Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Fluorescent Confessions

Collin

The holding cell was exactly as depressing as it sounded.

Gray cinderblock walls, a steel bench bolted to the floor, the flickering hum of overhead lights that made your skin look like old newspaper. It smelled like sweat, antiseptic, and the slow decay of dignity.

I sat on the cold bench, arms folded tight over my chest, legs pulled up to keep them off the stained floor. Billie was pacing - well, attempting to, in the three foot wide strip the cell allowed. He looked like a very nervous housecat in a band tee.

A door opened. A cop stepped inside with a clipboard and a face that suggested he'd rather be doing literally anything else.

"Alright, we're gonna get your info for the report," he said, not unkindly, just bored.

Billie stopped pacing, blinked. "Like...info info?"

"Yes," the cop sighed. "Your full name, height, eye color, place of birth" He paused to adjust his pants, grunting. "Stuff like that. Not your favorite pizza topping."

Billie squinted. "But pineapple. Just so we're clear."

The cop pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let's start with you, blue hair. Full name?"

"Billie Joe Armstrong."

The cop looked up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Like legally."

"Christ. Okay. Date of Birth?''

''February 17, 1972."

"Five foot seven. On a good day."

"Eye color?"

"Green. But like, sad forest green."

"Build?"

"Incredibly slim. Like I could slip through a storm drain."

"Hair color?"

"Blue," Billie said, grinning. "Emotionally, too."

The cop scribbled without looking up. "Place of birth?"

"Rodeo, California."

"Is that a real place?"

"I wish it weren't."

The officer paused, then turned to me.

I sighed. "Collin Grey. G-R-E-Y."

He scribbled it down. "Age?"

"Nineteen."

"Date of birth?"

"December 3rd, 1975."

"Place of birth?"

I hesitated just half a beat. "Utah."

Billie let out a snort, biting back a grin as he slid down the wall to sit beside me again. "Ha! Hilarious."

I turned my head slowly, flat expression. "What now?"

He giggled - not laughed, giggled, like it had snuck up on him. "Just. Utah. You could've been Mormon."

"I wasn't," I muttered.

"But you could've been!" he said, eyes wide, like it was the greatest alternate universe he'd ever imagined. "Imagine you in some prairie dress. Bible study. Singing hymns and quietly judging soda drinkers."

I groaned, dragging my hands over my face. "My parents adopted me before I could even walk. I've never even been to Utah as a person with memory."

"That doesn't make it less funny."