Afraid of the Dark

At eighteen, I left the scraggly mountains of West Virginia that I had grown up in to attend an exclusive art school in Manhattan, where I studied creative writing and journalism for four years. It was all I had ever wanted, all I had ever dreamed of, all I had worked towards for as long as I could remember--the reason for all those late nights I spent studying instead of sleeping or partying (depending on what day it was), all the desperate trying, trying, trying harder that sometimes drove me to tears or panic attacks. I spent my teenage years longing for Manhattan; I wanted it so badly that I nearly killed myself to get it.

The day I recieved my acceptance letter from my dream school, I was so happy that I cried. And anyone who knows me knows that that never happens. Sarah Hastings doesn't cry.

My mother said I was setting myself up for disappointment by idealizing the city and what it stood for so much. My sister told me to make some back-up plans, because, you know, I might not like it so much once I got there. My classmates sneered at me when they asked me about my college plans and I told them where I was going: why would I want to go to school in New York when I could go to the state college, where I could spend most of my time partying and still pass all of my classes without trying?

But none of them understood. They didn't feel the burning need to escape that I felt. They were perfectly content to live and die in the same small town, with no one else in the world noticing any difference either way. I was not.

I wanted so much more.

I wanted Manhattan. I wanted to write. I wanted to be someone, to change the world, in some tiny way or another. I knew I could do it, and I did. All those people were wrong: I didn't grow up to be a troubled delinquint just because I never had a dad, and I loved Manhattan once I got there.

I loved everything about the city. I loved the buildings towering high above me on all sides, like the sheer cliffs of glass-and-steel-and-concrete canyons. I loved the people bustling about in business suits and work uniforms and pretty skirts and trashy outfits and oversized sunglasses, all of them different--CEOs and construction workers and artists and hookers and celebrities. I loved the gray haze of morning smog, the bright sunlight flashing off of the hundreds of thousands of windows in multistory skyscrapers, glimpses of the clear blue sky peeking out between the buildings, the rain forming puddles of mud and trash and lost dog flyers along the edges of the streets. I loved the good things and the bad things, the culture and the corruption and the color and the dirt.

It was so different from the world I had lived in as a child. The world I came from was entirely based on an endless cycle of ignorance and hard labor, the wealthy business-owners and politicians holding themselves high above the muck and the mire of everyday life in small, poor towns built around grimy coal mines and nothing else. The coal-miners tore their rotator cuffs and ruined their joints and threw out their backs among the filthy black soot of the mines, while the rich got richer by making the poor poorer. Everyone I knew was miserable, stuck in their own ignorance with no idea how to get out.

But I got out, and I cherished every second of my new life.

It was so refreshing to meet people who were going somewhere, who liked books and art and music with thought behind it. When I first met my roommate, she was rereading The Catcher in the Rye for the third time while blaring Smashing Pumpkins through her shitty paint-splattered CD player, and the whole thing just left me stunned with joy. No one back home listened to anything but country music, read books that didn't feature a half-naked man and red-lipped woman striking dramatic poses on the cover, or owned any kind of paint that wasn't meant to be applied to the side of a building (whether it came in a spraycan or a bucket from Home Depot). The feeling was odd but wonderful--the sensation of finally finding your place in life after living like the blades of grass poking up through the cracks in the sidewalk for so long.

And I still felt that way whenever I came back to the city. As I paid the cab driver and pulled my luggage out of the cab behind me, I was still amazed by all the buildings stretching endlessly skyward above my head. Completely in awe, I stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious to all the people pushing past me, and just stared at my surroundings for far too long.

Presently, I remembered myself and turned and walked into the high-rise hotel to check in. I left my bags in my room on the 22nd story and then endured the long elevator ride back down to the ground floor again. I was schedueled to meet the band later that afternoon, but first I wanted to take a good long walk around the city that used to belong to me.

Christmas was fast approaching, and though all the decorations that cluttered every store window and every lamp post were nice to look at, the hoardes of holiday shoppers canceled out the whole peace-and-love-on-earth vibe: peace and love be damned--I wanted to shove some of those people out of my way. The cold, dreary weather and biting windchill didn't improve matters much, either.

Forcing myself not to be annoyed so that I could enjoy my limited time in the city, I hugged my winter coat close and focused on all the things I loved about New York as I walked past all the make-up shops, fast food restaurants, clothing stores, and multitudes of Starbucks. It was still the same city I knew and loved. Nothing had changed much in the few months that had passed since I had last visited.

After ten or fifteen minutes, I could no longer feel most of my face or hands, so I ducked into a candy store to gain refuge from the harsh December air. I wandered around in the store for longer than necessary, enjoying the feeling of the much-missed warmth seeping into my bones as I browsed through the colorful array of candies. Eventually, I filled up a plastic bag with cheerful, multicolored jelly beans and wove past all the frazzled Christmas shoppers to the cashier.

As I stood in line to pay, I grabbed an issue of Rolling Stone magazine, one of my magazine's biggest rivals, off of the display rack on the check-out counter and flipped through its contents. I wasn't going to buy it, of course--that would be aiding the enemy--but it never hurt to check out my competition.

And then, before I even had time to anticipate it, I found myself staring down at none other than Patrick Stump of Fall Out Boy, who was featured in this issue's "Q & A" section. I studied the picture in the center of the page (a photograph of Stump squinting at the camera from behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses) for a moment, and then scanned through the short article for any interesting quotes. Only the last paragraph jumped out at me.

The interviewer's question was printed clearly in bold type: What goes through your head when you read Pete Wentz quotes like, "I want Fall Out Boy to be the biggest band in the world"?

Beneath it was Stump's reply, in smaller print: "That's not a goal of mine. But I don't want to be the guy that holds Pete back from what he wants."

"Ma'am? Can I help you?"

Startled, I looked up to see the man behind the check-out counter watching me expectantly. I flashed him a sheepish smile and handed him the little plastic bag I had filled up with jelly beans, waiting until he turned his back on me to weigh the bag before I surreptitiously ripped the "Q & A" page out of the magazine and stuck it in my pocket.

I hadn't met Wentz or Stump yet, but as I made my way back to my hotel room, past all the posters advertising the December 16th release of their new album taped up in the windows of every music store I passed, I felt that I already knew them somehow. Maybe the media chopped up and rearranged every word they ever said, but Wentz and Stump still gave themselves away between the lines.

At least I knew what to expect now--or so I had thought. But I had never really learned to "expect the unexpected," and Pete Wentz and all the things he showed me were definitely unexpected.

-----

Our first meeting was strange in an oddly intangible way. It probably seemed like an average first meeting to those looking on, but it was different for us. Those other people didn't understand; they never did. It was just different for us. It was different right from the start.

On day one, it was mid-December and the sharp winter air seeped in through the walls of the drafty warehouse, where a photoshoot (meant to accompany my full-length article on Fall Out Boy, who were also the photoshoot's subjects, of course) was about to take place. He was standing there with his other three bandmates across the room, listening intently as professional-looking people with laminated passes hanging around their necks explained something that was obviously of Earth-shattering importance. He nodded along solemnly, accepting his mission, as the tall gay man in square black glasses pointed to him.

He was small, slight--even smaller and slighter than the rest of his band, which is kind of saying a lot (I wouldn't put my money on any of them if it came to a fight, even if they were pitted against each other.) His face was calm and he wasn't moving, but somehow, he stood out from the small knot of people surrounding him anyway. It might have been because his hair was gelled into some kind of bizarre mini-fauxhawk, or because his bright, costume-y make-up could have held its own against the best drag-queen's, but I think it was something else--some indefinable quality that magically set him apart from the rest.

I've seen the "x-factor," as it's called in the business, many times before. Most celebrities have it. The truth is, there are no if's and but's about making it in Hollywood, when you get right down to it. Once you eliminate all the variables (with stylists, publicists, agents, the whole lot), all that's left is "it": that magic pixie dust that you just have to be born with.

Pete Wentz was born with "it," and I knew it the first time I saw him.

The clump of pop/rock-stars and photoshoot assistants disbanded, and I recognized Fall Out Boy's manager, who I had met just a few minutes ago, as he walked up to the band members and inconspicuously pointed me out to them. They were less tactful than their manager, and all four of them turned to stare at me simultaneously. Wentz looked sort of eager--excited, even--but the other three just glared warily in my direction.

Wentz took it upon himself to lead the others over to me. They fell into line behind him, their expressions gray and somber and contrasting starkly with Wentz's friendly smile. That was the first day I met them, so it seemed odd to me, watching him pull them along like reluctant children; it took a few days for me to figure out that this is just their dynamic.

I wasn't sure what to think about Wentz as he walked up to me with an oblivious smile on his face, the mischievous gleam in his eyes contradicting his earnesty. "Jesus, I'm sorry, we should've introduced ourselves earlier."

I waved off his apologies with a strained smile."Oh, no problem."

"Well, I know it's no excuse, but it took three people four hours just to cover up the circles under my eyes over in make-up." He winked once and then stuck his hand out towards me in greeting. "I'm Pete Wentz."

Obviously, I thought, and then stopped myself before the words spilled out of my mouth by accident. "Sarah Hastings." I shook his hand and tried to smile.

He smiled back, and his smile was not like other smiles: it was big and brilliant, a sudden flash of shiny white teeth, a burst of effortless joy. It was so blinding that I had to look away for a moment.

And maybe it was fake--most famous smiles are. But his was pretty convincing.

Wentz moved to the side, urging his bandmates closer with a subtle jerk of his head. Patrick Stump stepped forward first.

"I'm Patrick," he said with a sheepish smile. "I sing and, uh...attempt to play guitar, among other things." He laughed nervously.

"It's nice to meet you." I smiled warmly at him, trying to make him feel more relaxed in light of his obvious discomfort.

"Patrick's a mad scientist," Wentz interjected. Stump shot him an embarrassed look and ducked his head as he moved to let the guitarist by.

"Joe Trohman," Trohman introduced himself, grabbing my hand and shaking it vigorously. His eyes had the bright, excited look of a child's as he grinned at me. "I'm the guitarist."

"Cool."

"I'm Andy Hurley," said Hurley from behind Trohman.

Trohman finally released my hand and danced to the side, promptly stepping on Stump's feet and running into Wentz; he mumbled an apology to the two of them and then shuffled around to Wentz's other side.

Hurley waved slightly, without enthusiasm, but made no move to shake my hand. "I play drums," he told me. There was nothing eager or congenial about his expression.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you what I do," Wentz piped up suddenly. All four of us turned to look at him in anticipation and he smirked at me as he explained, "I'm the douchebag of the band."

Despite the mischievous look in his eyes, his tone was serious, so I wasn't sure if he meant for me to laugh or not. I did anyway.

There was a pause that was just barely long enough to feel kind of awkward, and then I looked around at the four of them with what I hoped was a cheerful smile. "Well," I said, "it's a pleasure meeting all of you."

"You say that now, but you haven't interviewed us yet," Stump joked, a little hesitantly. He scratched at his blonde hair and readjusted his hat.

"Yeah," said Wentz, "you'll probably lose a little bit of respect for us once you hear about how I once drank my own piss--"

"And then threw it up again," Trohman added.

"--and then threw it up again. It was gross."

"It was gross," agreed Trohman emphatically.

"Those two are just gross, period," said Hurley in a deadpan tone, indicating Wentz and Trohman with a wave of his hand. "We quarantine them on the other bus, with the dogs and the pot."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Other bus?"

"We have two tour buses," Wentz explained. "We're divas."

His three bandmates shot him disbelieving looks.

"Well, okay--actually it's just me," he corrected himself. "I'm also the diva of the band."

No one laughed or argued with him on that point.