Frank Iero: P.A.

The half an hour gave me enough time to clean up a little in the kitchen, shower, then get dressed. During that time my mind was set firmly on figuring out just how we would be reliving Gerard’s memories. Let’s face it, I didn’t really nut out the details in my head before I opened my big fat mouth to Gerard. Knowing him, we could literary do anything; he has the means and the money for it.

At seven o’clock I leave my room and turn the corner into the living room. Gerard is already waiting for me by the fireplace, resting an elbow on the mantel, eyes trained on the hallway. I should be used to him getting to places long before me, but no, I still manage to jump every time he’s already in a room when I come in.

I walk toward him, feigning confidence.

“You’re nervous,” he comments when I’m about three feet away.

How the fuck did he know?

“No I’m not,” I scoff.

Straight-faced, yet still appearing relaxed and casual, he says, “You’re a shit liar, Frank.” His expression remains serious, and I’m starting to think I should feel more insulted. “Now, you ready?”

With that, not waiting for an answer, he steps around me and crouches down beside the couch. I glance toward the fireplace, then back to Gerard; are we doing a campfire sing-along or something? He lifts up the corner of the rug to reveal a large, round black stain on the wooden floorboards.

“This wasn’t always here,” he says, turning his head in my direction, briefly making eye contact. He rubs his hand over the dark patch. “One vacation, our grandparents stopped by on their way through to Canada. They were going to miss Christmas, so they brought our presents with them.” There’s a momentary pause, where I think he’s going to stop altogether, but it seems he was merely reflecting; he smiles. “Grandma gave me this incredible art set; it had everything – pencils, paints, charcoal, ink, everything. She asked me to draw her something she could take to Canada with her, so I did.”

“How old were you?” I ask, trying to gauge what the quality of the drawing would be.

He looks to the ceiling, then back to me. “I would have been about ten.” His eyes dart back to the spot on the floor and he continues reciting his memory. “I remember wanting my drawing to be practical – she could hardly stick it on the refrigerator in Canada – so I made a comic. It was the first time I’d ever drawn one. It took me hours, and I was so proud of it when I finished,” He’s smiling broadly, “I even contemplated keeping it for a little while so I could photocopy it and hand it out to everyone. And then I went to get Grandma,” he says, his tone changing slightly, becoming more sombre. “I’d left the comic down here on this spot. When I came back in the room with Grandma, there was Mikey, sitting on the floor, looking guilty. He’d wanted to look at my art set, and while I was gone he’d been fiddling with the ink bottle; he’d knocked it over. It leaked all over my comic and seeped into the floor.”

I can’t help but giggle, and when I do, Gerard smirks.

“I was so mad at him,” he says enthusiastically. “I yelled at him, and cried, and all he could do was hold up his ink covered hands and apologise. The best part was, my yelling had made him cry, so when he wiped away he’s tears he ended up with black ink smeared all over his face. It took days for it to come off.” He looks back to the floor. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t get it out of the floor, and when we came back a year later, the rug was here.”

“That’s hilarious!” I manage to breathe out as I laugh hysterically. My mind is flashing with images of a young Mikey all black with ink.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks a minute later when we’ve both composed ourselves. I nod. “Last night, after you’d gone to bed, I came down here and laid by this spot. It’s one of my last memories of my Grandmother, and one of my earliest of my brother.” He reverts his eyes back to the stain, stares at it for a moment, then relays the corner of the rug over it. “I hope that stain never comes out.”

Gerard rises to his full height and comes to stand beside me. He looks into my eyes, staring intently, looking as if he’s thinking, not trying to intimidate me.

“How am I doing,” he asks, “with this whole ‘letting people in’ thing?”

“Good,” I reply. He’s opening up to me so much more than I ever thought it possible for him to do. “Shall we try another memory?”

He nods his head once and heads for the hallway. I follow him through into the kitchen, then out the sliding door onto the veranda. It’s fully enclosed, with no access to the ground below, so it’s got me wondering what kind of memory he could have here. None, it seems, as he’s climbing over the wooden railing before me and jumping down at least four feet to the ground. He turns around and looks at me expectantly.

“Come on, Frank,” he nags, folding his arms across his chest.

“Me - over the railing? You can’t be serious.”

“This was what we did as kids,” he shrugs, as if it’s common place to use a railing as an exterior door slash staircase.

“You’re not a kid, though, you’re twenty-three!”

He shrugs again. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

I exaggerate an irritated sigh and hoist myself up onto the railing. “You know, I thought when I started working for a famous multi-million dollar artist that my days of jumping fences were over,” I remark before jumping down next to Gerard.

He just gives me one of his trademark smirks and walks in the direction of the lake. When he reaches the water's edge he drops down to into a seated position, his legs crossed, his arms outstretched behind him to support his weight. There’s a calmness about him, and I consider heading back to the cottage so he can relive his past on his own. He turns his head my way, noticing I didn’t follow him, and gestures to the vacant space beside him. I go over to him and sit down. Does Gerard realise how dewy the ground is? My jeans are damp all over my butt after just five seconds.

“Mikey and I spent so much time out here,” he comments.

I’d figured as much. “Fishing? Skating?”

“Paper boat racing,” he replies easily.

“What?” I snap my head in his direction.

He points his finger at a small inlet a few feet away from where we’re sitting. “From one side of that to the other,” he tells me. “I had a love/hate relationship with paper boat racing; it’s a bit embarrassing when your little brother beat you every time.”

“Every time?” I ask emphatically.

He winces jokingly. “I wish I could say that that was an exaggeration, but no, I Gerard Arthur Way have never won a paper boat race against Michael James Way.”

I start laughing, but not for the reason he thinks. Yes it’s funny that Mikey can beat his big brother at paper boat races, but it’s even funnier that Gerard’s middle name is Arthur!

“Your middle name is Arthur!” I say through a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

He punches my arm. “Shut it, Anthony.”

I look at him, my laughter ceasing, perplexed at how he knew my middle name. But then I remember that he’s Gerard Arthur Fucking Way, and he know absolutely everything about everyone and everything... except how to win a paper boat race. I start laughing again.

Gerard waits with his arms folded across his chest until I gain control over myself again. This, to his displeasure, takes a couple of minutes. When I sober, he continues reciting his memory.

“We must have raced a thousand times over the years, and my boat would sink without fail every time,” he says. I suppress a giggle at this. “See, the problem was, I was too artistic as a child; I spent so much time on the aesthetics of my boats that the functionality was shit. Mikey, while younger, worked on the mechanics of his boats so much that sometimes the only decoration to it was the name ‘S.S. Mikey’ scribbled on the hull.”

“Dare I ask what your boats looked like?”

He laughs. “Oh, they had everything. I had a habit of making these gigantic cruise liners; I gave them upper decks and swimming pools and spas and shuffleboard grids – one time I even made a lifeboat and strung it to the side railing of the lower deck. My boats always looked incredible, but all that crap made them so heavy that they sunk within a few seconds of touching the water.” His smile fades a moment later and he sighs heavily. Eyes downcast, he says, “Mikey’s the best.”

I can tell he’s no longer talking about paper boats. Cautiously, I stretch my hand out and tentatively touch his arm. I expect him to flinch, but he remains perfectly still. So we just sit there, silently, my hand resting on his arm, casting our gaze over the beautiful lake before us. I’m not sure how long we stay like that, but it’s not uncomfortable or weird; it feels right. Every so often I look over to Gerard’s face and each time he looks deep in thought, yet absolutely relaxed, content.

Eventually, when the wind has become a bit too cold, and my lips start to go numb, I squeeze his arm to pull him out of his reverie. He, with his glazed over hazel eyes, turns to me and manages a small enquiring smile.

“Come on,” I say, and stand up. I rub the back of my jeans to rid me of the grass and dirt I’ve surely collected, feeling the dampness of the material from the dew. “Come inside.”

We trudge back up the slight incline to the cottage. When I see Gerard heading to the left (the way to the front door), I call him back.

“Don’t tell me you and Mikey actually used the stairs to get back inside,” I say when he looks at me questioningly, my right hand resting on the top of the railing – which is quite a stretch considering my height.

“You’re right,” he replies with a small smile.

Together we scale the side of the veranda and swing our legs over the railing until we’re back on the wooden decking. Gerard leads the way inside the cottage and slumps down into one of the stools at the breakfast bar. I flick the kettle on, and then flick it off again a few seconds later; I have an idea. Gerard doesn’t seem to notice at all, so I walk past him and quietly sneak up the stairs to his room. In there I quickly gather up some blank paper and some of his art supplies, then jog back down the stairs, excitement brimming in my chest.

I round the breakfast bar and drop what I gathered loudly in front of Gerard’s clasped hands. He looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed.

“We are going to have a paper boat race,” I announce, unable to keep the Cheshire grin from my lips.

He looks down to the materials in front of him, then back up to me, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re on, Frank.” His long fingers pick up a black felt-tip pen. “Now, disappear. Boat construction in the Way household is always conducted in private quarters.”



Almost an hour and half later, Gerard and I are back outside climbing over the railing again. My boat, which I think is pretty damn awesome, is on full display, but Gerard has his hidden in a rather large stew pot he had found in the kitchen. I don’t know whether the boat is actually that size, or if he’s just chosen a container that large to put me on edge. Either way, I’m not all that concerned – if his track record with Mikey is anything to go off, I have this victory in the bag.

“Okay,” Gerard says when we reach the tiny inlet, “standard Way paper boat racing rules apply.” He digs out his wallet from his back pocket and extracts an old piece of yellowing paper from deep inside it. “One: all entrants must have made their boats without parental assistance.” He narrows his eyes at me, silently asking if I complied with this; I nod, smirking at the idiocy of all this. “Two: to secure a win, an entrant’s boat must make the full length of the course. Three: entrants cannot attempt to sink or disadvantage other competitors. Any attempts to do so will lead to an immediate disqualification. And four: the prize awarded to the winning entrant is the opportunity to make one request of the entrant of their choice. This request must be stated prior to the commencement of the race, and the chosen receiver must complete the request.” He folds the paper back into a neat square and stuffs it back into his wallet. “Any questions?”

“No, sir,” I say, saluting him sarcastically. I point to the stew pot by his feet. “Show us your boat then.”

A proud grin spreads across Gerard’s face before he bends down to remove the silver lid. He glances up at me before delving his hands into the pot and taking the boat out. My jaw drops as the twelve inch boat is revealed. It is two levels, with a navy blue haul, brown decking, complete with a swimming pool, miniature sun lounges that have been made separately and glued on, little life preservers, and a captain! I glance down to the generic five inch paper boat in my hands, then back to the monster sized, appropriately named Gerard’s Way being cradled by my boss. I suddenly feel very feminine and inadequate...

“Surely a boat that size can’t be legal!” I object dramatically.

Gerard reaches for his wallet again. “Would you like to see the rules?”

“No, I don’t want to see the rules! And fuck you for making that damn thing!” I pout pathetically. “I hope it sinks.”

He doesn’t comment, just smirks and places his boat on the ground beside the water. I, still pouting, do the same.

“So,” he asks, “what is your request of me should you win?”

There’s no need for me to think about this. “Jump into the lake fully clothed and swim to the other side,” I snap.

“Okay,” he concedes. “And if I win, you can do the same, except naked.”

Naked?! Thank fuck he’s a shitty boat racer – I never want Gerard Way to see me naked... ever.

He holds out his right hand. “Do we have a deal?”

I gulp nervously and take his hand, shaking it. “Yeah.”

“Okay then, slide your boat in the water,” he instructs, bending down to do the same thing.

When our boats hit the water they’re propelled forward by the downward slant of the lake. I cheer on my boat like an idiot. Once I start, though, Gerard chimes in too. The boats travel side by side for a few inches, although by the way we’re cheering you’d think they had reached the finish line. Gerard’s expression is wild and enthusiastic, and between cheers he exclaims that he’s never had a boat go this far before. My boat is slightly ahead of Gerard’s, but his is still close enough to pose a threat, which makes me nervous because I was hoping it would have sank by now. They reach the halfway point and I’m still in the lead, so I cheer even louder. I’m winning! I’m fucking winning!

No!

No fucking way!

No!

Gerard’s boat, pushed along by the wind, suddenly plows into mine. Water splashes into my boat, slowing it down. Gerard’s Way takes the lead, and the worst thing possible happens – my boat sinks. It folds into itself and slowly disappears below the surface, going down faster than the Titanic. When it happens, Gerard whoops even louder and jumps up and down, knowing that he has not only beaten me, but won his first ever paper boat race. With my boat literally dead in the water, I watch with baited breath as Gerard’s monster of a boat cruises toward the finish line; I need it to sink.

“Go! Go! Go!” Gerard encourages beside me, arms waving about madly. When it makes it to the water’s edge on the other side of the inlet he jumps up in triumph. “Yes!”

“That’s not fair!” I yell at him when he turns to face me, an overtly smug look plastered to his face. “You’re boat made mine sink!”

He shrugs and says calmly, “It’s not my fault you’re a shitty engineer.”

Noticing the rocks at my feet, I pick one up and throw it directly at Gerard’s boat. Just as mine did, it fills with water and shrivels into itself until it slips beneath the surface.

“Well, fuck you,” Gerard says, although he’s smiling.

Suddenly, we’re laughing. The both of us are in hysterics beside the lake, and each time we glance toward the water we laugh even harder. This is by far the stupidest thing we’ve ever done, and yet it has to have been the most fun. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. It makes me wonder if laughing like this feels just as good to Gerard, considering what he’s been through lately.

“So,” he says, his laughter dying, although his grin remains, “when will you be fulfilling my request, Frank?”

And with that sentence I am no longer laughing. I’d forgotten what he asked of me... there has to be a way out of it...

“Uh...” I stammer, “can I pass on that request?”

He shakes his head defiantly. “The Way paper boat racing rules state clearly that the request must be completed.”

“Is there a penalty for not completing it?” I ask, hoping that, considering when those rules would have been written, that there would be, and that it’d be something like ‘be that person’s slave for a month’ – which when you look at it, is essentially what I do now anyway.

“I’ll fire you,” he retorts easily... too easily.

I scoff. “No you won’t.”

“Consider my track record, Frank,” he says challengingly, “do you really want to take the risk?”

Damn. I hate it when he gives me ultimatums like that. With Gerard, you can never tell when he’s joking or being completely serious. I scan his face, but it gives nothing away.

“Fine,” I say quietly, “I’ll do it.” I look out at the lake, then up to the sky – it seems we could be in for some rain. “When do I have to do it?”

He unfolds his arms from across his chest and puts his hands on his hips casually. “No time like the present.”

I gulp nervously. This is seriously the scariest thing I’ve ever done, and I grew up in fucking Jersey!

“Okay.” I put a shaking hand on the zipper of my hoodie. “Turn around.”

“Uh, uh, uh,” he chastises, “that’s not how this thing works. It’d be a walk in the park if no one was watching.”

Oh, God... I’m going to be naked in front of Gerard Way.

“Can I at least face the other way while I get undressed?” I ask pleadingly. This is seriously scaring me.

He seems to mull it over for a moment. “Alright, but only because it’s your first time.”

Well, at least that’s something.

I turn around, facing the lake. I toe off my shoes and pull off my socks by stepping on them. Slowly, I unzip my hoodie and wriggle my arms out of it, the rush of cold air on my bare skin quickly causing goose bumps... at least, I think it’s because of the cold. My jeans are next. I feel naked already, just standing there in my t-shirt and boxer shorts. I shyly tug my shirt over my head and let it drop to the ground where my clothes are piled up already. My stomach feels queasy, and it only worsens when I look down and see that of all the boxers I chose to wear today, it had to be the black ones my mother bought me three years ago that have my name stitched across the backside bracketed by little red and pink hearts. My cheeks redden, but I try to push on. I place my thumbs inside the waistband and try to find the strength to pull them down.

Before I know what’s happening, I feel my boxers get tugged down my legs from behind, then I’m being pushed – practically flying – into the ice cold water. I cough and splutter as my head surfaces. I get to my feet and rub the water out of my eyes.

“What the hell?!” I shout out to Gerard.

He’s staring at me, his eye drifting downward, then snapping back to my eyes. I see him swallow hard, his Adams apple bobbing up and down.

“Uh, F-Frank?” he stutters.

“What?”

He points at me, causing me to look down. Shit! I forgot I was naked! I drop back down into the water and clasp my hands over my member. How could I be so stupid?!

Remembering the request that I have to fulfil for losing the race, I start swimming to the other side. I’m not a water person, in fact I’m rather afraid of water, so the fact that this lake is quite shallow is reassuring, but at the same time, it means that I have to get as close to the bottom as I can to avoid showing everything to Gerard. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. He better be fucking enjoying this.

When I’m about seven feet from reaching the other side after close to five minutes of being in the water, I notice Gerard is already standing at the edge. I was kind of hoping he’d stay where he was so I’d only be showing him my butt when I got out, but why would he make this torture any easier for me? I stall where I am, remembering that all my clothes are on the other side. Damn. It’s then that Gerard holds a towel out open to me.

“Come on, Frank,” he says with a smirk. He must be over his earlier shock over my nudity.

It strikes me now that my dick may have shrivelled up earlier in the cold air. I know I shouldn’t care because it was only Gerard who saw it, not a woman, but come on, he’s gay. All males secretly want a gay man to be impressed by what they’ve got – you just don’t want him to touch it. And I most certainly, one hundred percent, with no shadow of a doubt, do not want Gerard Way touching my dick – ever. I’m straight. I just want him to know how amazing it is, and to be jealous of the female population because they can touch it and he can’t. Yeah, that’s it. That’s all.

Being sure to cover myself this time with both hands (that’s right, I need both), I rise out of the water and stride towards Gerard. He wraps the towel around my body for me when he notices that my hands are full (very full) at the moment.

“Thanks,” I say when I am able to hold the towel up on my own. “Are you satisfied now?”

His eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Are you satisfied that I completed your request?” I repeat.

“The request! Yeah, yeah, you did good.” He pats my shoulder awkwardly. “I’ll, uh, see you inside when you have your, uh, yeah...”

He walks past me, in quite a hurry if you asking me, and up the incline to the cottage, going around to use the front door this time.

Well, that was odd.