[Written January 23, 2007, by Delfina]

I shook Billie Joe’s hand. Some fans refer to such encounters as “meeting” him but I think that’s just playing fast and loose with reality. I don’t care that I didn’t actually meet him and he’s not my buddy, all I know is I clasped his damp little hand, and it puts a goofy little smile on my face, even now.

It was in 1994. I had gone to see Green Day play at the University of New Hampshire, which was nutty enough in itself since I lived in Texas at the time, but I was happy to go, I wanted to go, and so I went. I had called UNH to get tickets, and they had told me only UNH students could buy tickets, but since I was coming from so far away they would just put me on the guest list.

I took the train from Houston to Boston. There was a five hour layover in Chicago, which was nice because I had never been to Chicago. It was near Christmas and there were Santas in the street ringing bells, and a harpist was playing inside a department store. I visited an art gallery, I looked out over lake Michigan, I called Bill from a pay phone in the station.

The concert was wonderful of course. Afterward, I saw people line up to go backstage, and I thought maybe my guest list status could grant me some sort of privilege. (It had gotten me in early and I had seen the opening band’s soundcheck.) But no. And being whiny and pushy didn’t help either, go figure. But while I was begging I did see what the backstage passes looked like — big cloth stickers, blue and white, with some stuff scribbled on them — so when I saw one stuck to the floor, after having skulked away forlornly, feeling guilty for having been such a weasely pest, I giddily knew just what it was.

“Backstage” was a dingy room in the basement of the gym. Billie Joe seemed weary but he was gracious to a fault, making polite small talk from table to table. Then he started to leave. I was near the door so I asked him if I could shake his hand, and he was so lovely: he said, “Oh, sure.” Of course. No problem. Then I lost my mind and said, “I love you.” Oh, dear god.

I had no idea what was going to come out of my mouth. I just said the most all-encompassing thing that came to mind, not that it ever crossed my actual mind before it dropped out of my mouth. I loved everything about him: every note he had ever written and played, every spit and snot trick, every fuck you. He didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he said, wearily, “Yeah, I love you too.”

I had annoyed my idol, but I was too happy to feel anything but giddiness. Throughout the next day, I walked around in a daze. I could feel his damp little hand in my hand, and it made me smile a deranged, delighted little smile.