Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Having a Blast

Collin

I leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on the still vibrating balcony door, the car alarm wailing somewhere below like a wounded banshee. Everything felt soft around the edges. The corners of the room were folding in, but politely. My limbs were syrup. My brain was marshmallow.

Too high to care.

Billie and Tre had collapsed in a giggling heap by the minibar, egging each other on with breathless, chaotic energy like two demons fresh out of detention.

"Dare me to throw the TV?" Tre panted.

"No, no, too obvious," Billie said, wiping tears from his face. "Rip the curtain rod down and wear it like a sash."

"You're a genius."

Tre stood up with the force of a toddler on red bull and yanked the curtain rod so hard it snapped clean from the brackets and swung down like a medieval weapon.

"Behold," he shouted, slinging it across his shoulders like a war trophy. "The Curtain King rides at dawn!"

Mike, on the hotel's landline phone in the corner, was the only one even pretending to be responsible, reality clearly consuming him.

"I don't care what you're doing, Dave," he hissed. "We've got a situation. No, not a situation. An event."

Beat.

"No, I cannot handle it. Because someone threw a mattress onto a buick and Tre is wearing the drapes like he's leading a revolution."

He paused. His eyes went wide. "Yes, that was Tre."

Billie cackled and kicked over the ice bucket for no reason.

Meanwhile, Erin had vanished somewhere during the mattress fallout. A slam echoed down the hall.

Seconds later, she burst back through the door, out of breath and clutching her Polaroid camera like a sacred relic.

"Everybody freeze," she barked.

Tre struck a pose, curtain rod raised triumphantly.

Billie dropped to one knee with his arms wide, as if offering himself to some great hotel god.

Mike turned slightly, phone still at his ear, and muttered, "Tell my mom I loved her."

I smiled at Erin as the camera flashed, briefly blinding everyone in a wash of harsh, grainy light. She wound the film forward with a dramatic whrrrrrr and shook the photo in the air like a sword.

"One down," she said. "We're making history."

Tre pulled Billie to his feet. "We need a band name for this moment."

"For the crime?" Billie asked, serious now, focused.

"For the legacy," Tre said, eyes wide with inspiration. "Something timeless."

"Mattress Rebellion," Erin suggested, hopping up onto the dresser.

"No, no, too specific," Billie mused. "What about... Polaroid Riot?"

Mike groaned. "That sounds like an Urban Outfitters tshirt."

I slid down the wall, ending up cross-legged on the carpet next to Billie, my head lolling against the side of his leg.

"What about The Haunted Microwave?" I mumbled. "Full circle."

There was a moment of reverent silence.

"That's it," Tre whispered. "That's the one."

"Dibs on bass," Billie said, immediately.

"No, you're the frontman," Erin countered.