Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Wildlife and Wild Lives

Collin

The drive to Tre's place was strangely quiet, not uncomfortable, just the kind of silence that settles after the air's been cleared, like both of us had finally taken a breath and were waiting to see where it landed.

Billie tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with whatever punk tape was humming low through the speakers - The Clash, I think, but older, less sharp. His fingers danced unconsciously, like they knew the song better than he did.

The window was down, warm California air sweeping in and tugging at the edge of my sleeve. It smelled like salt and eucalyptus, like overwatered grass and distant car exhaust. Nothing like Texas, where the air clung to your skin and dared you to breathe too deep. This was lighter. Breezier. Like it wasn't trying to kill you.

His sunglasses were crooked, hair still wild from earlier, one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely in his lap, picking at the frayed seam of his jeans.

We passed a stretch of pastel houses and palm trees swaying like they were too tired to stand still. A kid on a skateboard shot past us in a blur of neon and scraped knees. Billie cracked a smile.

"You'd like Tre's neighborhood," he said finally, eyes still on the road. "It's a weird little pocket. Like stepford wives but with garage bands."

I raised an eyebrow. "That supposed to be a compliment?"

He smirked. "Only if you think lawn flamingos are punk."

We slowed near a cul de sac where the houses got smaller, more lived in. The kind with hand painted mailboxes and cracked driveways, overgrown flower beds and chalk drawings on the sidewalks. It was strangely wholesome. Cozy, even.

Then he turned the wheel, easing us onto a narrow gravel drive.

"You sure this is Tre's house?" I asked, eyebrow arched, voice halfway between suspicion and awe.

Tre's house sat tucked beneath a crooked oak, the porch swing swaying slightly from the soft breeze. Flower boxes overflowed with something bright and stubbornly alive. The siding looked recently painted. The roof looked like it didn't leak. A wind chime danced lazily near the window.

Billie smirked. "You expected a treehouse held together with zip ties and weed smoke?"

"I mean... yeah."

The porch swing creaked gently in the breeze. There were wind chimes. Wind chimes.

Billie pointed at the flower bed. "He planted those himself. Said it was meditative or some shit."

"This is... terrifying."

He grinned. "Wait 'til you see the inside. It's like stepping into a Wes Anderson film if Wes Anderson did acid with a clown."

I blinked. "...So exactly what I expected."

Billie laughed, then grew quiet for a second, fingers tapping the steering wheel. "He's been laying low lately. Said he needed to 'recharge the chaos batteries.'"

"Do I need a helmet?"

"Nah. Just a sense of humor and maybe some weed tolerance."

Billie barely had time to knock.

The door flung open like it owed Tre money.

He stood there in a bathrobe the color of radioactive gatorade, aviator sunglasses crooked on his face, holding a mug that said "#1 Grandma" in loopy, glittery cursive.

"About damn time!" Tre shouted. "I was starting to think you both eloped and left me out of the wedding band."

Billie stepped in like this was just a regular Thursday. "You know we'd never make it past the vows."