When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 2

Billie Joe POV


"What the fuck is your problem? Do you guys get off being assholes?" The guitarist stormed around the main sitting area of the tour bus.

From their spot on the couch, Mike and Tré watched Billie Joe balefully.

"We're always assholes," Tré growled. "Maybe if you'd come down off your fucking throne, you'd see that. You bitch at us like you're some god-damn king when we're not exactly Mr. Sunshine and Mr. Happy, what do you expect?"

Mike rolled his blue eyes and stared out the window at the foggy streets of Nottingham England. "Fuck," he said under his breath.

"Me! King! How the hell do you get an idea like that when I'm the one being treated like shit?" Billie Joe raised his arms and then planted them on his hips.

"I hate to break it to you," Mike stated, "but you're not any sort of martyr, not more than me or Tré or Jason or whoever."

"Damn it! What do you want from me? Tell me what." Billie Joe demanded stiffly. "I'm trying to do my best here. I come up with a song, and all you do is shoot it down."

"That's 'cause a lot of them suck," Mike shot back.

"Just like your old ones. Welcome to Paradise is a perfect example of a shitty song. 'Some call it slums, some call it nice.'? Honestly Billie, how the fuck can you call any of that good?" Tré shook his head in disgust.

The comment was not much different than ones Billie Joe had heard before, but it still struck a nerve. He ground his teeth together before he spoke again.

"If my songs are such fucking pieces of shit," a dangerous edge slipped into his voice, "why the hell are you playing them?"

"Do we have a choice?" Mike shot.

Tré leaned forward, his blue eyes glinting. "As much as they suck, we wrote part of 'em so we'll play. Until something better hits the scene--like that'll ever happen--that's all we can play. "

"That's a great, you know, plan. Good luck with that. I'm sure that with your vast intelligence that totally blows mine away, you two will come up with something. 'Cause, you know, I'm the dumbest fuck that ever picked up a guitar." Acidic sarcasm flew out of Billie Joe's mouth in a raging torrent. "I guess that doesn't matter to all those people that were watching us out there. It doesn't matter to all the people who were at the other shows. It doesn't matter to all the people who bought CD's."

"'The people who bought CD's.'?" Mike snapped. "When has this ever been about selling CD's?"

"Well, seems to me that you guys've been more pissed off ever since we put this CD out. Yeah, it's not Nimrod, it's not Dookie. We're not kids anymore either. We're men now, in case you forgot, we've all got kids, all got married. So, you can quit acting like we're twelve, knock off the asshole comments, and tell me what you want to do with ourselves." A strange weakness was rippling through Billie Joe's body, as if he was suffering from blood loss.

Mike shook his head, and resumed looking out the window. His expression was unreadable.

Tré, on the other hand, smirked maliciously. "You mean you've got a wife right now. How long's that gonna last?"

That's below the belt. Forget it; I'm not going to meditate this. If they want a fight, then I'll give it to them.

"Helluva lot longer than you and Lisea. What was that? Two months? Must be a record for the drummer whore." Billie Joe could not refrain from raising a triumphant eyebrow as Tré went pale.

"Billie, shut the hell up. Is that the best you got? Nobody wants to hear you. Haven't you figured that out?" From his spot by the window, Mike rose and stormed into the kitchen area of the bus.

"Better'n moping around like a big puss. You got dumped centuries ago. You broke up with Anastasia. Get over it. Hell, if Wren was here, she'd kick your fucking ass." Billie Joe paused for a breath--was he going too far?--before continuing his attack, "You say you love Stella. She's your world. You'd do anything for your kid. That's fucking bullshit. Bet you still think you love Wren. You're a fucking wuss," he spat. "Why the hell did you just sit on your ass? What about her? You forgot her. Don't really care about her do you? If you did, you'd've found her by now."

If Billie had taken his Stratocaster and impaled Mike upon it, the guitarist would not have received a more intense reaction. Mike clenched his jaw, and deliberately raised his head. Billie Joe became painfully aware of the fact that he was a good two inches, or more, shorter than Mike. A visible tremor ran through the bassist's body. Around Mike's nostrils a snarl flickered. The expression on his face was that of a savage cur who had just endured one beating too many.

"Fuck you," Tré muttered. "That's fucking low. Fuck man. Just--fuck."

Billie Joe did not dare take his eyes off the bassist long enough to glare at Tré. With no twinge of guilt, Billie Joe stated, "You two think you can get off ripping into what's a huge part of my life. Not so fun when I start ripping into you, is it?"

Mike closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. Silently, he brushed past Billie Joe and headed for the hall where their bunks were situated. Billie Joe's conscience screamed that he had committed a major transgression. A year or so after a fateful day, an unspoken code had evolved. It dictated that all three unanimously refrained from ever mentioning one anything relating to particular autumn morning.

"What now?" Billie Joe shouted after Mike. Furiously, he locked gazes with Tré. "What do we do with this?"

"I don't know about you," Tré replied. "But I'm getting the fuck back to Oakland. I don't need this shit."

In the hall, Mike suddenly whirled around. Blue eyes flaring, he barked, "Her favorite class was electronics but she still kicked ass in history. She liked to sleep in and snuggle her head under the pillow. How long's it been Billie? Tell me that. Thirteen years going on this November. That's how long. Yes, I'm a ball-less prick. Yeah, I'm a chickenshit. And I'm fucking sick of knowing it. Want baggage? I got it." Violently, he spread his arms. "I never did anything 'cause I was--I'm still--fucking scared shitless that she'd tell me to fuck off. There. Happy?" Chest heaving with rage, he stared at Billie Joe. "No, wait. I've got better." Spastically, Mike put a hand to his bandana-clad head and then jerked his hand away. "I'm scared that this is the end of us, right now, all this bitching. So, fuck it. Tonight's our last show. It's the end. It's over. Done." Viciously, he slammed the hall door shut.

Muttering incoherent nothings of displeasure under his breath, Billie Joe massaged his forehead.

"Nice." Tré jeered.

Billie Joe smartly gave the drummer a one finger salute. "Don't you have a plane to catch?"

"Fucking right I do. Soon as we finish tonight, I'm outta here. Way to go man. Got what you wanted."

Billie Joe pressed his lips together and nodded sourly at Tré. "Yeah. Just what I wanted. All I fucking dreamed of."

"Like I said," Tré stretched out on the couch, "got what you asked for. No pity here."

Seeing as it was doing a wonderful job of hiding his eyes, Billie Joe did not remove his hand from his forehead. He could not bear to remain in such close quarters with the triumphantly smirking drummer. A raging scream was building in Billie Joe's chest. Shaking his head in distress, he slunk out of the bus.

Out in the open air, Billie Joe kept his head down and edged around the front of the bus. He sucked in a few breaths of moist air. Even out here, he had no place to regroup his emotions. He knew he was angry and he wanted to lash out. The only problem was that he did not know what he wanted to attack first.

In part, he was furious with his band mates for destroying what little pleasure he now derived from songwriting. At the same time, Billie Joe was also irritated with his songwriting for driving a rift into his friendships. But should I be pissed? Do I really suck? Or is it all subliminal shit? Fuck. Do I even bother going back there and talking? Just wasting my breath. I don't know if I can deal with them anymore. There's no fucking point.

He closed his eyes and started walking. Roadies scurried out of his way as he shuffled down the sidewalk. Anger swirled around in his chest, hitting targets, and then reflecting away guiltily. Whose fault is it really? Mine? Mike's? Tré's? Adie's? Everybody's? Nobody's? Billie Joe hung his head and stared down at the muddy sidewalk while he continued his musings. It all goes back to the music. We can't do this together. All we're good for is tearing each other's heads off.

Savagely, he threw a punch into nothingness of the damp air. I can't do this if they're shooting me down. I can't justify being away from home for something that's not really worth it anymore. I just--can't. Can't. Can't. Can't. But I won't just drop it 'cause somebody else is forcing me. I'll stop when I want to stop, not when someone--Tré, Mike, Adie--tells me to, even if it means going solo.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Billie Joe lifted his gaze to the darkly overcast sky. A determined expression carved his mouth into a thin line. They still want to do this show. They could've cancelled. There's something keeping them going. Lying bastards. They can't quit any more than I can. That's something I can work with. I'm not going down without a fight. Green Day isn't going down without a fight.