Kallos Graphẽ
Ink.
Frank has been antsy lately. I think he’s worried about our relationship.
Ever since we got “married” (after all, gay marriage isn’t legal here anymore,) he’s been convinced that there is something wrong with us, or that we’re not enough alike, and don’t do enough together. Maybe he’s right; we are different. But there is nothing wrong with that.
I’ve told him to try something artistic, so we can be closer, and seem, in his eyes, more alike. While I work on my graphic novels or draw, he can do the same. But, let’s face it; Frank just doesn’t do art. I called it abstract but he didn’t believe me. It wasn’t that bad.
A few days ago, I was finishing a watercolor painting of Frank, who had sat himself across from me on the kitchen table, with his legs crossed under him against the stained wood. That weekend was his mother’s birthday, and he was signing her card.
It made me jealous; that ink wasn’t for me.
But it also made me think. I knew, for a fact, that Frank had great handwriting. Whether it was cursive, print, bubble letters…you name it, it looked marvelous. He loved to write in blank cards for me. It took me nearly five minutes to read my birthday card last year, it was so long.
I remembered seeing calligraphy in art museums.
Frank decided it was worth a try. He sent me to go somewhere to find him “one of those cool pens, with the feathers”. And while I was doing that, he would be searching for tips online.
I wasn’t even half way there when he called me.
”Gerard?”
“Yes?” I wasn’t, nor am I now, the best driver. I felt sorry for all those near me while I tried to talk to Frank and steer at the same time.
“I want an orange, feather, okay?” I could hear the little clicks of his keyboard in the background. I’m not sure why I found it so cute. Maybe it was just Frank. Anything related to him is cute.
“Orange? Why?”
“Because I want you to paint it with black stripes.”
“I think it would be easier to find a black one, and paint it with orange stripes.”
“No, no. I want it to be like a tiger.”
“Alright. I’ll make you a tiger feather pen.” I sighed.
“Thanks. Oh, and Gerard?”
“Yes, my love?”
He giggled. “Make sure it’s not a real feather, ‘kay?”
“Of course.”
It’s not easy to find a feather pen. I ended up having to call Frank so he could look up where to find one for me. He said Barnes and Noble carried them, so I went there.
As it turns out, they have a whole shelf dedicated to calligraphy, which I thought was neat. And they had an orange feather pen, too. I picked it up and walked over to the cashier.
She was normal, like everyone else; taller than Frank, but not nearly as beautiful.
“Miss, do you happen to know if the feather pens are real?”
She stared at me, unsmiling. “They work, if that’s what you mean.”
I put on my best polite face. “No, I mean, are the feathers on them real?”
“Oh,” she smiled then, embarrassed. “The black, gray, and white ones are real but the colored ones are not.”
“Thank you.” I was careful not to hold the pen too tightly; Frank would not be happy with a crushed pen. He'd probably say I murdered it.
They had different colors of ink, but I knew Frank would only show interest in the black. When I picked it up, it seemed as if the sheer clouds in the sky opened and a ray of light sparkled on the hand that was holding the ink well. I smiled in wonder as the glass exterior of the ink bottle sparkled along with my silver ring. You could only see the inscription in this type of light.
“We’re nothing alike, but yet we’re perfect together.”
Did my Frank no longer see the truth in his own words?
Frank is so pretty. I sat behind him in English today, and I swear the sunlight from the window made a halo over his head. I wish he would notice me. But he’s perfect. He’s cool. He’s got girls gawking and drooling all over him every day. You think he’ll ever talk to me? Not a chance.
It’s funny how I can remember him then. It seems like so long ago, but really it’s only been about five years. I never thought the “awesome punk kid” Frank Iero would ever talk the “art loser” who sat behind him in English 10. I was so stupid then.
I probably looked stupid now giggling at an ink well. But, whatever. I hadn’t thought about these memories in so long.
Mr. Thomas made us write letters today. It’s in his curriculum that we have to learn how to write a friendly, persuasive, and business letter in order to pass the class. We’ve done persuasive and business, and now we’re writing friendly. Seriously, we’re tenth graders learning third grade crap. I hate our curriculum.
We’re all going to write a letter in the following format:
“Dear Secret Pen Pal,
My code name is [insert code name here] and I’m writing this due to my English class. [Proceed to write about day.]”
My code name is GAW47. I’m rolling my eyes.
I didn’t follow the format, I simply wrote:
“Dear secret pen whatever,
My ridiculously obvious “code name” is GAW47, and I’m writing because Mr. Thom-ass is making me….
Mr. Thomas wasn’t going to open the letters, thankfully. I probably would have gotten detention for it. But, he was going to give it to someone. He had it all set up…
“Dear GAW47,
Haha. Mines obvious too; FAI63? Who could that be?
He is an ass, really. I so hate him. He’s so…bald. It’s, like, gross…
My secret pen pal was Frank. It turned out he wasn’t as confident as I had thought, or anyone else for that matter. We wrote letters to each other for months, clearly knowing who the other was, and not doing anything else about it. I was always GAW47 and he was FAI63. Those names, too, are engraved on our rings, only on the inside.
That was one assignment I was glad I took part in. It changed everything.
For once I had someone to talk to. I didn’t feel like a loner. He took me out of the depression I never knew I had until I was finally happy.
Frank and I shared secrets, told stories, and even drew pictures, everything in ink. We figured we could do the same online, but it wouldn’t be nearly as fun as dropping paper in each other’s lockers.
I swear I got butterflies every time that lined piece of paper fell out from between my books.
One day, I didn’t get a letter and I started to get worried. So I put an extra one is his locker to make sure he was okay.
“Hey, what’s wrong? I never got a letter this morning. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, GAW47. I’m just….I’m gay.”
“Wait…you just figured this out?! Holy cow!”
I figured that was a good time for us to meet. When I first found out I was gay, I was so disgusted with myself. I lost every trace of self esteem I had; I thought I was a freak. Frank was going to need some comfort and encouragement. This was a big deal.
But even after we met, we continued to write each other. Through everything: rest of high school, summer, college, and even into adult hood.
In fact, Frank’s marriage proposal to me was a letter.
We had never dated at all. When we graduated college, we went completely separate ways. He moved to California, and I stayed in Jersey.
We still wrote, but it was becoming less frequent with our busy lives.
And one week, I didn’t get a letter. And I got worried, so I called and left a message on his phone.
The next day, my mailbox actually had something in it other than bills.
“GAW47, we’re nothing alike, but we’re perfect together.
Will you marry me?”
Could I have said anything but yes?
So, Frank has taken up calligraphy. I scrupulously painted his feather pen with black stripes, and so far he has ruined one hundred nine pieces of paper, three pairs of pants, and fourteen shirts with the ink.
To him, ink is just a nuisance, something that has forced him to go the mall and spend money every month.
Or, it sometimes has an -ed on the end, when he goes to get his tattoos.
(It’s yet another thing that makes us so different. I’m afraid of needles, and he has them piercing his skin constantly.)
To me…ink is so much more. It’s every drop on those letters that finally brought us together, after years of cluelessness. It makes me want him to use pencils on everything that isn’t for me.
It’s our love.
When I finally figured it out, I could wait to tell him. We were alike. We did do something together, a long time ago.
We wrote to each other.
Me in my messy scrawl, and him in his beautiful writing…
Ever since we got “married” (after all, gay marriage isn’t legal here anymore,) he’s been convinced that there is something wrong with us, or that we’re not enough alike, and don’t do enough together. Maybe he’s right; we are different. But there is nothing wrong with that.
I’ve told him to try something artistic, so we can be closer, and seem, in his eyes, more alike. While I work on my graphic novels or draw, he can do the same. But, let’s face it; Frank just doesn’t do art. I called it abstract but he didn’t believe me. It wasn’t that bad.
A few days ago, I was finishing a watercolor painting of Frank, who had sat himself across from me on the kitchen table, with his legs crossed under him against the stained wood. That weekend was his mother’s birthday, and he was signing her card.
It made me jealous; that ink wasn’t for me.
But it also made me think. I knew, for a fact, that Frank had great handwriting. Whether it was cursive, print, bubble letters…you name it, it looked marvelous. He loved to write in blank cards for me. It took me nearly five minutes to read my birthday card last year, it was so long.
I remembered seeing calligraphy in art museums.
Frank decided it was worth a try. He sent me to go somewhere to find him “one of those cool pens, with the feathers”. And while I was doing that, he would be searching for tips online.
I wasn’t even half way there when he called me.
”Gerard?”
“Yes?” I wasn’t, nor am I now, the best driver. I felt sorry for all those near me while I tried to talk to Frank and steer at the same time.
“I want an orange, feather, okay?” I could hear the little clicks of his keyboard in the background. I’m not sure why I found it so cute. Maybe it was just Frank. Anything related to him is cute.
“Orange? Why?”
“Because I want you to paint it with black stripes.”
“I think it would be easier to find a black one, and paint it with orange stripes.”
“No, no. I want it to be like a tiger.”
“Alright. I’ll make you a tiger feather pen.” I sighed.
“Thanks. Oh, and Gerard?”
“Yes, my love?”
He giggled. “Make sure it’s not a real feather, ‘kay?”
“Of course.”
It’s not easy to find a feather pen. I ended up having to call Frank so he could look up where to find one for me. He said Barnes and Noble carried them, so I went there.
As it turns out, they have a whole shelf dedicated to calligraphy, which I thought was neat. And they had an orange feather pen, too. I picked it up and walked over to the cashier.
She was normal, like everyone else; taller than Frank, but not nearly as beautiful.
“Miss, do you happen to know if the feather pens are real?”
She stared at me, unsmiling. “They work, if that’s what you mean.”
I put on my best polite face. “No, I mean, are the feathers on them real?”
“Oh,” she smiled then, embarrassed. “The black, gray, and white ones are real but the colored ones are not.”
“Thank you.” I was careful not to hold the pen too tightly; Frank would not be happy with a crushed pen. He'd probably say I murdered it.
They had different colors of ink, but I knew Frank would only show interest in the black. When I picked it up, it seemed as if the sheer clouds in the sky opened and a ray of light sparkled on the hand that was holding the ink well. I smiled in wonder as the glass exterior of the ink bottle sparkled along with my silver ring. You could only see the inscription in this type of light.
“We’re nothing alike, but yet we’re perfect together.”
Did my Frank no longer see the truth in his own words?
Frank is so pretty. I sat behind him in English today, and I swear the sunlight from the window made a halo over his head. I wish he would notice me. But he’s perfect. He’s cool. He’s got girls gawking and drooling all over him every day. You think he’ll ever talk to me? Not a chance.
It’s funny how I can remember him then. It seems like so long ago, but really it’s only been about five years. I never thought the “awesome punk kid” Frank Iero would ever talk the “art loser” who sat behind him in English 10. I was so stupid then.
I probably looked stupid now giggling at an ink well. But, whatever. I hadn’t thought about these memories in so long.
Mr. Thomas made us write letters today. It’s in his curriculum that we have to learn how to write a friendly, persuasive, and business letter in order to pass the class. We’ve done persuasive and business, and now we’re writing friendly. Seriously, we’re tenth graders learning third grade crap. I hate our curriculum.
We’re all going to write a letter in the following format:
“Dear Secret Pen Pal,
My code name is [insert code name here] and I’m writing this due to my English class. [Proceed to write about day.]”
My code name is GAW47. I’m rolling my eyes.
I didn’t follow the format, I simply wrote:
“Dear secret pen whatever,
My ridiculously obvious “code name” is GAW47, and I’m writing because Mr. Thom-ass is making me….
Mr. Thomas wasn’t going to open the letters, thankfully. I probably would have gotten detention for it. But, he was going to give it to someone. He had it all set up…
“Dear GAW47,
Haha. Mines obvious too; FAI63? Who could that be?
He is an ass, really. I so hate him. He’s so…bald. It’s, like, gross…
My secret pen pal was Frank. It turned out he wasn’t as confident as I had thought, or anyone else for that matter. We wrote letters to each other for months, clearly knowing who the other was, and not doing anything else about it. I was always GAW47 and he was FAI63. Those names, too, are engraved on our rings, only on the inside.
That was one assignment I was glad I took part in. It changed everything.
For once I had someone to talk to. I didn’t feel like a loner. He took me out of the depression I never knew I had until I was finally happy.
Frank and I shared secrets, told stories, and even drew pictures, everything in ink. We figured we could do the same online, but it wouldn’t be nearly as fun as dropping paper in each other’s lockers.
I swear I got butterflies every time that lined piece of paper fell out from between my books.
One day, I didn’t get a letter and I started to get worried. So I put an extra one is his locker to make sure he was okay.
“Hey, what’s wrong? I never got a letter this morning. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, GAW47. I’m just….I’m gay.”
“Wait…you just figured this out?! Holy cow!”
I figured that was a good time for us to meet. When I first found out I was gay, I was so disgusted with myself. I lost every trace of self esteem I had; I thought I was a freak. Frank was going to need some comfort and encouragement. This was a big deal.
But even after we met, we continued to write each other. Through everything: rest of high school, summer, college, and even into adult hood.
In fact, Frank’s marriage proposal to me was a letter.
We had never dated at all. When we graduated college, we went completely separate ways. He moved to California, and I stayed in Jersey.
We still wrote, but it was becoming less frequent with our busy lives.
And one week, I didn’t get a letter. And I got worried, so I called and left a message on his phone.
The next day, my mailbox actually had something in it other than bills.
“GAW47, we’re nothing alike, but we’re perfect together.
Will you marry me?”
Could I have said anything but yes?
So, Frank has taken up calligraphy. I scrupulously painted his feather pen with black stripes, and so far he has ruined one hundred nine pieces of paper, three pairs of pants, and fourteen shirts with the ink.
To him, ink is just a nuisance, something that has forced him to go the mall and spend money every month.
Or, it sometimes has an -ed on the end, when he goes to get his tattoos.
(It’s yet another thing that makes us so different. I’m afraid of needles, and he has them piercing his skin constantly.)
To me…ink is so much more. It’s every drop on those letters that finally brought us together, after years of cluelessness. It makes me want him to use pencils on everything that isn’t for me.
It’s our love.
When I finally figured it out, I could wait to tell him. We were alike. We did do something together, a long time ago.
We wrote to each other.
Me in my messy scrawl, and him in his beautiful writing…