When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 18

Mike

"We want to go," Tré repeated. He tapped his foot impatiently on the pavement of their current venue's loading dock.

"Why?" Doug demanded. "There's no reason. Tell the caterers what you want and they'll get it."

After gazing up at the clear sky, Tré sighed in frustration. "We don't want the caterers." He widened his eyes and gave Doug a stare that suggested the manager was the stupidest person on the planet. Blinking owlishly, Tré stated slowly, "We want to do it ourselves."

"Why?" Doug asked again.

Tré's words stumbled over themselves, but Mike jumped in. Crossing his brawny arms, he moved to stand at the drummer's side.

"Because, I want to brush up on my culinary skills." He cocked his head, making his earring swing against his neck. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Doug responded quickly. "But why do you need to go?" he asked the other band members.

"They're my apprentices," Mike retorted.

"C'mon, there's nothing wrong with us going for a trip. What's the difference between this and us goin' golfing?" Jason White asked.

Doug ignored the second guitarist. "Fine, but I'm comin' with."

Now it was Tré's turn to demand, "Why?"

"We've got an interview coming up, and if I just let you loose, you'll get into some sort of shit." Doug crossed his arms, "I've read you guys' biography. You're a manager's nightmare."

Billie Joe rolled his green eyes. "Whatever. Let's go."

Without waiting for the manager, the band headed for the long white van parked by their buses. The band was already in their seats and waiting before Doug climbed into the driver's seat. He turned the van on and put it in gear.

Turning around in his seat, he asked, "Where are we going exactly?"

"We need to pull up at a big-ass grocery store," Mike said. "Then, a hardware store or something."

"A hardware store," Doug said slowly.

"Yeah, that's what the man said," Tré said insolently.

"And what are you doing at a hardware store?" Doug sounded as if he was expecting the worst.

"Well, duh, where do think we're going to pick up our specialty knives?" Mike retorted impudently.

"You mean saws," Doug said.

Dude, he must think we're fuckin' nuts. Saws? What are we going to do with saws?

"Yeah, I guess we could pick some saws up," Billie Joe mused.

"Ah, but eet iz so much better than a knife, how dare you use such a vulgar term for such a magneeficant tool! Saw!" Continuing with his French persona, Mike spat eloquently on the ground.
"Hmmph!"

Tré let out a pompous French laugh. "We French are known for our tools. If you know what I mean."

"Well, if one of you can tear yourself away from your tool appreciation," Doug shot, "I need a navigator. Billie?"

Silently, the guitarist moved up into the front seat and collected the map. With an impish twinkle in his eyes, Billie Joe winked broadly at his cohorts. "We French are known for our naveegayshon skeells."

Over the roars of laughter, he jabbed a finger at the map and said, "There's a mall on I-85."

"Alright, let's roll," Jason Freese commanded.

"We French are known for our rolls," Tré piped up. "We know all about rolling cigars—"

"—rolling smokes," Ronnie added.

"—rolling joints," Tré continued, "and—"

"—bread rolls," Mike interrupted.

"—rolls in the hay!" Tré declared.

Like a group of thirteen-year-olds, the men—with the exception of Doug—dissolved into giggles.

Gasping for breath between sniggers, Tré pronounced, "I love the fuckin' French!"

"Oh shit," Billie Joe wheezed, "I think you were supposed to turn back there."

"Road trip!" Mike cried. "Alaska or bust!"

Several wrong turns and detour to the outer rim of the city, the band finally arrived in the parking lot of a large grocery store. After piling out of the van, Billie Joe began setting out a plan.

"Okay, I think we should split, at least into pairs." Billie Joe threw a baleful glance in Doug's direction. "That'll speed things up. There'll be less chance of us being recognized too, if we're not all walking arou—"

"Knobs and Knockers!" Tré snickered, pointing behind Billie Joe.

Everyone, including Doug, grinned as they read the sign above the carpentry store. Despite the tongue-in-cheek nature of the name, the store's sign was subdued and barely noticeable at first glance. The dark brown lettering appeared almost as natural patterns in the wood of the store's exterior.

Billie Joe waved a dismissive hand. "Tré, go find something smelly."

"And we're going to be back here by four," Doug added. "Keep an eye on your watches."

Everyone nodded dutifully, but Mike suspected that they---like himself—had no real intention of being punctual. They would finish when they finished, regardless of Doug's time restraints.

Instead of going straight into the store, Mike headed for the smaller shops surrounding the parking lot. In his mind, they were more likely to carry strange items that would have even stranger tastes.

It was not long before he figured out that Tré was tailing him. The drummer was trying to be sneaky, darting in and out between the rows of parked vehicles. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw the drummer sprint forward and drop to roll behind a car.

Crossing his arms, Mike waited for Tré to catch up. Tré bolted out from behind a pick-up, saw Mike watching, and dove down like he was under attack from a sniper. Perversely, the drummer remained out of sight. Mike shook his head and turned back towards the shops. He started with fright as he found Tré directly in front of him.

"Fuck, don't do that!" Mike scolded.

"Sorry. I was just practicing."

Not even wanting to know what for, Mike muttered under his breath, "Sometimes I like you better when you're stoned."

"What's that?" Tré chirped. "You like me better without clothes?"

"What?" Mike frowned. "You sick bastard. You wish."

Tré sidled up beside Mike. "I could grant that wish."

Mike suppressed a shudder as Tré's warm breath damped the side of his face. What the fuck is he up to? Better yet, what the fuck is he on?

"Uh, Tré, you're invading my right to bodily privacy," he said.

A stranger, walking to or from his car glared at Mike and Tré. "Faggots," he bellowed.

"What's that fuckface?" Mike snarled back.

He half-expected to be drowned out by Tré's insulting screams of defiance. Instead, the drummer slipped back and wrapped his arms around Mike's waist, resting his chin on the bassist's shoulder. Playing along, Mike leaned back and caressed Tré's hands.

"How the hell do you like that, you bigoted bastard?" Tré snapped. "What the hell is your problem, asshole?"

The stranger flipped them both the finger before striding off.

Tré snorted and shifted so he only hand his arm slung around Mike's shoulders. The drummer shook his head. Sighing, and mumbling something about fags, Tré urged Mike forward.

"Let's go. Maybe I can find something that we can use to cook up a romantic dinner," Tré commented dryly.

The first shop they entered was a bizarre cross between a Hawaiian tourist booth and a specialty food boutique. Plastic squirting dolphins resided beside a sign proclaiming "Delicacies Of The Deep". Wicker baskets of genuine shark teeth, dried kelp, and other unidentifiable items rested on shelves.

Instantly, Tré plunged into the shop and disappeared behind a stand of fake palm trees. As he took in the cabana-like interior, Mike gently bobbed his head to the sound of the Wipeout. The music was coming through a speaker designed to look like a conch shell.

"Can I help you?"

One of the clerks pushed his way through a beaded doorway. He wore a flower wreath and a flowered Hawaiian shirt. A heavy tan, complete with a pale outline of sunglasses around his green eyes, finished off the beach-bum impression.

"Uh, yeah. D'you guys sell anything that stinks?" Mike queried.

Without missing a beat, the clerk replied, "Hell yeah. Whaddya want? We got some fish in the back. Squid, snails, oysters. We got some nasty incense too."

"Hey!" Tré popped out from behind the fake trees, holding a coconut bra on his chest. "Stylin' or what?"

Cracking a grin, Mike replied, "That's bitchin'."

Before the words left the bassist's mouth, Tré disappeared back behind the trees.

"So, uh, lead the way to the fish—"

"Check it out! Big hairy nuts!" Tré reappeared, wearing a grass skirt and holding a pair of coconuts in front of his crotch.

After performing some sort of hula dance, Tré sprinted out of sight again. Mike had to cover his mouth with his forearm to muffle his sniggers. The clerk frowned and looked at Mike uneasily. The bassist could not offer an explanation, he was too busy laughing.

"This is too cool!" Tré called excitedly.

Billie Joe

Could this place be any bigger? he asked his reflection. The mirror image, shown in the mirrors above the vegetables, looked back at him with doubt.

Curiously, Billie Joe picked up an eggplant. Do these taste bad? he wondered. After cautiously sniffing the purple vegetable, he put it back down. He could not tell.

"Hey," Jason Freese called quietly.

Billie Joe looked up from the eggplants. "Yeah?"

"Did you ever say what was the name of Mike's ex?"

"You mean Anastasia, or Brittney?" Billie Joe asked carefully.

"No, the one that we think is Knight."

"Her name's Wren," Billie Joe responded, involuntarily lowering his voice. "Why?"

"Well, when we were on the bus, Mike crashed in his bunk." Jason threw a nervous glance over his shoulder. "He was sleeping, but he was mumbling shit. Damn bus walls are paper, we could hear everything. He was mumbling something about you, and Tré."

"And?" Billie Joe prompted.

"We tried to give him some privacy, you know, but..." Jason ran a hand over his blond hair.

"It sounded like he was big-time stressed or freaked out. Anyhow, he kind of changed his tune. He said her name two or three times. It kind of sounded to me like he missed her a lot, but..." Jason rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. It was like a nightmare." He grinned. "About two seconds later, we heard him punch the damn bunk."

"He just loves those little bunks." Billie Joe smirked.

"I don't think it's anything, but I thought I'd let you know."

"Yeah," Billie Joe nodded. "Thanks. Do you eat eggplant?"

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Well, people do. I don't. And I have no idea how it smells. Did you sniff it?"

"Yeah," Billie Joe said. "But I can smell anything."

"Excuse me," a female voice interrupted, "but do you fellows need some help?"

Jason and Billie both turned to confront a middle-aged woman, with a teenage boy at her side. The woman looked mildly amused at the two men's debate. The teen was trying hard not to gawk. He even crossed his arms, trying to hide the Green Day band he wore on his wrist.

"Do you know anything about eggplants?" Billie Joe asked. Before she could respond, his manners kicked in and he stuck out his hand. "Oh, uh, I'm Billie and he's Jason."

At this conformation, the teenager's eyes widened. The woman, most likely his mother, nodded and shook the men's hands. "Billie, and Jason," she repeated. "I'm Michelle, and this is—"

"—Allan," the youth blurted.

Michelle narrowed her blue eyes, looking back and forth between the men. "You guys look familiar." She focused on Billie Joe. "You especially."

Behind her, Allan bit his lip and closed his eyes. Billie Joe was willing to bet that the teenager was wishing his mother would just disappear.

Grinning slightly, Billie Joe replied, "I, uh, I get that a lot actually." Instead of shedding light on the reason for his familiarity, he said, "Anyways, eggplants."

The woman stared at Billie a moment longer before asking, "What do you want to know?"

"We're basically looking for any sort of food that smells disgusting," Billie Joe replied.

"Ah. Okay. Eggplant is alright, but if you want disgusting," the woman walked a few steps past Billie Joe, "the durian is the thing to do. C'mon."

Billie Joe and Jason obediently followed the woman and her son along the long outer produce aisle. She stopped in front of a stack of yellow spiny fruits, with none of them being smaller than a foot in length.

"Those, are durians," she told them. "They're the most disgusting smelling thing on the God's green Earth."

She began picking them up and shaking them. "The riper they are," she explained, "the more they smell. Ripe ones, you'll hear the seeds rattling."

Obediently, Billie Joe and Jason began picking up the prickly fruits and shaking them. Billie Joe was surprised at how sharp the spines were and nearly dropped the one he held.

"Dude, don't drop it," Allan chided. "Seriously."

"Is it really that bad?" Jason asked.

Allan, remembering just whom he was speaking with, nodded swiftly. "Uh." He swallowed. "Yeah."

Billie gave one durian a shake, and heard a loud rattle. "This one do?" He shook it again for Michelle's benefit.

"Yep. That sounds pretty ripe to me," Michelle confirmed.

"Alright," Billie Joe took the fruit. "Now, on to the sardines."

"Thanks for your help," Jason commented.

"Yeah, thanks," Billie Joe supplied.

Michelle shook her head. "It's nothing. It's a good enough excuse for me to bother my son, since I'm obviously not smart enough to recognize the lead singer of his favorite band when he's out shopping."

Allan went deadly white and swallowed again. Michelle rounded on him and raised an eyebrow.

"Did you really think I was that stupid?" She smiled and cuffed him on the head. "They've been around since I was your age, maybe even before."

Nothing like motherly justice. Hard, fast, and nails you when you think you're home free.

Michelle hefted her purse strap higher up on her shoulder. "Anyhow, Billie, Jason, it's been a pleasure meeting you. I guess we'll see you tomorrow night. Me and Allan are going."

At this final nail in the coffin, Allan groaned. He hissed, "Mom!"

Confidentially, Michelle leaned in towards Billie. "I don't know about you," she told Jason. "But," she shifted her attention back to Billie, "watch out when your sons turn fifteen. They think it's a wonder you've got enough brains to survive every day."

Boldly, Allan shot, "And when they are fifteen, make sure you don't go out of your way to embarrass them."

Michelle smiled faintly, "I guess that's my cue. Nice meeting you both."

Billie Joe and Jason mouthed a few polite nothings and watched as mother and son walked off. Though they were cheerful, Billie Joe had sensed the underlying stress between parent and child.

I hope I never catch myself doing that with Joey or Jakob, he prayed earnestly.