Rainy Nights and Regrets

It’s raining. God knows why it’s raining, but it is. All of our plans are cancelled. Now we all have to sit in Billie Joe’s house watching TV like any normal, lazy, wasted night. The rain really sucks sometimes.

As usual, Billie’s falling asleep on Adrienne’s shoulder and she’s pushing him off. They’re like an old, married couple. Oh wait…they are! I guess Mike saw the weird grin on my face, mostly because he tilted his head a little and looked at me with that what-is-going-on-in-your-head? look.

I shot another creepy, trademark grin at him and turned my attention back to my best friend, television. I think Television and I are best friends because we have similar attention spans. My mind never stays on one topic for long. And neither does Television’s, mainly because Billie Joe keeps changing the channel.

“Oh hey! Go back two channels!” Mike snatched the remote out of Billie’s hands and switched it to the desired program. “Look! It’s our Egos and Icons thing!”

“Aw, come on,” Billie whined. He’s never really into watching Green Day interviews. Possibly because he’s the lead singer of Green Day. But he continued to whine, “It’s just a bunch of bullshit they put together from all the bullshit we’ve said over the last ten years.”

“But it’s fun bullshit!” Mike stubbornly ended any discussion right there and continued to watch Egos and Icons. Even Adie perked her head up a little to see what was going on. Billie groaned. I don’t know if this was because even his wife was turning against him or because of the clip they were now showing.

“There was a time that me and Tre had sex a long time ago, but we were both drunk, that we never quite admitted to,” TV Billie said. The real Billie groaned again as his wife all but laughed at him.

“Did you really?” she asked, ignoring the interview man who was wondering if we used protection. Billie Joe kept his silence, so she turned to me.

“Well,” I threw a glance at my band mate, “Yes. But we were both really, really drunk. I swear. It meant nothing.” I began to fake sob and proclaim that I could never come between the true love shared by the Armstrongs.

Someone grabbed the remote and changed the channel again, but I didn’t really care who it was. My mind had already changed channels. That interview always stirs a locked up memory in me. It’s my favorite memory and I hate it. That’s another reason why I hate the rain.

It was a rainy night. It was years ago, but I can still remember it. It was pouring, pounding, just fucking beating on the ground like a Salvation Army drum. And we were all in a bar: Billie, Mike and I.

We all remember a part of that night. John had just left recently and I was named the new permanent drummer for Green Day. That was the night that I’d become Tre Cool. I was alive that night like I never was before. And we all decided to get piss drunk.

Beer after beer after beer went into his body. I hardly touched mine, but he never noticed. Mike had already left by that time; it was just Billie and me. If only I said something before he started drinking, maybe it wouldn’t have ended that night. But it did, and a part of me ended that night.

“Here’s to Tre Cool!” he slurred. My twisted teenage self thought that was the sexiest slur I’d ever heard. It was. He raised his bottle again, “He’s the best drummer eve--” he fell off of the bar stool. I smiled at him and extended my hand to pick him up. Those thirty seconds of contact were bliss to me. He fell down again and I fell with him.

I fell on top of him and our lips touched. My stomach lurched and my mouth tingled. He was drunk; it didn’t matter. I kissed him again, and he kissed back. It was…beautiful. I remember it was beautiful.

It was raining outside, but we were kissing all the way outside to the old pickup truck. Stumbling, we bumped into the tailgate. Neither of us noticed; he was drunk with beer and I was drunk with love. I loved him and I knew it.

Somehow, we’d managed to open the tailgate and climb up into the back of the truck, still kissing, still touching. I remember exactly how wet his hand was when it went up my shirt and grabbed my waist. I remember exactly how he moaned into my mouth when my lips went down to his neck.

And that night, in the rain, without protection, without care, Billie Joe and I made love. But it wasn’t love to him. It was meaningless, drunken sex. We woke up the next morning naked and confused. I remembered every moment of the night, but Billie chose to ignore it. We swore that we wouldn’t mention it. We said again and again that we were drunk and that it didn’t mean a thing.

But Billie Joe mentioned it. On live television. And we just watched him admit it. His wife wanted to know if it was true. But only half of it was. I wasn’t drunk and it meant the world to me.

“Tre?” Mike’s voice brought me back to the present, “Spacing out again?” He slapped me lightly on the back.

I returned it and gave him one of my famous pedo-smiles, “Yes, Michael, I am.” I turned my attention back to the dull cartoon that was on now.

“Well,” Mike got up, “I guess I should go now. We can go out tomorrow if it’s not raining. Coming man?” he asked me. I nodded my head and stood up to join him.

As I opened my car, he was looking at me intently. I looked right back at him like I didn’t know what he was thinking. I knew perfectly well.

“Frank, that night…that Billie mentioned at that interview…”

“Yeah? What about it?” I all but snapped.

“You still think about it, don’t you?” he asked softly.

“What does it matter?” my voice became more heated.

“You do, don’t you?”

“Drop it.”

“You can’t drop it, can you?” he was looking me straight in the eyes. I turned mine towards the ground.

“No,” I mumbled softly and drove home. But through the streetlights and wet roads, I knew one thing. From that night, almost fifteen years ago, to this very moment, I loved Billie Joe Armstrong. And from that night to this very moment, it had always been unrequited.