The Plague of Popularity
Leaving You Alone.
“This is the Iero residence, we are unavailable to take your call at the moment, please leave a message for either Anthony, Linda or Frank at the beep and we’ll get back to you.—beep.”
“Mr. Frank Iero, I’m sorry for your father’s death, the news was terrible for me to hear. I’m calling on behalf of your father’s will. He’s made changes, last minute changes and I need to get a hold of you and I’m afraid things cannot wait.”
I knew that voice—I’d know that voice anywhere. That was my dad’s friend Reggie. I was broken out of the trance or whatever I was—shock I guess—and found my phone on the floor.
I quickly scanned the caller-ID for the most recent number and dialed.
“Hello.”
“Reggie? It’s Frankie; Anthony’s son.”
I heard a sigh before he responded.
“I’m really sorry kiddo; your dad, I know you and he weren’t that close but he was a good man. I need to see you in person for a few things, but I have to let you know beforehand, you’re in possession of everything your father owns. Can I come see you tomorrow?”
I mumbled a quick sure and hung up. Everyone but me knew who my father was—how sad is that? He was a good man. Why couldn’t I know what a good man he was? Why couldn’t he be the man everyone else got to know with me?
Did they really not want me that much when I was born? Was I that much of a burden they couldn’t even be them-selves around me? Did they just grow to love me, not loving me the moment I was placed in their arms like most parents?
I numbly opened my bedroom door and walked the twenty-six steps till I stood in front of my parents’ bedroom door. I stared at the knob for a good five minutes before I touched it, turning the cool metal in my hand—pushing the door to reveal the sanctuary of my parents.
It was immaculate—with the exception of where my father was found. A stain is all that remains of my father—a fucking stain of his own filth. I glanced around, my mother definitely decorated this room—before she became the heartless wench she is today.
I walked slowly over to the closet, sliding the door to reveal my father’s button up shirts. All organized according to color and design. His slacks hung neatly below and his shoes arranged in a straight line on the floor. I pulled out a single black shirt; it was crumpled in the corner behind the only pair of sneakers in the closet.
“Mr. Frank Iero, I’m sorry for your father’s death, the news was terrible for me to hear. I’m calling on behalf of your father’s will. He’s made changes, last minute changes and I need to get a hold of you and I’m afraid things cannot wait.”
I knew that voice—I’d know that voice anywhere. That was my dad’s friend Reggie. I was broken out of the trance or whatever I was—shock I guess—and found my phone on the floor.
I quickly scanned the caller-ID for the most recent number and dialed.
“Hello.”
“Reggie? It’s Frankie; Anthony’s son.”
I heard a sigh before he responded.
“I’m really sorry kiddo; your dad, I know you and he weren’t that close but he was a good man. I need to see you in person for a few things, but I have to let you know beforehand, you’re in possession of everything your father owns. Can I come see you tomorrow?”
I mumbled a quick sure and hung up. Everyone but me knew who my father was—how sad is that? He was a good man. Why couldn’t I know what a good man he was? Why couldn’t he be the man everyone else got to know with me?
Did they really not want me that much when I was born? Was I that much of a burden they couldn’t even be them-selves around me? Did they just grow to love me, not loving me the moment I was placed in their arms like most parents?
I numbly opened my bedroom door and walked the twenty-six steps till I stood in front of my parents’ bedroom door. I stared at the knob for a good five minutes before I touched it, turning the cool metal in my hand—pushing the door to reveal the sanctuary of my parents.
It was immaculate—with the exception of where my father was found. A stain is all that remains of my father—a fucking stain of his own filth. I glanced around, my mother definitely decorated this room—before she became the heartless wench she is today.
I walked slowly over to the closet, sliding the door to reveal my father’s button up shirts. All organized according to color and design. His slacks hung neatly below and his shoes arranged in a straight line on the floor. I pulled out a single black shirt; it was crumpled in the corner behind the only pair of sneakers in the closet.