Chapter Seventeen: American Eulogy

(2539 words)
(3rd POV)

It was a sad day in the small suburban town as the news of the death of two lovers spread. It wasn’t the pair themselves who were mourned -- no, it was definitely the way that they had gone out that had touched something in everyone’s hearts. Only a few people went to the funeral, but there was a certain shade of grey over everything and a raining cloud above the heads of everyone.

The first person to show up to the funeral of the two dead lovers was a twenty one year old man going by the name of Mike Dirnt. He was of an average height, and had a bit more muscle than most. His naturally brown hair was spiked in a fan similar to a peacock‘s tail, and it was tipped with blonde. A rusty old shovel was leaning on his arm, only dirtying his informal black clothing by just a bit.

The second person to show up was a seventeen year old now called Davey Havok, but who had once been called Whatsername. He was rather short for his age and sex, and he had fair skin that brought out his eyeliner outlined, dark brown eyes and dyed black hair. This attending member dressed rather femininely, wearing a flowing black shirt and just as flowing black pants over shimmery black boots. A thin arm was wrapped around the waist of the third person.

The third person to show up was the boyfriend of the aforementioned Davey Havok. This one was called Jade Puget, and although he hadn’t known the deceased, his lover had. Jade was quite tall, actually, and had warmly tanned skin, freckles dotting his face. He wore a crisp almost tuxedo. His grayish hazel eyes were also outlined by eyeliner, and were a lovely contrast to his light brown hair with his shaky blonde fringe.

A few more people also showed up after these first three. A girl by the name of Maria and her friend Haushinka. Another girl around their age hung out in the general vicinity -- she was called Taylore Mishell. A twenty something guy going by the name of Lance Shields, and another late teenaged girl who was called Kera. There was another guy standing near Kera -- his nickname was Crash, and no one knew what his real name was. There was a slightly younger girl there, too, and she was called Losty -- she was actually chatting somberly with Lance and another participant named Brighty, and yet another girl who was around the same age called Lilly. Lilly’s identical twin sister, Soundy, was also talking with Lance and Losty, seeming a bit distracted.

After these few people had entered the small, dark room that smelled of incense and sweat, a whole rush of people around their age followed. They were tightly pack now, like sardines, and the mass of black wearing teenagers looked around nervously, trying to find some shoulder, or elbow, room. They stood in a silent and not so neat line, a semi circle around a neat little coffin inscribed with Frank Edwin Wright III and William J. Armstrong -- however, colorful graffiti near the names read Christian and Gloria -- well, the nickname St. Jimmy was also there, written right below Gloria. The coffin had been insured by a certain Mrs. Wright, even though she had outwardly hated her son and his boyfriend, and even though the whole funeral was really held by the strange assortment of teens from the next town over -- not a person over the age of twenty five seemed to be there.

Before anyone questioned the entire ceremony, that certain Davey Havok pulled away from the crowd, walking over to a familiar makeshift podium that had once occupied blank space on a certain old stage. He adjusted the microphone a bit, the long skin tight sleeves of his shirt moving fluidly over his lean, pale arms. Davey cleared his throat once or twice or three times to get the attention of the mismatched group of his peers.

“Well, hello -- you should all know me, right? My name’s Davey. And, um, as our very own Billie Joe -- or Gloria -- would have said,” he spoke into the old staticy microphone, breath coming out all too clearly over the speakers. “’Dearly beloved, are you listening?’”

There was a ripple of excitement through the crowd, and Mike visibly held back tears. Davey scanned across the room, meeting everyone’s glassy eyes and biting his lip quietly. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say next.

“I’m, uh, glad ya are.” He paused, recollecting his thoughts. “I was… appointed to speak up here, ‘cause me and Billie Joe, well, me and Gloria used to be pretty close. I’m not sure exactly what to say, to be completely honest with ya. I mean -- he was a wonderful person. He’d had his shortcomings, but don’t we all? I’m sure Tré -- well, all of us know him better as Christian, really -- was an awesome dude too. And, ya-- y’know, in the end, they went out… together… I mean, it was bittersweet, huh?”

Everyone nodded, a murmur of approval at Davey’s speech going through the crowd. Encouraged by the positive appeal, Davey looked back up at them, his eyes glimmering with tears. “They were really, truly in love, I bet. They had a fight -- you probably know some about it -- but then… in the end, they were… together, weren’t they?” A few tears fell down his face. “Me and Billie Joe -- we weren’t meant to be together, ya know -- well obviously. That’s why I left him over letter and didn’t see him for two or three years, something crazy like that.”

A shock of realization rippled through the crowd, and someone shakily asked the question: “W-well, then, like Whatsername and St. Jimmy? I heard that she left him over something she called a letter bomb or something.”

Davey smiled, replying with no haste. “Yeah, you’re right, ’cause I am -- I was, anyway -- Whatsername. And yea, I’m really a guy, but can’t ya just imagine me with long, really long hair? And a lot more makeup than just this? Honestly, people…”

“So that means that Gloria -- Billie Joe, whatever -- was the Saint Jimmy?”

“He was.”

Everyone gasped and Davey stepped back, at an honest loss for words. Helplessly, he glanced over at Mike, who met his gaze and just nodded. The older of the two took the place at the podium as Davey slipped back into the crowd, next to his boyfriend Jade. Raising his hands to silence them, Mike commenced the speech. “Billie Joe -- he was really, a really honestly great guy an’ he was just trying to get by in this hell of a town, ya know? He was just trying to make sense of all the chaos in his short life… and ya know what, I don’t believe in God or anything, but I think that he and Tré should rest in fucking peace.”

The crowd cheered at this remark, making Mike grin and have to raise his arms once more to silence them. “They fuckin’ deserve it, ya know? They were two of the coolest people ever -- no pun meant on Tré’s name -- and they really fucking deserve something for all the trouble they went through for us and all their pain. I didn’t know anything ‘bout Tré’s life, but Billie Joe’s was hard -- tough as hell -- that’s why he ran away, y’know.”

Everyone nodded at him somberly. Mike went on, his voice rising in intensity. “And you know -- the riot -- the riot back there that caused all this shit to go down -- he was doing what he knew! I mean -- Whatsername -- Davey’d once said that if you’re point’s not being made, then light things on fire! It was the only fucking way he knew how to make this shit work and you know what? -- I’ll tell ya what -- it ended up killing him and his fucking boyfriend, okay?!”

Even Mike started to cry now, at least a bit. “You -- you know what? Billie Joe Armstrong and Tré Cool were two of the bravest people I’ve ever fucking had the pleasure to know! They stood up for shit and they wouldn’t take no for a fucking answer! They -- they didn’t care what the fuck you thought about them! The only people that could hurt them were each other -- you know, the damn breakup and all -- then they got fucking killed, by such fucking cowards who burned everything down afterward! They were the real Class of Thirteen -- they were… they weren’t martyrs, they were fucking fighters. And they were brave -- so -- fucking -- brave! They were the bravest people I knew, and they didn’t run away! They would’ve come back if they were needed.”

There was a morbid, tearful cheer now.

“And -- well -- who the fuck are we?” Mike asked them.

“We are the Class of -- the Class of Thirteen!” they screamed once more to the heavens, a last tribute to their fallen leaders. “Born in the era of humility! We are the desperate in the decline! Raised by the bastards of nine -- teen -- sixty -- nine!”

And this time, no one gave them a disturbing peace ticket. No one told them to shut up. No one called them heathens, or anything else. They were just the Class of Thirteen then, damned as they all may have been, each of them pouring their heart and soul into these words that they screamed now. It was a last rallying cry, a last call to the leader called Gloria to save them all. It was their last hope. They were the last hope. And they were so pathetic…

Trying unsuccessfully to hide his freely flowing tears, Mike stepped down and blended back into the line as everyone present started shuffling to say their last words to the two deceased men -- to their ashes, anyway, as everything had been burnt after the shooting, and they couldn’t determine the remains of the pair who had died fighting, the pair who had died so very deeply in love.

Taylore Mishell passed by first, smiling bitterly. “Billie Joe -- well, Gloria, thanks for helping me figure my shit out. Thanks for helping me with my coming out stuff -- you were amazing at that. Thank you so much… rest in peace.” She passed by, followed by a girl called Ichigo.

“Thanks for being there, Tré. I really needed you -- well, you’d remember when… rest in peace, dude.”

A guy this time -- called Elske -- passed by and just nodded tearfully at the worn looking coffin, pale face obscured by ever lingering black hair -- rendering his expression unreadable.

And so this went on until the last person in the line stood near the coffin. He seemed to be around twenty four, and was wearing a grey tweed business suit, his general brown hair swept up under his very technical looking hat. He smiled and passed his fingers over the name of Frank Edwin Wright III.

Mike walked over to him, regarding his strange appearance. “What the hell’re you doin’ here, Mister Business Guy? Get the fuck out.”

The man looked up with a soft expression on his plain, very general face. “Oh, excuse my appearance.” His English was just right, his speech patterns boring and too regular to matter. “I was a… close friend of Mister Tré Cool’s, you see.”

“Oh? And your name is…?”

“Mr. Ian Woon,” the man stated, his brown eyes blank and emotionless. “And you are Mike Dirnt, yes?”

“So, Ian --”

“Please, call me… Mr. Ian Woon,” said the man mysteriously.

“So, Mr. Ian Woon, what was your relationship to Christian? -- well, Tré. Either way -- how’d you know each other?”

“Ah, that is -- rather classified business, sir. We were family friends, per say.”

And with that, Mr. Ian Woon winked at Mike, tipped his boring and plain grey hat, and walked away, carrying a neat looking, slim black suitcase at his side.

“There are some really weird people here, huh?” said Davey, walking toward Mike.

“Mmhmm,” Mike agreed.

“You ready to take the coffin out and bury it? I’ve got a small headstone -- Jade’s friend Adam made it -- and it’ll do for them… I think Billie Joe would have wanted something small, anyway. He never wanted to be famous.”

“I agree. C’mon Whatsername, let’s do this shit.”

Davey grabbed one end of the coffin and Mike grabbed the other, walking backwards out of the adapted room and following a well worn path deep into the very back of the graveyard. They carefully lowered it into a waiting, inviting hole, before covering it back up with all the dirt that had been dug up. Davey pointed to the small, white headstone. Its inscription read:

“Billie Joe Armstrong and Tré Cool.
Lost, but never forgotten.
Beloved Friends, Lovers, and Vigilante Extraordinaires.
(February 17th, 1994 - July 7th, 2013) (December 9th, 1993 - July 7th, 2013)
We are the Class of, the Class of Thirteen. Born in the era of humility. We are the desperate in the decline. Raised by the bastards of 1969.”

Mike smiled. “It’s perfect.”

“Yeah.”

“You ready to do the salute?”

“Mmhmm…”

“C’mon out, everyone!” Mike shouted.

And so nineteen of Mike and Davey’s closest and most trusted friends rushed out, each holding a cold, silver gun. They were somber, their eyes blank, as they circled the grave. In a circle, the twenty one assorted men and women, teens and twenty somethings, raised their guns to the sky.

“On three,” whispered Davey. “One… two… three.”

Twenty one gunshots rang out at the same time.

It was the twenty one gun salute, given to fallen military soldiers and now to those who especially deserved it. It was a tradition that had extended a long time, and it wasn’t like anyone there would remember -- all of them being high school or college dropouts, some of them never have been taught by the books. In the military, a lot of things had to do with twenty one. Now, it all had to do with the number of guns that had shot Billie Joeand Tré, the number of people who stood around their graves, and especially the nuber of the century. The twenty first century. And it was in fact, the midst of the twenty first breakdown when their fruitless war had broken out.

And the only people who had really paid were the two lovers who died in each others arms that fateful night of July the seventh, two thousand and thirteen. The two who had lasted through thick and thin, through years in the space of two months. The two who had broken up, and then had gotten back together. The two unlikely ones. The two who had, in a roundabout way, caused their own death, but the two who had meaninglessly died anyway for it.

Tré and Billie Joe.

Christian and Gloria.