Chapter Text
Rutgers College, 1995
The coming-of-age is a concept especially revered in America, one woven into the very fabric of its becoming and all its inalienable rights - ones strewn with guts and sex and violence. American teenagers embody this heritage fittingly in their own way, encouraged by chick flicks and cult movies and other products of angst that package and sell well.
Gerard is nineteen and has never been to a party. Never visited a dorm buzzing and giddy with freedom and underage hedonism. This year of life, like all the others, they have existed in fugue. Drifting unseen amongst the crowds in the same inclement weather they failed to learn how to ride a bike. Simply existing in a second-rate midst; amongst kids who aren’t kids anymore who dreamt of New York.
It was hard to believe that this town existed under the same sun, that the states of New Jersey and Delaware and Rhode Island suckled on the same teats of the East. Gerard was not allowed to stray too far from their own unyielding mother, sweaters upon sweaters layered over their tauntingly flat chest as they tried to venture out into the world, only getting as far as New Brunswick. The cruel irony is that it was actually farther from home the filthy gorgeous Empire City - but New Jersey mothers considered any point past the Hudson unutterably blasphemous to their maternal bonds. As if skylines and turnstiles too lofty and grandiose would render them obsolete and severed.
Gerard is gazing at the permanent fixture of charcoal under their fingernails and thinking of the lapping water on the tight pebble shores of Brooklyn and Red Hook when the kid that always falls asleep in their music class slinks into the art room like a cat burglar. He’s unusually lucid today, but he still looks straight past them. Their all-black attire and cropped haircut old news for the hipster crowd.
Mr. Lachlan is asleep again, crusty and unbothered as a senior cat. Sporting corduroys that are older than Gerard with all the cigarette burns and soup stains to prove it.
Satisfied with the unconsciousness of the local authority, the music class boy trots towards the supply closet single-mindedly. Gerard can’t help but stare but no-one else seems bothered.
The guy is, for all intents and purposes, shiny and proper. Round cheeks and soft parted hair. Shirt and trousers left over from doing the ringer of Catholic high school. Yet there’s something about him, something deeply antithetical that Gerard just hasn’t been able to catch yet. He was neither asleep nor awake and he moved like smoke.
He reappears moments later in a waft of chemicals, pocketing ink, box knives and a Faber-Castell compass. Before Gerard can even blink the door closes silently and he’s gone. The distinct smell of turpentine is the only indicator that the room has been disturbed.
Belleville, 1997
Frank can still hear his own music through the hastily locked bathroom door as polaroid pictures shake in his hands.
It’s unmistakable. Panties he’d just seen strewn across the basement floor scream at him in those high contrast squares, Gee’s thighs milky in the camera flash.
This can’t be happening, Frank thinks. Why this girl? Why now?
Someone who had known him before. When his skin didn’t fit.
Frank’s reflection is shorn and gaunt, but his waistband cuts into his post-dinner bloat. His ripped open backpack sags in the sink, sinister in the sickly yellow light, looking like it’d just been torn through by a bomb.
He’s had his fair share of run-ins with obsessive fans in his life and has the scars to prove it - physical and otherwise. Bite marks, slashed tires, dead pets shaved and tattooed with his name. These people are best kept at a distance.
Gee’s knuckles rap delicately on the slab of wood between them but to Frank’s nervous system it was the barbarians at the gate.
‘Frank?’ she asks.Voice mousy. He’s been in there a while, how long exactly he couldn’t say. Gee had changed the record. Another of his own.
She asks him if he’s alright and if he needs anything, and how she could procure said things but he doesn’t hear her words. He’s restuffing his bag and fumbling desperately to get his jacket on.
The window above the cistern is big enough to fit a man through. In the speed of throwing straps over his shoulders he knocks a painting off the wall, causing Gee to rattle the doorknob in alarm.
The night has fully descended outside, and the soil Frank crawls onto is cold and damp against the frantic heat of his body. Tearing down the driveway and through the neighbourhood the chicken cordon bleu churns in his stomach.
He doesn’t eat meat. Not unless it’s an act of desperation.
Each heaving breath could be the one that sends the meal shrapneling over the asphalt. Returning the freezer meal back to its spiritual home of hot, worn rubber.
There’s somewhere else he can go, but it’s not ideal. Not that anywhere, or anything is in this world. There’s a car running with the lights off not far away. Frank can smell it, like he can everything in this state. It’s only when he ducks through an opening in a fence he hears the familiar crackling of the police radio.
*
The Droogs congregate at their usual roadside haunt, picking apart anemic fries and burgers with bored fingers. It’s a dark and doleful affair, one that annoyingly insists on playing the same music you’d find in a back alley massage parlour. Frank wastes no time in raging through its deadness.
‘Which one of you FUCKS set this up?!’
A plate of tepid food gets crushed under his palm as he pelts the Alliance ft. LeATHERMØUTH gig poster down on the booth table. The Droogs barely react, either too tired, too stoned, or too apathetic. Likely a concoction of the trifecta.
The owner cum chef cocks his head at Frank from the pass. Glaring from amongst the plastic fry baskets and polystyrene cups.
‘Someone answer me godfuckingdammit.’
‘He did.’ Ripped Shirt says, motioning his head to Hammer and Sickle.
Frank throws himself over the table at him. Neon signs in the windows blur and swirl in his raging vision.
There’s a scuffle. A meeting of rough skin.
‘Get the fuck off me, Frank!’
‘Hey, you pricks!’ Chef shouts, waving a phone receiver that’s been partially melted by improper proximity to the fryers. Ripped Shirt pushes Frank off his bandmate and into the empty seat and he lets it happen. ‘I’m about to call the cops!’
‘Shove it up your ass, will ya, Lou?’ Frank spits. ‘You’re always about to call the fuckin’ cops!’
‘I’m serious,’ he says, chewing on a toothpick. ‘Order something or take a fucking hike.’
‘Coffee. Black.’ Frank orders.
‘Black coffee? Does this look like a fuckin’ men’s shelter?’
Frank doesn’t even answer. He’s gripping cracked woodchip looking almost sad. The truth was this place looked worse - it looked like a retirement home. Lou looked like he belonged dossing amongst the divorced and the addicted, but his patrons were just plain waiting to die.
And then there was The Band.
‘Jesus Christ, just get the coffee. Please.’
Lou huffs but replaces the receiver. His silver crucifix necklace glints as he turns away. Outside, the night digs its fingers deeper into the silent road.
One of the aforementioned old customers is staring.
‘You mind your own business and you and me, we’re gonna get along just fine.’ Frank glowers. Their thinning eyebrows shoot up with surprise but they return their attention to their plate, fork clinking on their flawless veneers.
Frank stares down each Droog one by one. ‘The Alliance? You guys want to play a bunch of wannabe corporate rock for a bunch of fuckin’ jerkoffs?’
Indoor Sunglasses is too fascinated by the salt and pepper shakers to flinch.
‘Fuck man!’ says Ripped Shirt. ‘Someone had to get us booked while you were M.I.A.’
‘M.I.A? How about getting money for our next record, Seth?’ Frank’s fringe falls into his eyes, punctuating their anger in black. ‘Feel free to chip in at any point.’
‘So you got the money then?’ challenges Hammer and Sickle.
‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’ Frank huffs.
‘You spent it all on pills didn’t you? You sick fuck.’
‘You better reel it the fuck in.’ Frank hisses. Bared teeth still lined with stomach acid from the chicken incident. The band can probably smell his bile from across the booth. ‘In the last 4 months you’ve probably kicked in, what, like 50 bucks? And that piece of shit PA head?’
‘Fuck you, that PA is 300 Watts!’
‘Fuck you, fuck your 300 Watts.’ Frank says flatly. ‘I’m the one floating this whole operation. Do you know how much blood I need to give to the fuckin’ vampires at the lab just to get our masters out of this hostage situation?’
‘Jeez, dude, can we all just calm the fuck down?’ Ripped Shirt whines.
Frank’s veins ripple in the crook of his elbows that bloom with bruises and ink. ‘I am calm.’ he growls. Without breaking eye-contact with Mister Fabric Holes he steals a stick of gum from his pack and shoves it in his mouth. ‘Calmer than I should be. We gotta do the jackets, press the fuckin’ vinyl. That’s another three grand. And you guys wana get your panties in a twist over a couple-a fuckin’ fents.’ he chews.
‘Look, the manager of the Alliance called me last week, okay? He was played our last session and he fucking flipped.’
‘Stop talking.’
‘Our manager wants us to play this gig with the Alliance, okay? See if we’re a good fit for supporting the last leg of their tour, I’m talking we could be playing L-fucking-A.’
‘You think I give a shit about L.A.? Really?’ Frank shakes his head, his jaw grinding and leg bouncing. He looks away and titters.
‘Listen, Frank, I know you’d stick your dick in New Jersey if you could but this isn’t just about you, it’s about-’
‘It’s about the fuckin’ music, Seth, that’s all it’s ever been about! If you’re not onboard with that then, well, you can get the fuck outta here.’
‘That’s the thing, if you’d fuckin’ listen, asshole. The swinging dicks said they’d cover our dupes if we did this.’
‘Sarvino knows we’re good.’ nods Hammer and Sickle sagely. ‘He wants to help. We can go places.’
‘Go places?’ Frank echos. ‘We’re not sailors or desperate actors bussing tables at the fuckin’ Gramercy. We’re a punk rock band.’
‘THIS COULD BE OUR BIG FUCKIN’ BREAK!’ Hammer and Sickle shouts, switching demeanour instantly. His explosion of energy squeezes to a point in his palm as he claws the offending gig poster up from the diner plate and throws it in Frank’s direction.
‘Big break? BIG BREAK? How about you give me a fuckin’ break, huh?’
Sickle and Rip have reached a point past bubbling over the pan, expending energy whimsically like droplets careering round the edge of a red hot hob. They sit back, they laugh tiredly, lean into each other and their shared stances, they throw up their hands limply as Frank seethes. Indoor Sunglasses remains stoned and stoic.
‘Look, you guys wanna play rockstar on Sorvino’s little circlejerk tour go right ahead, but leave me the fuck out of it.’
‘How about we vote on it?’ Ripped Shirt says.
‘It’s not a democracy.’
‘I vote we play the fuckin’ show.’ H&S says.
‘You’re literally a fuckin’ communist, Sick - supposedly.’ Frank sneers, sliding down his chair and folding his arms like a petulant child.
‘Yo, ground control to Major Tom.’ Ripped Shirt whistles, waving his hand to get the glazed attention of Indoor Sunglasses. ‘What about you?’
The bedraggled man smirks slowly and marks his allegiance towards Frank with a thumb pointed in his direction. Frank drapes his arm around him and smiles triumphantly at the defectors.
‘FUCKING CHRIST, I THOUGHT WE WENT OVER THIS?’ Ripped Shirt shouts.
Indoor Sunglasses shrugs. Boiling water again from the traitors again, fists slammed on tables rattling mugs of freezing coffee.
‘What’s with you?’ Frank asks to his right. Indoor Sunglasses beams silently and vacantly.
‘Qualuudes.’ huffs Sickle.
‘Good boyyyyy.’ Frank laughs. He strokes the back of Indoor’s hair. ‘You don’t wanna to play to a crowd of yuppies do ya?’ Indoor shakes his head determinedly, smiling even wider. ‘Bunch of fuckers doing the stand and stare thinking about how to get better at wiping their bosses’ asses’.’
Frank is in no rush to stop stroking his bandmate and it draws the attention back to him from Old Fucker sat opposite. A glare that has graduated from nosy to disgusted.
‘Goddammit man, go back to your fuckin’ shrimp basket and mind your own fuckin’ business already!’ Frank shouts, fingers still lazily caressing Indoor.
‘That’s it, all you punks, out!’ Lou emerges from behind the counter, arms folded and posture commanding. There was no trace of the coffee Frank ordered anywhere, but at least the phone is untouched. He doesn’t like the cops much more than the Droogs do, despite his threats.
*
The empty parking lot glistens moistly under a mix of cold and warm street lights.
‘On top of everything, you cancelled our secret show on Friday?!’ Frank seethes.
‘We wanted to save our juice for the Alliance gig.’
‘Stop talking about it like it’s fuckin’ happening. It’s making me nauseous.’
‘Breathing makes you fuckin’ nauseous.’ Ripped Shirt grumbles.
‘You assholes get our show back on or we’re fuckin’ done.’ Frank spits, walking determinedly in the opposite direction from the band and the tour van. ‘I’ll call you Friday at noon.’
‘Yo, the heat came by the lockout again.’
Frank stops.
‘They got a real hard-on for you, man.’ Sickle adds.
Frank turns on his heel and stalks back. A mix of aggression and anxiety in the way he bites the inside of his gums. ‘What the fuck did you tell them?’
Ripped Shirt holds out his arm in an open-palmed, placating gesture. ‘Easy, Frank, we told them the same old spiel - that we only know you as F.T.Willz.’
‘We said you quit but I don’t think they bought it.’ Sickle says.
Frank stands and sways slightly, cogs of his mind grinding behind his dark furrowed brows and exhausted eyes.
‘You’re in some deep shit, dude.’
‘You don’t need to tell me.’ Frank says hoarsely. He takes out a crumpled up piece of paper from his pocket and straightens it out to hold it up to them, grasping the top like the neck scruff of a puppy abandoned on the street. The band’s eyes widen. The police sketch of fresh-faced Frank takes on a new hardened aspect in the harsh orange overhead street lamps. It looks more like him now as he breathes agitatedly through his nose, the deep centrefolds stand-ins for the scars on the inside and outside of his body - casting shadows, creating the illusion of age.
‘They upped the reward.’ he says. ‘And there was an unmarked squad car outside of one of my crash pads.’
‘$5,000, shiiit, man.’
‘Enough to make somebody narc, don’t you think?’ Frank cocks his head accusatorily. Stolen gum traversing his molars.
‘Don’t know why you’re looking at us, dude.’
‘I don’t fuckin’ trust anybody right now.’ Frank says darkly.
‘You don’t need to be like this.’ Ripped Shirt says calmly. ‘If you need a place to crash then-’
‘I’m not bunking with you fuckin’ assholes.’
‘Take the keys to the van then.’ he suggests.
‘No. I’m set.’ Frank bites.
‘You sure?’
‘Man, you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.’
*
Gee’s shaking fingers turn her record player off. The rest of the house rests heavily on the basement and the quiet suffocates. She wished the air actually would disappear and a vacuum would wrap around her so she couldn’t hear anything at all.
Her family is imploding above her and Frank is gone and it’s all her fault. She hits herself on the side of the head over and over with her fist, screeching through gritted teeth. Only when pain pulses continuously from one temple to the other like a wave function does she stop. The pain mingles with her breathing and there’s some warped satisfaction but it isn’t enough.
Next to Gee’s music station is her art desk. It’s messy and softly lit by fairy lights. She remembers something that her old therapist had said to her as she dives underneath it to retrieve a hidden sketchbook stuffed down the back. The one that brings her shame.
Creation is a coping mechanism, the therapist had said, but in times more urgent and explosive, comes the dark angel of destruction.
Gee finds exactly what she’s looking for and stills, blowing her hair out of her eyes before blowing balls of dust off the Moleskine.
The sketchbook’s cover reads
Rutgers College, 1995
Mr. Babcock is droning on about the end of year showcase, but Gerard cannot focus. Frank has shown up to music class with a self-administered stick and poke tattoo that has become badly infected. His face is completely blank as he idly pokes the multicoloured pus of the tattoo’s fissures with a pencil. Staring straight forward.
‘Mr. Iero, what on earth are you doing?’ Mr. Babcock asks, tearing away from the sentence he was in the middle of.
‘Huh?’
‘What do you mean, “huh?”. Are you quite well?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Frank drawls. The lead gleams with green and red fluid, still rootling away. Now it wasn’t just Gerard staring. The entire class was stiff and grossed out.
‘Stop that right this instant!’
But Frank didn’t and Mr. Babcock only grew more enraged. That was when the stapler incident happened.
He would need six stitches.
After that, Frank did all he could to make sure that Mr. Babcock wasn’t fired. It would be no fun for him that way. He didn’t say shit, and he found his ways to silence the student body, not that that was difficult. He told his parents that he’d fallen off a skateboard and they didn’t question it nor care, despite the insurance claim. Frank didn’t even skate.
Frank would then shave the rest of the side of his head and never let it grow back. It didn’t look right on him yet but it felt good. The severe disconnect of his old, Catholic school imposed self not blending in with an impulse of his own hands. Something to show for his anger that wasn’t just the personal habits of drugs or masturbation.
And he relished always having the scar on display, too, tapping it knowingly when challenged by Mr. Babcock, invoking it like a pact.
Needless to say Frank headlined the end of year showcase. A billing that sent shivers of terror and raised eyebrows through the staff room. Mr. Babcock took to lunching in his shitty car in the run-up to the end of that semester to avoid questions.
Gerard caught him once, on the way home and squinting against a ferocious wind. The loose pages stuffed into their sketchbook rippled like autumn leaves but Gerard would never resort to putting them in their bag. Objects were always hugged close to their body, anything to cover its shape - or in their mind, the lack thereof.
‘Mr. Way!’ Babcock is rolling down a steamed up window, tonguing a rouge piece of lettuce back into his mouth from the driver’s seat of his Sedan. Gerard doesn’t register it’s them who’s being addressed and keeps walking, hunched against the elements.
‘Hello! Earth to Gerard!’ Babcock calls impatiently, licking his lips clean of the last remnants of his sandwich.
Gerard finally realises what’s going on and marginally straightens up in embarrassment of being perceived, dragging themselves over to the car in haste.
‘Yes, sir?’ they shiver, white-knuckling their books in the ghastly spring.
‘I need that showcase poster as soon as possible, please. How are you getting on with it?’
Gerard’s face scrunches up as they think. Their terrible posture - both natural and cultivated - lends well to speaking to a man hiding away in his driver’s seat.
‘Uhhh, I could do it by tomorrow.’
‘Good. Thank you.’ Babcock lowers his voice. ‘I know the redo is an inconvenience but I think we both know who to thank for that.’
Gerard cocks their head and says nothing and Babcock frowns down at his BLT.
‘I don’t mind the inconvenience.’ Gerard says finally, voice high and eager to people-please. Their arms hug their sketchbooks tighter.
‘Good man. I’ll see you in class tomorrow then.’
Gerard flinches at that.
At home, they would lose themselves in paper, transferring their consciousness with the two dimensional world and manipulating that world to their whims. They would think of Frank. Picturing him intently and using scraps of sketches from stolen classroom glances to make him appear in front of them whole, capturing the way his eyes burned dead in his soft frame. The distinctive arch of his eyebrows that veered far from his eyes. His wide, pink mouth.
On the day of the showcase, Gerard would see Frank stealing from the art room again, and the school’s kickdrum that his band used for the gig would be newly spray painted with the word ‘BABCOCK’. It wasn’t addressed, but it was hoped to be an odd sort of tribute, despite its very red and very dripping nature. The discomfort people felt at the stunt would be vindicated during the closing number of Frank’s set, where after thrashing around on the floor like a man possessed, he would rise and shove his guitar straight through the skin of the drum and out through the other side, destroying it completely.
Belleville, 1997
The two year old drawings of Frank glare at Gee from her college sketchbook. So intimate and personal despite not knowing the man at all. An intrusion that he would have so clearly not welcomed, a thought she ignored in favour of her own personal obsession. Obsessive actions that have blown up in her face yet again.
Shame curdles in her stomach and before she can fully process it she begins tearing, swiping her Polaroid camera to the floor somewhere in between the shredding.
Her mother is still crying upstairs.
In Gee’s frenzy, she doesn’t hear the bathroom window clicking open from another part of the house, or the toilet seat being depressed heavily by the weight of a returning visitor.