Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

War Games

Collin

We had two folding tables, a janky cash box, and a cardboard sign Erin had drawn last minute with a sharpie and glitter glue she found in the bottom of her bag.

It read:
MERCH
WE'RE NOT HERE TO HAGGLE.

Which was a lie, because the second we set up, we were immediately swarmed by every kind of person under the Texas sun trying to talk their way into a discount.

"C'mon," slurred a guy in a tie dye shirt, eyes glazed and pupils the size of dimes. "I'll trade you this half a bottle of Jack for a cassette."

Erin didn't miss a beat. "Unless that bottle comes with central air and a working jukebox, the answer's no."

He grinned, wandered off. Ten minutes later he was back, trying again with a pack of cigarettes and a button he said was "vintage as hell."

I was managing the cash and folding shirts with all the speed and efficiency of someone who grew up pricing socket wrenches and paint rollers. "Two tees and a poster? That's thirty five. Cash only. No, I don't want your Beavis & Butthead lighter."

A teenage girl with pink bangs and a battered walkman hanging from her belt handed me exact change for a tank top and said shyly, "Thanks. I really like your shirt."

It was still the tailored Green Day one, now tied at the back with a hair elastic and slightly wrinkled from me throwing it on after sewing. "Thanks," I said. "You might be the only polite person I've talked to all night."

"Give it time," Erin muttered beside me, flipping open the cash box for change. "They're multiplying."

She wasn't wrong.

The crowd was a blend of everything - girls with glitter eyeshadow and combat boots, college dudes pretending to be too cool to care but nearly crying over a cassette, one kid in a Rancid hoodie asking if the band still signed stuff. I pointed him to the loading dock with no promises.

Then there was a dad in a denim vest who bought two shirts and asked if we were the band's girlfriends.

"Just the backbone of the operation," Erin said sweetly. "Want a sticker for your trouble?"

"I'll take two," he said.

We were in the middle of repacking the smalls when a dude with glow sticks woven into his belt loop leaned in with a grin. "You take mixtapes as payment?"

"Unless it's a bootleg of the Monkees covering The Smiths, move along," I said, snapping a rubber band around a stack of shirts.

Erin elbowed me. "Okay, that one sounded a little like Billie."

"God help me," I said, under my breath.

She just laughed and passed me another stack of stickers. "You're doing great, sweetheart. Just don't look behind you. There's a girl wearing fairy wings asking if Billie is 'emotionally available.'"

"Tell her to get in line."

"Wow," Erin said, pretending to fan herself. "You're finally living your groupie dream."

"I'm not a groupie."

"Okay, Martha Stewart. Tell that to the guy who just asked for your number because you counted his change too nicely."

I was about to respond when a kid leaned over, trying to slide a wrinkled flyer across the table.

"I'll give you this original show flier if you give me that hoodie."

I blinked at him. "Buddy, I have copies for free. Nice try though."

Erin cackled.

And we kept going - till our knuckles were dusty with change and our voices raw from shouting over the pre show soundcheck humming through the walls.