Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Swamp Truck Sweetearts

Collin

The late afternoon sun was sinking low behind the flat Texas horizon, spilling gold across the cracked highway. My old truck hummed under us, her engine a little louder than usual - either from the miles or from the fact that Billie had been stomping the clutch like it insulted his mother. We'd been driving for hours, following the band's van as it veered in and out of lanes like Tre was testing gravity.

And somehow, somehow, we'd landed in the most ridiculous argument of the week.

"I'm sorry," Billie said, one hand gripping the wheel, the other waving animatedly in the air, "but there's just no way Pearl Jam is better than Soundgarden. That's objectively false."

"Oh my God," I groaned, leaning my head back against the seat. "I knew you were gonna be one of those guys."

"What guys?"

"Grunge elitists who think Chris Cornell is the second coming of Jesus just because he can scream in key."

"He's not the second coming of Jesus," Billie said dramatically, "Layne Staley is. But Soundgarden's got riffs. Pearl Jam's got... flannel and guilt."

I turned to glare at him. "You're so wrong I'm getting secondhand embarrassment."

He looked at me, eyes narrowing like I'd just personally insulted his record collection. "Okay, tell me, what's your favorite Pearl Jam song?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

Billie's grin spread like wildfire. "Exactly."

"That's not the point," I shot back. "Pearl Jam is about a feeling. They don't need a favorite song."

"Oh, that's rich," he said. "That's what people say when they don't actually like the band. You probably don't even know half the words to 'Alive.'"

"I know enough," I huffed. "I know it's about a guy who- " I was cut off.

"Makes out with his mom, yeah, we all know," Billie cut in, grimacing.

I burst out laughing despite myself. "God, when you put it that way..."

He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. "Look, all I'm saying is: when we're old and crusty, and someone asks you which band from the '90s changed your life, you're not gonna say Pearl Jam. You'll say Green Day."

"Ugh," I said, pushing his shoulder. "You're so full of yourself."

"And you still let me drive your truck."

"Only because it was either that or listen to Tre rant about aliens for three more hours."

He grinned and turned back to the road, eyes flicking to the rearview to make sure they were still trailing behind the van.

The air between us buzzed with static, the good kind. The kind that built from shared music, shared miles, and a weird shared trust we never talked about out loud.

A moment passed, quiet except for the hum of the road and the low volume of whatever cassette we'd thrown in last. Probably Bowie or Zeppelin. Or maybe it was Nirvana, bleeding out softly, like ghosts hanging on just past Halloween.

November 1st. The day after ghosts. The day after costumes. The day after something shifted.

I glanced at him, still laughing to himself at his own dumb point. And all I could think was: I'd take a thousand more miles of this. Of him. Of stupid arguments that didn't matter but made me feel like I did.

"I still like Pearl Jam better," I muttered.

He grinned without looking at me. "That's fine. Everyone's allowed to be wrong once in a while."