'Cause I'm a Million Miles Away, chapter 6
June 9, 1990
That was the dawning of it all. The legacy of Green Day, the sky-rocketing fame and fortune of the two guitarists and the soon-to-be-drummer. "Welcome to Paradise..." Billie repeated, walking down the cracked sidewalks with his hands shoved in his pockets. "Pay attention to the cracked streets and the broken homes." It seemed as if a tragedy would make Billie's imagination run wild. "Some call it slums, some call it nice."
Billie was ahead of Mike and I, kicking an empty glass Dr. Pepper bottle. Mike counted the sidewalk blocks while I planned making money to go on tour with the guys. "What are we gonna do with the apartment?" I said quietly to Mike, trying to avoid Billie Joe's attention.
"I have no fucking clue... Sell it, I guess..." I looked up at the sky. Please, a miracle is all we need.
---
As a stress reliever, we headed for Gilman. It was unusually empty in there for a Sunday night. We walked to the back meeting room, only to see Larry and Tre lighting up joints. "Great, Sammie's here!" Tre said with a high tone. Mike looked around the room uncomfortably, holding his breath. Tre was laughable again today - his hair was tar black with black paint with a green shirt and purple shorts.
"Billie, you look down, man," Larry said, patting the seat next to him. Billie sat down and dragged the drugs, happy to accept the invitation.
"Our apartment was robbed."
"Ouch," Tre said.
Mike took my sleeve and dragged me to the performance room, which was empty besides the 15 year old bartender, who was spitting on the bar and washing it with an old rag. "Can't stand the pot," Mike said, wincing. "It makes my eyes burn." I stood in front of him, staring at his shirt collar, in search of what to say. "Now that Billie's gone off getting high again..." Mike said, cocking his head to the side to get a better look at my face. "Wow, you're flawless."
"Flattering," I said, smiling graciously. "Stop being such a gentleman and act like the nineteen year old you are."
"You're eighteen."
"Pfft. As long as I'm legal." Mike snorted, sitting down on a ripped up pinstripe couch by the bar and patting the seat next to him.
I noticed the bartender was paying particular attention to our obviously joking conversation, but as soon as I shot him a dirty look, he returned to washing the cup he had been washing for the past fifteen minutes. It was silent until Mike finally stated, "we found a drummer."
"Who's that?"
"Frank Wright or something like that... He's a weird-ass but he's great."
"Oh... Who's that?"
"The guy in the back room dressed like a clown," Mike said, biting his lip.
"Oh! Tre Cool!" Mike raised an eyebrow.
"You know him?"
"He gave us a ride when we were looking for you." A strike of guilt ran through Mike, but he was quick to ignore it.
"Sorry." I smacked him playfully.
"Don't be, you're such a...sorry person."
"A sorry excuse for one." I sighed and smashed my lips against his. He jumped in shock.
"Better?" His eye twitched, but he nodded.
---
June 23, 1990
Over the past three or so weeks, Mike's nose finally healed. Billie Joe settled down at his house while we stayed at the apartment, fixing it up with the money we were raising going door-to-door selling used guitar picks. Yes, crappy way to make money, but it worked. It pays off to live in a heavily polluted area filled with elderly and young children not being able to tell apart a quarter and a fifty dollar bill. With the money we got the door a brand new lock, two new fans with solar power to sit on the floor in our bedrooms (I gave mine up, claiming I couldn't sleep alone). We also painted all the walls light green and got green light bulbs to add on to the seizure-worthy rooms. "Almost home again," Mike had said, wiping the paint off his fingers.
So as the long, hot days of living in the Bay Area passed, making money by merely scraping bubble gum off the bottom of tables at diners and cooking grease off grills, we finally saved enough up to buy an old clunker van to tour with. "This is it, right?" Billie said, stopping his own Fairlane in the parking lot of a car lot. Tre, in the passenger seat, was hanging out the window like a dog.
"YEAH!" he screamed, causing the dealers - IN THE BUILDING - to look up from their papers and scramble to their willing customers - us.
Five minutes later we were already leaving the lot with all our money. "Well wasn't that just a huge fucking disappointment?" Mike stated, making a sour face.
"My dad might sell our van," Tre said. "To us, y'know?" Billie stopped the car right in the street and grinned.
"Say what?" His father - excited to meet the band, and me - agreed to letting us use the van. On one condition. "What condition?" Billie sneered, shooting Tre a nasty look over his father, who was bent over under the hood of a truck.
"You let ME drive." Billie and Mike looked like they were going to faint right there on the spot. "I'll pay gas and everything. As soon as one of you turns 20, I'll let you go. Which means Frank here, in December, can drive the van." We all gave each other unsatisfied looks. But Billie nodded anyway.
"You got it, sir."
That was the dawning of it all. The legacy of Green Day, the sky-rocketing fame and fortune of the two guitarists and the soon-to-be-drummer. "Welcome to Paradise..." Billie repeated, walking down the cracked sidewalks with his hands shoved in his pockets. "Pay attention to the cracked streets and the broken homes." It seemed as if a tragedy would make Billie's imagination run wild. "Some call it slums, some call it nice."
Billie was ahead of Mike and I, kicking an empty glass Dr. Pepper bottle. Mike counted the sidewalk blocks while I planned making money to go on tour with the guys. "What are we gonna do with the apartment?" I said quietly to Mike, trying to avoid Billie Joe's attention.
"I have no fucking clue... Sell it, I guess..." I looked up at the sky. Please, a miracle is all we need.
---
As a stress reliever, we headed for Gilman. It was unusually empty in there for a Sunday night. We walked to the back meeting room, only to see Larry and Tre lighting up joints. "Great, Sammie's here!" Tre said with a high tone. Mike looked around the room uncomfortably, holding his breath. Tre was laughable again today - his hair was tar black with black paint with a green shirt and purple shorts.
"Billie, you look down, man," Larry said, patting the seat next to him. Billie sat down and dragged the drugs, happy to accept the invitation.
"Our apartment was robbed."
"Ouch," Tre said.
Mike took my sleeve and dragged me to the performance room, which was empty besides the 15 year old bartender, who was spitting on the bar and washing it with an old rag. "Can't stand the pot," Mike said, wincing. "It makes my eyes burn." I stood in front of him, staring at his shirt collar, in search of what to say. "Now that Billie's gone off getting high again..." Mike said, cocking his head to the side to get a better look at my face. "Wow, you're flawless."
"Flattering," I said, smiling graciously. "Stop being such a gentleman and act like the nineteen year old you are."
"You're eighteen."
"Pfft. As long as I'm legal." Mike snorted, sitting down on a ripped up pinstripe couch by the bar and patting the seat next to him.
I noticed the bartender was paying particular attention to our obviously joking conversation, but as soon as I shot him a dirty look, he returned to washing the cup he had been washing for the past fifteen minutes. It was silent until Mike finally stated, "we found a drummer."
"Who's that?"
"Frank Wright or something like that... He's a weird-ass but he's great."
"Oh... Who's that?"
"The guy in the back room dressed like a clown," Mike said, biting his lip.
"Oh! Tre Cool!" Mike raised an eyebrow.
"You know him?"
"He gave us a ride when we were looking for you." A strike of guilt ran through Mike, but he was quick to ignore it.
"Sorry." I smacked him playfully.
"Don't be, you're such a...sorry person."
"A sorry excuse for one." I sighed and smashed my lips against his. He jumped in shock.
"Better?" His eye twitched, but he nodded.
---
June 23, 1990
Over the past three or so weeks, Mike's nose finally healed. Billie Joe settled down at his house while we stayed at the apartment, fixing it up with the money we were raising going door-to-door selling used guitar picks. Yes, crappy way to make money, but it worked. It pays off to live in a heavily polluted area filled with elderly and young children not being able to tell apart a quarter and a fifty dollar bill. With the money we got the door a brand new lock, two new fans with solar power to sit on the floor in our bedrooms (I gave mine up, claiming I couldn't sleep alone). We also painted all the walls light green and got green light bulbs to add on to the seizure-worthy rooms. "Almost home again," Mike had said, wiping the paint off his fingers.
So as the long, hot days of living in the Bay Area passed, making money by merely scraping bubble gum off the bottom of tables at diners and cooking grease off grills, we finally saved enough up to buy an old clunker van to tour with. "This is it, right?" Billie said, stopping his own Fairlane in the parking lot of a car lot. Tre, in the passenger seat, was hanging out the window like a dog.
"YEAH!" he screamed, causing the dealers - IN THE BUILDING - to look up from their papers and scramble to their willing customers - us.
Five minutes later we were already leaving the lot with all our money. "Well wasn't that just a huge fucking disappointment?" Mike stated, making a sour face.
"My dad might sell our van," Tre said. "To us, y'know?" Billie stopped the car right in the street and grinned.
"Say what?" His father - excited to meet the band, and me - agreed to letting us use the van. On one condition. "What condition?" Billie sneered, shooting Tre a nasty look over his father, who was bent over under the hood of a truck.
"You let ME drive." Billie and Mike looked like they were going to faint right there on the spot. "I'll pay gas and everything. As soon as one of you turns 20, I'll let you go. Which means Frank here, in December, can drive the van." We all gave each other unsatisfied looks. But Billie nodded anyway.
"You got it, sir."
