Frank Iero: P.A.

It was about two months ago when I began to work for this mysterious, successful artist. I’d just graduated high school; my grades were crap, my attitude worse, and my employment status non-existent. All I had was a shitty apartment in one of the worst neighbourhoods around. I went hungry most nights so I could pay my bills. Everything I did, from stealing food to busking with my guitar, I did to keep myself alive.

I needed money. I needed a job. And then an opportunity came along.

I was on a train, travelling through the bad side of town. I’d snuck on to the train – I was broke, don’t judge me – and had only just come out of hiding when I overheard a conversation.

“I don’t have time to deal with idiots who can’t follow simple instructions... Marty, stop begging; you sound pathetic – you knew this was coming... Quite frankly, Marty, I don’t give a shit that you’ve got a family to feed and mortgage to pay – I have art that needs to be sold and you’re not selling it... Don’t bother coming to work tomorrow; you can now consider yourself unemployed.” The man, dressed entirely in black, hung up the phone. “Isn’t there anyone in this town that can answer a God damned phone?” he muttered to himself.

“I can answer a God damned phone,” I heard someone with a voice that sounded distinctly like my own say.

The man looked me up and down, slowly, eyes judging me. His eyes narrowed at me and he placed one hand on his hip.

“Have you heard of Gerard Way?” he asked in his thick New Jersey drawl.

Oh, I’d heard of him. It seemed like the whole stinking planet had heard of him. His name was everywhere then, but never his face. It really makes me wonder why he offered me a job after what I said next.

“He’s that cock-sucking, pompous, so-called artist that everyone is tripping over to try and get to. All the girls want him even though they have no idea what he looks like. He’s pretty cocky for someone without a face. His art is pretty shitty, too.”

He glared at me for a few seconds, then the corners of his mouth turned upward in a small smile. He reached into his trench coat pocket and pulled out a small business card and a pen; he scribbled something on the back.

“You better be good at answering phones.” He handed me the card. “You start tomorrow, eight o’clock.”

I didn’t get to ask him any details, or even tell him if I wanted the job; he disappeared out through the train doors as soon as they opened. I looked down at what had been scribbled on the business card. It was an address that I recognised to be from a very wealthy residential area. Then I flipped the business card over and my heart plummeted as I took in the embossed text.



Shit!

When I eventually got home that night and into bed, I laid there for hours thinking about the brief conversation I’d unknowingly had with Gerard Way. I’d called the man a cock-sucker for crying out loud! It’s true, but I didn’t particularly feel like telling him to his face. Judging by what I’d heard of his phone call, I’m assuming he doesn’t take shit from people. I could be fired tomorrow.
I wasn’t though, obviously.

When I arrived at Gerard’s hou– look, I’m just going to call it a mansion, okay? – I was blown away. It was gigantic, complete with luxurious green lawns, stone statues, flowerbeds, shrubbery, and a large fountain that the driveway curved around. There was an intercom system at the gate and I had to be ‘buzzed in’. The housekeeper, Ellie – lovely woman – met me at the front door and showed me to Gerard’s office – a room with white walls, decorated with famous art recreations, furnished with a large mahogany desk that faced the door. We had to walk through another office to get to it. Gerard was already waiting for me and didn’t bother to wait for Ellie to leave before addressing me.

“You’re late, I don’t like that. You’re wearing slacks and dress shoes,” he said as he gave me a once over, “I don’t like that, either. Tomorrow you wear jeans and converse – no negotiations.”

The one time I had tried to make an effort for a job – actually I was trying to make up for calling him a cock-sucker, but that’s neither here or there – and I manage to get in trouble for it. And I was only two minutes late! Cock-sucker...

“As my P.A., your job is to answer the phones, say no to any art gallery that wants to show my work on a regular basis, and organise my publicity – phone interviews only. I don’t do talk shows, I don’t do variety shows, and if Oprah calls, you can tell her to go fuck herself.” Gerard stood from behind his desk and walked through to the first office. “You’ll work in here. There’s the computer, there’s the phone, there’s the appointment book, and there’s the rolodex. Where do you live exactly, uh...”

“It’s Frank.” I filled in the blank for him. “I live on the other side of town.”

Gerard looked at me pointedly. “That’s not going to work; I need my P.A. to be easily accessible. You’ll live here – organise a truck to pick up your things tomorrow. That is all.”

And then he was walking out of what would be my office. What the hell had just happened? To this day I still don’t know.

A few seconds later he stuck his head around the doorframe.

“One other thing, Frank,” he said, his stare intense, “my studio; you don’t enter it – ever.”

Then he was gone again.