Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Texas Grip

Collin

I ended up back in my room that night, a little drunk, a little dazed, and still thinking about that stupid postcard.

It was still sitting on my nightstand, propped up against my lamp like it might say something new if I stared at it long enough. 'Greetings from Plymouth Rock.' Goofy cartoon pilgrims waving next to a boulder. Billie's handwriting messy and slanted, like he'd scribbled it fast like he was scared someone would catch him in the act.

I read it again. I didn't need to. I had it memorized by now but I did it anyway.

It made me smile the first time I read it. But now... it just sort of ached.

Because I couldn't write back.

No address. No phone number. No way to reach him unless he decided to reach me first. It was like having a conversation through a locked door, one knock, then silence. I didn't even know where the tour was going next.

I thought about writing something anyway. Not to send it, just to say what I needed to say. Something stupid, like "Hey, thanks for the postcard. I've been listening to your voice more than my own thoughts lately."

Or maybe just, *"Where are you right now?"*

But I didn't. I couldn't. All I could do was wait. And waiting made me feel like a kid again, staring at the mailbox like it was magic. Like maybe today was the day something would show up that meant something.

I reached for the walkman again. Let Sassafras Roots bleed into When I Come Around. I couldn't help wondering if he put that song on the tracklist for a reason. If he ever listened back to the full album and thought about who he was back then - who he was now.

It didn't hit like She did. Nothing did. But it still lodged under my ribs in that same irritating, lingering way. The way his voice curled around insecurity and arrogance at the same time. Like he couldn't decide if he wanted to be known or forgotten.

I knew that feeling too well.

I sat up in bed, restless now. Sleep didn't feel like an option. Not with my head full of static and lyrics and the quiet knowledge that I was still orbiting someone I couldn't reach. Still trying to connect to someone who'd already disappeared back into motion.

It wasn't fair. Not really. He had my number, my address, my everything - if he wanted to reach me, he could. If he didn't... I'd just keep listening to a voice that didn't know I was still listening.

I picked up the postcard again.

Collin,

Searched 3 gas stations before I found this dumb thing. Dave nearly caught me sneaking off. Label's got him babysitting us full time now since, y'know, the whole room thing. He's convinced we'll burn a stage down or trash a vending machine if left unsupervised.

Show tonight was insane. You'd hate the crowd (too loud), but love the quiet after. That hush when everyone's gone, just the gear buzzing and the echo of it still hanging in the air. You'd dig it, I think.

Boston's weird. Kinda pretty. Smells like fish and ghosts.

Hope you gave Dookie a chance by now. If not, this postcard is cursed.

–Billie

His words were casual. Light. But there was something else too. Like he was trying to be careful and careless at the same time. Like maybe he wasn't sure what this was either. Or what it could be. Or if he wanted to find out.

And that made two of us.

I sat with it in the quiet. The kind of quiet that starts to feel alive. The kind that makes you want to scream just to hear something echo back.