Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Hauntings & Bootlegs

Collin

The rec center's overhead lights buzzed like they were trying to give everyone a migraine, and the fold out chairs had the structural integrity of a wet tortilla chip. I had been slouched for the better part of an hour, arms crossed. Letting Erin do most of the social heavy lifting.

The September weather was still thick with Texas heat.

I'd already mentally written Billie off as a phase like a fever dream that I could pin to a late night phone call and a stupidly sincere postcard. Two weeks without a word had a way of sanding down hope. Even the memory of his voice was starting to feel like something I'd imagined.

Then the next band stepped onstage.

Four kids who couldn't legally rent a car if their lives depended on it. The bassist had a beanie on despite the ninety degree weather, the drummer was chewing gum like he wanted to pick a fight with it, and the lead singer muttered into the mic with all the charisma of a damp sponge.

And then they played Basket Case.

Not like Basket Case. Not something inspired by Basket Case.

Billie's voice. Billie's lyrics. Billie's song.

Ripped through the room in a cascade of off key vocals and poorly tuned guitars.

I froze.

"Are they...?" I whispered, almost too stunned to finish.

Erin leaned back in her seat like she was settling in for a matinee and let out the loudest, most delighted laugh of the night.

"Oh my God," she cackled, eyes sparkling with glee. "They're butchering it."

My eyes stayed glued to the stage.

I could feel her pulse in her ears. In her throat. In the weird spot behind her knees.

It was wrong - everything was wrong. The tempo was too fast, the singer kept forgetting the words, and the guitar solo sounded like it was being played on a fisher price toy.

But the lyrics.

'I went to a shrink to analyze my dreams''

That line still hit like a gut punch. Even delivered by a kid in a Nirvana tshirt from Walmart.

''She said its lack of friends bringing me down''

Erin let out a laugh...no, a howl.

My chest tightened.

"What," she said slowly, "the actual hell is happening?"

"They're doing a cover," Erin said, still grinning. "Of your boyfriend's song."

"He's not my boyfriend," I snapped, too fast.

"Sure, sure," Erin said, waving her cherry Coke like a priest with holy water. "You only wrote him a hand inked musical dissertation and dropped it in a mailbox like it was a goddamn time capsule. You only jump when the phone rings because you think it's him."

I slumped further into her chair, trying to make herself smaller. My legs bounced restlessly.

This wasn't how I was supposed to hear this song again. Not through a speaker cracked with teenage bravado. Not with a kid air humping the mic stand.

It hit me all at once, like a slap in the face from the universe:

He wasn't just hers.

He never had been.

Green Day was famous.

Billie was famous.

Not secret famous. Not underground - famous. Famous - famous. Like, Woodstock '94 with Metallica and Aerosmith Famous.