I can't stand the tension,
And you ain't got no fear.
Take your crazy shit and hop the next train out of town.
I won't be a martyr, and I sure as hell won't be a clown.
There must be a reason,
Buried in the season,
Loving you was treason,
But now the future's clear.
Take your crazy shit and hop the next train out of town.
I won't be a martyr and I sure as hell won't be a clown.
(note--original lyrics--please don't steal!)
He listened in stunned fascination to himself, singing the lyrics of a song he'd never heard before. As the last blistering notes died away, he turned helpless, confused eyes to the man on the bar stool.
"Okay, I don't know what's going on here, but how did you do that?" he demanded.
"Do what?" He didn't even lift his head to look at Billie. "I just played a song, dude."
"That--that was my voice! Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I'm a musician, I know how I sound, and that was me. All I want to know is how you did it--was it some kind of mashup or something?" He leaned forward, his fists wadded tensely. It felt as if his mind was suddenly dangling from one precarious hinge.
The man finished the last of his beer and reached into his back pocket, fishing out a worn black leather wallet. He pulled out two tens and slid them across the bar, and the bartender retrieved them with an appreciative nod. Then the customer turned on the stool to regard Billie with a cool, appraising stare. "You don't look like a musician to me. Have I ever heard of you?"
It shot through him like a bolt of fire, and the hackles on his neck stood at attention until he realized there was no challenge in the remark. The guy sincerely had no idea who he was. Still, he couldn't help taking offense at the implication. "So what does a musician look like, then?"
The man shrugged. "I dunno. Taller, I guess. Flashy clothes, big hair. Didn't see you drive up in a sports car, either," he said dubiously.
"What's that got to do with it?" Billie asked, his face skewed with distaste. "Making music has nothing to do with image. It's something that comes from your gut."
"Suit yourself," he replied, and he slid down from the stool.
"So you have no idea who I am?" Billie asked, his mouth going dry in spite of the beer he'd just finished. Was this some kind of practical joke?
"Not a clue." The man started casually toward the door, tapping a cigarette out of the pack he pulled from his shirt pocket. "You guys take care, now." The bell jangled again as he headed out into the bright sunlight.
Curiosity was driving him nuts, but for the moment, Billie's bladder was overriding every other impulse he had. His sneakers squeaked on the yellowed and scuffed linoleum in the restroom hallway, and when he had found relief, he stood at the sink washing his hands, examining his reflection in the hazy mirror. Pressing a handful of wet paper towels to his face, he tried to retrace his steps all the way back to when he had left home, hoping that some answer, some detail he had overlooked would jump out at him and explain the surreal situation in which he found himself. But he had walked in a straight shot, no side streets, no detours, and everything in his mind told him that this place simply couldn't be here.
Tossing the wadded towels into the trash, he turned back to the mirror to fluff out his hair, and gasped when he saw a dark reflection over his shoulder. He whirled around on his heels, but the only thing that met his eyes was the stall door, swinging slowly shut. He sighed heavily, almost laughing at his own frayed nerves. So much had happened that he was getting jumpy, seeing things that weren't there.
He turned back to the mirror, and instead of the reverse image of the restroom, behind him he saw the graffiti-splashed walls of Gilman, the black ceiling hanging low above him. Spray painted messages clung in backwards abandon to the dark paint, save for one message in stark white that he could read as clearly as if it were right in front of him:
BILLIE JOE MUST DIE
Bouncin' off the rafters,
I know what you're after,
But you won't find it here.
Lookin' for attention,
Living in suspension,
I can't stand the tension,
And you ain't got no fear.
Take your crazy shit and hop the next train out of town.
I won't be a martyr, and I sure as hell won't be a clown.
There must be a reason,
Buried in the season,
Loving you was treason,
But now the future's clear.
Take your crazy shit and hop the next train out of town.
I won't be a martyr and I sure as hell won't be a clown.
(note--original lyrics--please don't steal!)
He listened in stunned fascination to himself, singing the lyrics of a song he'd never heard before. As the last blistering notes died away, he turned helpless, confused eyes to the man on the bar stool.
"Okay, I don't know what's going on here, but how did you do that?" he demanded.
"Do what?" He didn't even lift his head to look at Billie. "I just played a song, dude."
"That--that was my voice! Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I'm a musician, I know how I sound, and that was me. All I want to know is how you did it--was it some kind of mashup or something?" He leaned forward, his fists wadded tensely. It felt as if his mind was suddenly dangling from one precarious hinge.
The man finished the last of his beer and reached into his back pocket, fishing out a worn black leather wallet. He pulled out two tens and slid them across the bar, and the bartender retrieved them with an appreciative nod. Then the customer turned on the stool to regard Billie with a cool, appraising stare. "You don't look like a musician to me. Have I ever heard of you?"
It shot through him like a bolt of fire, and the hackles on his neck stood at attention until he realized there was no challenge in the remark. The guy sincerely had no idea who he was. Still, he couldn't help taking offense at the implication. "So what does a musician look like, then?"
The man shrugged. "I dunno. Taller, I guess. Flashy clothes, big hair. Didn't see you drive up in a sports car, either," he said dubiously.
"What's that got to do with it?" Billie asked, his face skewed with distaste. "Making music has nothing to do with image. It's something that comes from your gut."
"Suit yourself," he replied, and he slid down from the stool.
"So you have no idea who I am?" Billie asked, his mouth going dry in spite of the beer he'd just finished. Was this some kind of practical joke?
"Not a clue." The man started casually toward the door, tapping a cigarette out of the pack he pulled from his shirt pocket. "You guys take care, now." The bell jangled again as he headed out into the bright sunlight.
Curiosity was driving him nuts, but for the moment, Billie's bladder was overriding every other impulse he had. His sneakers squeaked on the yellowed and scuffed linoleum in the restroom hallway, and when he had found relief, he stood at the sink washing his hands, examining his reflection in the hazy mirror. Pressing a handful of wet paper towels to his face, he tried to retrace his steps all the way back to when he had left home, hoping that some answer, some detail he had overlooked would jump out at him and explain the surreal situation in which he found himself. But he had walked in a straight shot, no side streets, no detours, and everything in his mind told him that this place simply couldn't be here.
Tossing the wadded towels into the trash, he turned back to the mirror to fluff out his hair, and gasped when he saw a dark reflection over his shoulder. He whirled around on his heels, but the only thing that met his eyes was the stall door, swinging slowly shut. He sighed heavily, almost laughing at his own frayed nerves. So much had happened that he was getting jumpy, seeing things that weren't there.
He turned back to the mirror, and instead of the reverse image of the restroom, behind him he saw the graffiti-splashed walls of Gilman, the black ceiling hanging low above him. Spray painted messages clung in backwards abandon to the dark paint, save for one message in stark white that he could read as clearly as if it were right in front of him:
BILLIE JOE MUST DIE