When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 10

*Tré*

Golf, a blessing to fill a long day. I'd die without it. Or go more insane than I already am.

Tré grinned satisfactorily as the guitar-playing Jason sent a laser-yellow ball flying down the green, towards the eighteenth hole. After watching the ball come to earth, Jason stepped aside for Ronnie.

"Nice shot," the other Jason mumbled.

The three men resumed silence as Ronnie lined up the head of his club with the ball and took a few, tiny, practice swings. The greatness of golf for Tré was he had all the relaxation of being on the couch, with the bonus of being active. For Tré, being in front of the TV resulted in too much time spent eating of all sorts of junk food and becoming a massive slob.

Golf not was a game requiring little concentration. In that sense, it was like TV. Thoughts could be examined with emotional detachment because the body and the mind were more occupied with the game.

Leaning on his club, Tré enjoyed letting his thoughts simmer on a mental back burner. His mind could think and solve problems without intense devotion from his conscious self. So, what kinda shit can I expect from that crazy broad?

With a whoosh from the club, Ronnie struck the ball.

"Bugger," he growled, as the ball landed short of Jason's.

Headless cats and stuff?

"Better luck next time."

"That's the way she goes sometimes."

"Yeah, relax." Tré ceased leaning on his club and dug in his golf bag for a tee and ball. "Just golf. You and the ball. Be at one with the ball."

Ronnie put his palms together, fingers pointing to his chin, and bowed. "Oh yes master."

Tré twirled the club before plunking it on the ground. "Hey, it's just a way to chill. If you've got your boxers in a knot, you ain't gonna do much chilling. Ain't about losing. Ask Mike when we get back." Tré chuckled. "Worst man I've ever seen, but he does it. Seriously, they say being tall means you'll do better, but he just sucks. Bad."

"How bad?" Ronnie asked with the slightest hint of a sulk.

"See that tree there?" Tré gestured to a gnarled poplar on the far left side of the fairway. "Mike could aim at it, and wind up with the damn ball over there," he pointed with his club at the rough to the right of the fairway, "About fifty feet from where he teed off. And that's with a one wood. He should be able to get at least a hundred 'n fifty yards, every time."

"His personal best, is, what?" Jason White asked himself. "About ninety yards, would ya say?"

"Yeah." Tré nodded, causing his sunglasses to slip onto his nose. "Somewhere around there."

"I can see why Mike's not around—I don't think I'd want to hear the clubs hitting balls either if I'd drank as much as he did last night—but what about Billie? Why isn't he here?" Jason Freese asked. "Doesn't do golf, or what?" He adjusted his beret so it sat higher on his forehead.

"He gets his boxers in a knot," the other Jason replied smartly. "Competitive man that he is."

"I don't really get it," Tré said, putting his tee in the earth and balancing his ball atop. "He can whack that damn ball farther than anyone when he wants, but 'cause he practises and doesn't do it—hit really far—consistently, then he gives up." Tré snickered and covered his mouth. "Oh, no, wait, I phrased that wrong. I meant he just," he curled his fingers into quotation marks, "'decides to do something else'. Billie Joe Armstrong never gives up."

"Must be left-over football macho stuff," Jason White mused with a smile.

"I don't really care for macho guys, except I do have them to thank for my good health." Tré straightened and eyed the ball. "Kept me in shape, running the fuck away all the time."

"What for?" Ronnie asked.

"Well, all the macho guys had all the hot girls. Of course, I never found that out 'til after I started hittin' on them. Territorial, them macho bastards."

Pranks. God, it's been ages since we did the Game.

Tré planted his feet and took a quick glance down the green, visualizing the path of the ball. He gently swung at the ball, and then pulled back. The club's head was not quite in line. He shuffled forward an inch and tested it again.

The last one, that one was the best. Damn, Wren was perfect for it. She was so going to be on my team. We would've killed.

Tré swung back mightily, feeling his body twist with momentum.

Haven't thought about her in a long time. I wonder how she's doing.

The club scythed down through the air, pulling his arms with it. At the last fraction of a section, Tré's concentration shattered. The ball shot off nearly sideways, plunging into the trees of the rough.

Tré blinked in surprise, but spread his arms victoriously. "That, is how we play golf!" he roared. The other men chuckled and made playful insults. "Like I said, it ain't really about winning. That's the price for being the best God-damn drummer in the world. Can only be perfect at so many things."

*Billie*

Adjusting to the rhythm of touring was second nature by now. The first days roared past, without so much as a warning. Then, as he adjusted, time would start to reach normal speed. A day felt like a full twenty-four hours, instead of a handful of eye blinks. Sometimes, a lot quicker than it used to, a day could begin to drag.

Today and then tomorrow the show. 'Til then, what? Sit around, I guess. Golfing just ain't my thing. Lucky for the others, they can do that shit. Can't fucking understand what's so great about whacking a damn chunk of plastic around. I can see smashing windows or something, but you just hit that ball and then go chase after it. Boring.

So, what to do? I could, watch TV or something. Maybe, I could've gone as a caddy. Nah. Still boring. Besides, I don't need to be around the guys constantly. I need something that I can do. Too bad Adie had to go back home.

Arrgh. I. Am. Bored.

Yawning, Billie Joe languidly scratched his mop of dark hair. Hanging around in the bus alone was not a good plan for finding a little action. After all, he had spent half of yesterday inside the bus. Anything that there was to do on the bus he had already done. The arena held more promise for diversions.

He wandered over to one of the bus's tinted windows and looked out into the empty parking lot. There'll be nobody. Nothing for me to do out there. Nobody to talk to, unless I wanna chat up good ol' Dougie boy. Sighing, he moved to stand unhappily in center of the living room. I should've gone golfing. Everyone else went. I could've gone along. Well, everybody 'cept for Mike, but he's wasted and there's no talking to him. Grouchy asshole.

Restlessly, Billie Joe shoved his hands into his pockets. He had already done the unthinkable and tidied up the place. The mess had been small, just a few tossed clothes. Any bus that Tré spent most of his time on would be a mess, but luckily—or unluckily, in Billie's current state—Tré had chosen the other bus as his domain. Going over there, bothering viciously-hung-over Mike just to clean seemed a little too much like a crazy old lady habit for Billie Joe's taste.

A slightly less odd idea sprang into Billie Joe's mind. No one's around, so why not take a long shower? It would not be a girly, soaking-with-scented-oils bath and, it would definitely be better than his usual two second scrub and shower. It might be a while before I get another chance to do this. And, it gives me something to do.

In a matter of moments, Billie Joe was stripped and in the shower. A grin at experiencing a much-enjoyed creature comfort settled on his face. The water felt good; it felt, in a word, clean. If Doug was going to bitch about using up too much water, well, he could go stick his opinions where the sun did not shine for all Billie Joe cared. Besides, Doug had yet to learn that the snotty punk princelings of yore were not erased or subdued by age. Billie Joe still knew how to deal with people he did not enjoy. If pushed, he would do so with a vengeance.

Thinking about numerous past extractions of justice, Billie roughly scrubbed his hair. Guilt did tend to rise to the surface when he recalled some of the more harsh punishments, but he pushed it away with memories of victims who had definitely deserved what they received.

"Billie!" Tré's voice cut through the guitarist's reverie.

"Shower." Billie Joe called back. His voice slipped into an annoyed growl, "Gimme a sec'."

On one hand, Tré had interrupted the shower, but on the other, Billie Joe now had someone help him to stave off boredom. Quickly, Billie Joe rinsed his hair of shampoo.

The bathroom door swung open and Tré barged in.

"Need t' talk. Now."

"Christ, man, wait 'til I'm dressed!"

"What?" Through the distortion of the shower's doors, Billie saw a look of innocent surprise cross Tré's features. "It's nothing I haven't seen before. C'mon, this is important."

Out of modesty, Billie Joe turned his back to the drummer. It was hard to instantaneously break household habits, and exchange them for touring manners. Tré, Billie Joe noted, seemed to have no such problem with the transition. Shutting off the shower, Billie Joe slid the glass door aside and snagged a pair of towels. Only after one was secure around his waist did he continue the conversation.

"Couldn't it have waited thirty seconds?"

"Not really." Tré retorted briefly. His unusually serious tone immediately captured Billie Joe's attention.

Something's up. He wouldn't get like this over nothing or stupid shit.

"Okay, so I was out golfing with the guys, right? And you know how I always say that golf's good for thinking—so, I'm thinking about what I'm going to do about Knight."

"What do you mean, 'do about Knight'?" Billie Joe stepped out of the shower as he used his other towel to dry himself. "You can't kill her, she's road crew," he teased.

"I'm not, just let me get to the point, and then you can talk."

Billie Joe put the seat down on the toilet and seated himself. "Well, since you did interrupt my shower for this, talk away."

"I kinda challenged her to a duel. Not swords, just a I-am-gonna-make-your-life-a-living-hell-'til-you-crack kind of a duel."

Tré, waging war with the roadies. I don't think I'm bored anymore.

"So," Tré continued, "I was golfing. And thinking about how to torment her. Remember all that shit we used to do at Halloween? I was using that as inspiration. You know, it doesn't have to be original as long as it works, since we've never battled before. It kinda occurred to me that if Mike's old girl had stuck around, we would've made a killer team for the next year. Then, I got two thinking things going on at once. What would she do? And, where is she now?" Tré paused and widened his eyes for effect. "So, put two and two together."

"Uh, you're going to go find her and get her to help you fight a roadie?" Billie Joe guessed uncertainly.

"No!" Tré's voice doubled in volume. He rolled his eyes and looked at Billie Joe as if he was the world's greatest idiot.

Billie Joe crossed his arms. "Tell me already."

"Knight's having some sort of war with me. It's like the Game, but on a huger scale. Who else would know about it besides you, me, and Mike? It's her way of letting us know that she's around. Knight is Wren. She's right here, on tour."