Green Day Saves the Day

The first few days after the autumn tour was announced were strange for the members of The New. Minty and Dré continued their childish silent treatment toward Robb who apparently had decided to cease his vanishing act—at least for the time being. He stayed home but was rarely seen for he preferred to hide away in his room and sketch (a hobby he’d often resort to in his days as a teenager). It seemed as if everyone had reverted back to their elementary school habits. This behavior went on for three weeks until Green Day once again showed up at their door. This time, they came bearing a gift.

“Where is it?” Minty inquired impatiently.

“Calm down, you’ll see it soon enough,” Billie replied. He, Mike, and Tré lead the younger band from their home, down streets and up hills, to an enormous warehouse that sat on the outskirts of Hollywood. The squat building with its dusty reflective windows seemed old and neglected.

“We’re…getting a warehouse?” Dré asked uncertainly.

Mike chuckled. “Not quite.” The group of six was standing before the building’s front doors, which required a palm scan and voice identification for entry. Mike placed his palm on the scratched scanner that was set to the right of the doors. The scanner blipped softly and asked for a voice sample. He leaned in toward the microphone above the scanner and said, slowly and clearly, “Ryan Smithson…and guests.” The scanner went dark and the doors squeaked and groaned with effort as they slowly swung open. Mike entered first, followed by his “guests.”

Dré raised his eyebrows. “What was that all about, Ryan?”

“The guys who helped register us didn’t recognize our faces, but we wanted to be safe in case they knew our names,” Mike explained. He pointed at Billie and said, “By the way, he’s Carl Caulfield Jr. and Tré’s…” The bassist couldn’t help but laugh when he said, “…Eddie Van Helen.”

“Ah,” Dré said. “Fascinating. So where are…” As his eyes traveled about the building’s gray interior, he trailed off when they settled upon a row of motorcycles, double Decker buses, and other vehicles. “No way! You got us a tour bus?!” The excited drummer dashed over to the largest bus before anyone could confirm that Green Day had, indeed, rented their young mentors a shiny new tour bus.

“And you thought he was slow,” Billie whispered to Mike with a smirk.

“You were the one—” Mike began.

“Yep, we got you guys a bus!” Billie exclaimed before Mike could protest. “It’s pretty obvious which one’s yours—just look at the license plate.”

Dré glanced down at the license plate of the bus he’d been admiring. The random sequence of letters and numbers hinted that, unfortunately, this one wasn’t theirs.

“Down here!” Minty called Dré over. He ran to meet his friend who stood before a slightly smaller tour bus with THE NEW on the license plate. The vehicle’s cobalt blue paint gleamed in the sunlight that struggled through the warehouse’s dirty windows. Its windows were painted over with music notes, an electric guitar, and The New’s tour dates.

“I hope you guys like it,” Billie said, “because it’s pretty much going to be your home for the next couple of months.”

Minty, who had been walking around the bus’s perimeter, stopped and said, “I think we can get used to this.”

Robb’s eyes darted up from the oil-stained cement and his lips stretched into a subtle smirk. “Speak for yourself, Minty.” He spat the last word out as if it were poison rather than an affectionate nickname. Minty’s skin prickled and his face flooded with heat for all but a few seconds. He had never felt a stronger urge to knock someone’s teeth out. Who the hell did that smug bastard think he was? Just like an immature child, he smirked once again at Minty’s obvious aggravation. Minty caught Billie glancing inquisitively from him to Robb. He had to keep his cool. He exhaled and replied, “You’re right Robb, I’m sorry—I can get used to this.”

The tension saddled the border between glaring and restrained. If anyone but Minty, Robb, and Dré sensed it, they didn’t express their concern. Tré was the first to change the topic. “So, you guys ready to start this thing?”

“The tour? Right now?” Dré was bewildered by the notion. Even Robb broke his cool façade for a moment to express his shock.

“Right now,” Tré smiled. “Your guys’ equipment is already loaded up so all we need is…you.”

“I think you’re forgetting something, Tré.” The other drummer piped up. “We need someone to actually drive this thing.”

“Well you’re looking at three A-class bus drivers right here.” Tré indicated himself and his two friends with a sweeping motion of his arms. “Of course none of us are actually licensed, and Billie and me both have outstanding DUIs…so you’ve got one A-class bus driver right here!” He patted Mike’s shoulder with gusto.

Mike pulled a crumpled baseball cap bearing the words ‘MIKE, BUS DRIVER EXTRAORDINAIRE’ in blocky white letters out of his coat’s inner pocket and grunted, “Let’s get ‘er done!”

_____________________***

The bus, for all its expenses and glamorous appearance, did not offer its residents the smoothest of rides. It bounced and jolted like The New’s rusty old Astro van over every speed bump and pothole. While Robb—who couldn’t sketch a straight line in all the commotion to save his life—and Dré—who spent half of the trip to Santa Monica throwing up—and Minty—who nearly chopped his fingers off trying to slice an apple—were miserable, the other three men on the bus made the most of the experience. They dripped with nostalgia as they remembered their own tour buses and concerts. Just as Billie began to recall a particularly irate and drunken fan who demanded to take his position as lead singer, the bus stopped with an airy squeal on account of its neglected brakes. Dré stumbled from the bathroom, pale and sickly, and Robb and Minty arose from their stiff, awkward resting positions on a long, red leather couch.

“Finally!” Minty stretched and twisted the kinks out of his back. “I thought we’d never get here.”

“The trip was only an hour long; I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” Robb’s seemingly casual comment grated Minty’s nerves.

“I wasn’t complaining, per se. I was just saying the trip—“

“Sounds like a complaint to me.” Robb cut him off. He put on a cheery face for his great-great-great grandpa and company. “How about we get out of here, eh? It’s starting to feel…stuffy in here.”

Everyone began gathering up equipment, except for Dré who had collapsed onto a swiveling chair just a few feet from the bathroom, and loading it on to a large Jack of All Trades—a bulky but automated contraption that removed the hassle of pushing a jack around. As the group strolled alongside the machine—with Dré not too far behind—they inhaled deeply the salty aroma of the Pacific ocean. The New’s first gig was in a beach side club called TopHat which the group was quickly approaching.

They all slinked around to the rear of the club to avoid being seen by the line of fans in the front which grew longer and longer as the sunlight grew dimmer and dimmer. The inside of the building was cool and the familiar stench of alcohol lingered in the air. “So this is the famous TopHat, huh?” Dré said, his nausea now overcome with disappointment.

“More like infamous,” Mike chortled.

Billie, Mike, and Tré escaped backstage, leaving their mentees to set up the equipment. The trio wasted no time with the normally tedious affair which was made easier with the assistance of the TopHat’s bartender, Vic. He was a 30-something-year old guy trying to pass as a 20-something with a smart goatee and a biceps-bearing black T-shirt.

“So where you guys from?” he asked in an accent that was undecidedly settled between Midwestern and southern.

Robb and Minty’s answers overlapped which caused a tense silence. “Arizona,” Dré replied hastily. “We all grew up in Scottsdale.”

While the drummer and the bartender maintained a steady stream of small talk, Robb and Minty stubbornly upheld their silent treatment of one another. At one point their eyes met briefly and Robb’s stomach lurched furiously. Fucker. He’d better not look at me again, he fumed silently. His friend turned foe was thinking the same thing, which only caused their eyes to meet several more times as each was testing to see whether the other dared to return the look.

Finally everything was in its proper place. Dré thanked Vic for his help, then waited for him to be out of earshot before urgently whispering, “Guys, we go on in 30 minutes; you’d better cut the crap. Oh, don’t look so surprised—I saw you two dogging each other. Now just behave!” Robb did something that resembled a snarl in response and reluctantly went backstage to warm up. Minty followed once there was a good distance between the two of them. Dré stayed on the stage behind his drum kit where he belonged. He soon began a slow but sharp beat. Doo, duh, chh! Doo, duh, chh!...

Behind the black velvet curtain, it was poorly lit and cramped. Robb and Minty stood in opposite corners with Green Day somewhere in the middle. Billie couldn’t help but find this odd and went over to Robb as Dré’s snappy beat continued in the background. “Hey, is something going on with you and Minty?”

Robb was busy fiddling with his guitar’s strap when he was asked this question. He abruptly froze. A few seconds passed before he replied, “Of course not.” He faked a smile once again.

“Oh really?” Billie inquired with a sense that he knew more than he was letting on. He folded his tattooed arms and eyed down (so to speak) his distant—and taller—relative. “Then how come you guys aren’t practicing together?”

Robb searched for an answer as Dré’s beat gained velocity. Duh dum duh chh! Duh dum duh… “We are, see? We’re both playing at the same time. At least we were until you—“
“Don’t feed me that shit, Robb.” Billie’s stern tone silenced Robb with the air of a disapproving parent. “You guys are on opposite sides of the room. What’s going on?”
Tré and Mike, who had overheard, immediately stopped talking. Minty set his bass on its rack and glared across the room. The only sound that remained was Dré’s constant drumming. Duh dum duh chh!

Billie repeated his question impatiently, loudly. Dré abruptly stopped drumming. His drumsticks clattered on the floor and he came through the curtain wearing a sincerely concerned expression.

“Yeah, why don’t you tell him what’s going on, Robby?” Minty’s voice sliced through the air which was already unbearably thick with tension and with heat that seemed to come out of nowhere. He moved across the room so slowly, so stealthily that Tré and Mike didn’t even notice until he had passed them. “Why don’t you tell him how you ran off to God knows where day after day while your friend—your band mate—was in the hospital?” He was just a foot from Robb now. “Why don’t you tell him—tell Billie what you told me? Well, what you waiting for?!”

If the floor had been slathered with gasoline, Minty’s last words would have been a spark, and the fire that ensued was deadly. Before Billie knew what was going on, he received a face full of elbow as Robb flew at Minty, and was knocked out cold. In a second, Robb clipped his childhood friend—first in the jaw, then in the eye. Minty staggered for a split second but then retaliated with a fierce blow to the man’s gut. Slightly stunned, Robb fell to his knees but was up and had his arm locked around his foe’s waist before he could react. He slammed him down to the ground, knees crushing his chest, one hand around his throat and the other ready to smash whatever it made contact with. As it came down with brutal force, his captive mustered the strength to turn his head, thus causing the fist to slam into the concrete with a chilling crack. Robb rolled over in intense pain and in an instant, the roles were reversed. He was pummeled with quick, hard blows for all of a few seconds before Minty was wrestled off, kicking and cursing all the way through. Mike restrained him while Dré ran to Robb, who refused to let him see his mangled hand. Tré looked on from unconscious Billie’s side, unsure of how he should react to what he was witnessing.

Minty struggled to break free from Mike, but he kept a firm hold on the younger man. “Tell him!” he screamed.

“Well that won’t do much good—he’s unconscious.” Tré wasn’t exactly happy that these two had been careless enough to drag his friend into their fight.

“Shut up!” Minty’s voice practically echoed in the small room. “Go on Robb, tell everybody. Tell everybody how you think you’re too good for this band. Tell them how you don’t give a shit about our future! TELL THEM THE TRUTH!”

Robb took a step toward Minty but Dré gripped his shoulder tightly. He knocked his arm away with his good hand. His spoke flatly, but just loud enough to be heard. “I don’t need to deal with this…with any of it—“

“Neither do we.” Dré’s voice was the last one any expected to hear at that moment (aside from Billie’s, of course). He went over to Minty who was finally released. “We don’t have to stay where we’re not appreciated,” he said.

“Yeah, and we’re not going to,” added The New’s bassist. “We’re done.”

“Guys, you don’t mean that…” Mike tried to sound firm but he could hardly hide his shock.

“We do.” Dré almost sounded apologetic—as if they were being forced to leave. In some ways, they were. They really felt as if they were out of options; this was the path they had to take—the one leading away from Robb and the heavy burden of resurrecting music. “Mike, Tré…we’re sorry.” And with that, they were gone. Just like that.