In The Rough, chapter 1
It was a cold night, literally and metaphorically. Tré walked quietly down Telegraph avenue. The cars passed him one by one, shining their headlights, to combine with teh streetlights, that led his way. His $800 leather coat wrapped around his body. His private tears still dripped down his cheeks as he sobbed painfully.
His whole body had began to hurt. He now felt like 17 years of his life went down the drain. There was no use. He knew Billie and Mike would always be his friends. Always. But he couldn't even hold a pair of drumsticks between his fingers anymore. They burned his flesh. It was too painful, the memories.
The stars sparkled one by one in the hazy sky. The moon was full and shiny, radiating joy, that Tré thought he'd never feel again. IT was harsh, the way he thought about it, but it was true. What would he do now. It wasn't like he didn't have a shitload of money... he could do almost everything he wanted.
Maybe he could move to New York to be with Ramona and Lisea...? No- what about Frankie? He'd most likely stay in Cali... maybe not on the east bay though. He could go anywhere, but he wouldn't want to leave Billie and Mike. They all needed each other right now, even though the band would never exist again.
The band had done this before... but only to get back together in a month or two, after everyone had spent time with family and doing their own things. Being independant. But he knew that wouldn't happen this time. It really was over.
He walked into a bar; a quiet bar; a bar that wasn't known locally. Not many people went here. He needed a drink, a strong drink, maybe to cure his troubles he told himself.
He sat on the bar stool after making his way to the bar. The music played at a mildly medium volume and he enjoyed it. He ordered his drink, then looked around. He was really the only person here on this tuesday evening, which was fine. He was in no mood for conversations.
The bartender brought back his drink, but then he looked up at her. She had shoulder length brown hair, the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and the most angelic face. "Hi," she said. Voice was soft and beautiful. "Would you like to talk about it?"
He grinned. She had worked here a while, he could tell. She was smart. She was talented (his drink was supurb). He had a crush like a highschooler. "Um... not really..." he said. "But you can talk about anything else."
"You're that guy... the drummer, Tré Cool, from Green Day aren't you?"
"Don't talk about that," he said grinning. "You hit the spot... the spot I asked you not to hit."
"Sorry," she said defensly, holding her hands up. "So... what's up?" She leaned on her elbows infront of him and grinned.
"Nothing. Just... having a drink."
"I see that. I made it."
"I know you did."
"Well... since you're not a talker, I'm going to go ahead and clean up." She looked at the small clock on her wrist. "It's almost time to close this joint down."
He looked at her, and followed her with his eyes as she retrieved a washcloth to wipe the dark wooden counter off. He heard her start singng a song. He'd never heard of this song before, but he liked it. He liked the lyrics, he lived her voice. "Driving alone, finally on my way home to the comfort of my bed..."
"Are you a singer?" he asked.
"Why?"
"'Cause you need to be."
"No. I can't sing all that well... you know that. You're just hittin' on me. I've worked here too long to not see it, Tré."
He looked at her amazed. "You're smart."
"Thanks," she said, a took a deep sigh. "You get that way being a bartender."
"What song was that?"
"A song I wrote myself. It's called 'Wreck of the Day'."
"Oh... I like."
"Thanks."
He continued to watch her clean, eventually sweeping then mopping. He sat and finished his drink then laid a five dollar bill on the counter. "I'll get your change," she said.
"Naw... keep it."
She grinned. "The drinks only two bucks. You realize you're giving me a three dollar tip."
"Yes."
"Okay," she said and smiled. Her cheeks rounded and became pink. "Thank you."
He nodded and walked out the door.
His whole body had began to hurt. He now felt like 17 years of his life went down the drain. There was no use. He knew Billie and Mike would always be his friends. Always. But he couldn't even hold a pair of drumsticks between his fingers anymore. They burned his flesh. It was too painful, the memories.
The stars sparkled one by one in the hazy sky. The moon was full and shiny, radiating joy, that Tré thought he'd never feel again. IT was harsh, the way he thought about it, but it was true. What would he do now. It wasn't like he didn't have a shitload of money... he could do almost everything he wanted.
Maybe he could move to New York to be with Ramona and Lisea...? No- what about Frankie? He'd most likely stay in Cali... maybe not on the east bay though. He could go anywhere, but he wouldn't want to leave Billie and Mike. They all needed each other right now, even though the band would never exist again.
The band had done this before... but only to get back together in a month or two, after everyone had spent time with family and doing their own things. Being independant. But he knew that wouldn't happen this time. It really was over.
He walked into a bar; a quiet bar; a bar that wasn't known locally. Not many people went here. He needed a drink, a strong drink, maybe to cure his troubles he told himself.
He sat on the bar stool after making his way to the bar. The music played at a mildly medium volume and he enjoyed it. He ordered his drink, then looked around. He was really the only person here on this tuesday evening, which was fine. He was in no mood for conversations.
The bartender brought back his drink, but then he looked up at her. She had shoulder length brown hair, the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and the most angelic face. "Hi," she said. Voice was soft and beautiful. "Would you like to talk about it?"
He grinned. She had worked here a while, he could tell. She was smart. She was talented (his drink was supurb). He had a crush like a highschooler. "Um... not really..." he said. "But you can talk about anything else."
"You're that guy... the drummer, Tré Cool, from Green Day aren't you?"
"Don't talk about that," he said grinning. "You hit the spot... the spot I asked you not to hit."
"Sorry," she said defensly, holding her hands up. "So... what's up?" She leaned on her elbows infront of him and grinned.
"Nothing. Just... having a drink."
"I see that. I made it."
"I know you did."
"Well... since you're not a talker, I'm going to go ahead and clean up." She looked at the small clock on her wrist. "It's almost time to close this joint down."
He looked at her, and followed her with his eyes as she retrieved a washcloth to wipe the dark wooden counter off. He heard her start singng a song. He'd never heard of this song before, but he liked it. He liked the lyrics, he lived her voice. "Driving alone, finally on my way home to the comfort of my bed..."
"Are you a singer?" he asked.
"Why?"
"'Cause you need to be."
"No. I can't sing all that well... you know that. You're just hittin' on me. I've worked here too long to not see it, Tré."
He looked at her amazed. "You're smart."
"Thanks," she said, a took a deep sigh. "You get that way being a bartender."
"What song was that?"
"A song I wrote myself. It's called 'Wreck of the Day'."
"Oh... I like."
"Thanks."
He continued to watch her clean, eventually sweeping then mopping. He sat and finished his drink then laid a five dollar bill on the counter. "I'll get your change," she said.
"Naw... keep it."
She grinned. "The drinks only two bucks. You realize you're giving me a three dollar tip."
"Yes."
"Okay," she said and smiled. Her cheeks rounded and became pink. "Thank you."
He nodded and walked out the door.
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