Mike and Roxy, chapter 3
After Concert in SF, 1978
Billie Joe's POV
"You call that a concert?" I asked the band as we entered our "dressing room" after the worst show we had ever played as a group. "Just calm down Billie, all of us fucked up tonight," Jason said, trying to calm me down. As my gaze caught Mike's grinning face, steam practically shot out of my ears.
I knew exactly what was wrong with him. The pale face and blood shot eyes, was I the only one that had figured it out? Was I the only one that noticed him acting a fool on stage tonight? Apperantly. Or the group just didn't want to say anything. Well I wasn't afraid of him like they were. If it wasn't for me, he'd be on the streets homeless.
"Fuckin' junkie," I muttered without realising I had. "What was that, Armstrong?" Mike stood up suddenly. He was the only one ever called a junkie in the group so as soon as he heard that word, he knew I was talking about him. Turning to him, my fists clenched at my sides, I snarled, "You heard me! You're a fuckin' no-good junkie! You don't care about this damn band. All you care about if the dope in your pocket and that slut, Roxy!"
The next thing I remember, is falling to the ground and Mike pouncing on top of me with his fists flying in all directions. "I'm not a junkie!" he screamed in my face. He stood up, dragging me up also by the collar of my t-shirt. Blood streamed down my cheek and I could barley open my eyes.
"Okay Mike," Tre' reasoned. Standing up also, he walked over to us and said, "let us see your arms then." Mike's face turned even more pale. His grip on my shirt loosened and I fell to the ground. Before Mike could protest, Tre' grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket and folded it up. Tre' gasped, dropped Mike's arm and backed away slowly.
There, on Mike's arm, were needle scars and cutting scars. Some weren't even scars. They were fresh and opened, which meant they had been like that through the whole show.
Mike looked nervously at the rest of his band, folded his sleeve back down and ran out of the room. "Shit...he really is a junkie," Jason mumbled, leaning back against the couch. I don't know how, but suddenly I found myself stumbling down the halls trying to find Mike.
The blood had dried but my nose hurt like a bitch. I figured Mike had broken it again. It wouldn't have been the first time. Me and him were always play fighting. We tried not to anymore because both of us always ended up getting hurt and sent to the hospital.
I was now on the cold streets outside of the building where the band had played. A cop car zoomed down the street, sirens blared, almost knocking me down. I wonder whats going on, I thought. It stopped about a block and a half infront of me and turned into an alley.
"Hey, you! Freeze!" A cop jumped out, aiming a gun. A familer voice yelled, "Run!"
"Oh no," I whispered, "Mike." I sprinted down the block and stopped at the police car. Mike and some other guy dressed in all black were backed into the corner of the alley, hands up while an officer with a gun walked towards them.
Mike's eyes suddenly met mine. He yelped, "Billie! Help me!" But I couldn't. I couldn't do anything for him. He had been my best friend when he came into this band and now what was he? A drugged up 21 year old kid with no future. I watched as they hand cuffed him and shoved him into the cop car.
His eyes burned with fury as he stared at me out the window. I mouthed the words, 'I'm sorry' to him. A scowl took over his face and he flipped me off.
Billie Joe's POV
"You call that a concert?" I asked the band as we entered our "dressing room" after the worst show we had ever played as a group. "Just calm down Billie, all of us fucked up tonight," Jason said, trying to calm me down. As my gaze caught Mike's grinning face, steam practically shot out of my ears.
I knew exactly what was wrong with him. The pale face and blood shot eyes, was I the only one that had figured it out? Was I the only one that noticed him acting a fool on stage tonight? Apperantly. Or the group just didn't want to say anything. Well I wasn't afraid of him like they were. If it wasn't for me, he'd be on the streets homeless.
"Fuckin' junkie," I muttered without realising I had. "What was that, Armstrong?" Mike stood up suddenly. He was the only one ever called a junkie in the group so as soon as he heard that word, he knew I was talking about him. Turning to him, my fists clenched at my sides, I snarled, "You heard me! You're a fuckin' no-good junkie! You don't care about this damn band. All you care about if the dope in your pocket and that slut, Roxy!"
The next thing I remember, is falling to the ground and Mike pouncing on top of me with his fists flying in all directions. "I'm not a junkie!" he screamed in my face. He stood up, dragging me up also by the collar of my t-shirt. Blood streamed down my cheek and I could barley open my eyes.
"Okay Mike," Tre' reasoned. Standing up also, he walked over to us and said, "let us see your arms then." Mike's face turned even more pale. His grip on my shirt loosened and I fell to the ground. Before Mike could protest, Tre' grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket and folded it up. Tre' gasped, dropped Mike's arm and backed away slowly.
There, on Mike's arm, were needle scars and cutting scars. Some weren't even scars. They were fresh and opened, which meant they had been like that through the whole show.
Mike looked nervously at the rest of his band, folded his sleeve back down and ran out of the room. "Shit...he really is a junkie," Jason mumbled, leaning back against the couch. I don't know how, but suddenly I found myself stumbling down the halls trying to find Mike.
The blood had dried but my nose hurt like a bitch. I figured Mike had broken it again. It wouldn't have been the first time. Me and him were always play fighting. We tried not to anymore because both of us always ended up getting hurt and sent to the hospital.
I was now on the cold streets outside of the building where the band had played. A cop car zoomed down the street, sirens blared, almost knocking me down. I wonder whats going on, I thought. It stopped about a block and a half infront of me and turned into an alley.
"Hey, you! Freeze!" A cop jumped out, aiming a gun. A familer voice yelled, "Run!"
"Oh no," I whispered, "Mike." I sprinted down the block and stopped at the police car. Mike and some other guy dressed in all black were backed into the corner of the alley, hands up while an officer with a gun walked towards them.
Mike's eyes suddenly met mine. He yelped, "Billie! Help me!" But I couldn't. I couldn't do anything for him. He had been my best friend when he came into this band and now what was he? A drugged up 21 year old kid with no future. I watched as they hand cuffed him and shoved him into the cop car.
His eyes burned with fury as he stared at me out the window. I mouthed the words, 'I'm sorry' to him. A scowl took over his face and he flipped me off.
