Frank Iero: P.A.

Driving a Maserati was never something I pictured myself doing, but here I am behind the wheel of one.

I’m not much of a driver in general – I’ve never owned a car, and never driven anything except for my mother’s old red ’95 Honda Civic – which makes driving a car as powerful as a Maserati absolutely terrifying. But there is one thing that makes driving a powerful, black Maserati the most horrifically frightening thing ever experienced – and that is driving one in the middle of New York with no guidance as your ‘instructor’ is a blubbering mess.

When Gerard had cried out every tear his eyes could produce, he boldly stood up and declared he was going to see Mikey. Sure, a reasonable thing to do – and seeing as he’s a fan of the public transport system, I assumed he was headed for the Subway. But when I saw him take his car keys from his pocket, and then glanced out the window to find dark skies and the beginnings of rain, I had to intervene. Suggestions of the Subway, a taxi, or good old fashion walking were all met with a “too fucking slow!” response, so I snatched his keys and offered to drive him. Which – and I swear I have no idea how he managed it – he burst into tears about.

“You’re so good to me!” he sobbed at me.

I couldn’t stand seeing him, Gerard I-Do-As-I-Fucking-Please-And-Never-Show-Emotion-Because-I-Said-So-And-Don’t-Need-Any-Other-Reason-Than-That Way, so weak and vulnerable. So I looked away awkwardly, clapped a hand on his back, and ushered him out to the car.

Now I’m freaking out in the centre of New York trying to remember the way to Mikey and Alicia’s apartment as well as trying to remember how to drive, while Gerard sits to my right bawling his eyes out. Ordinarily, I’d put my hand on his shoulder and try to console him, but right now I need both my hands and all of my concentration to drive this beast. I crunch the gears for the millionth time as I attempt to slow down for a corner, and then crunch them again as I try to reach the same speed as the flow of traffic. The rain has picked up significantly and is making it difficult to see out the windscreen. My heart hammers against my chest nervously; why can’t Mikey live closer in a more recognisable building?

“Why’d you drive past it?” Gerard blubbers a moment later as I drive across an intersection.

“What?” I ask, risking a sideward glance at him.

“W-why did y-you drive past Mikey’s place?” he asks.

Oh, for fuck sake!

I look about for a free parking space anywhere along the road. My heart flutters triumphantly as I spot a large grey SUV pull out from the curb just in front of me. I slam on the brakes – a chorus of horns and angry expletives erupting behind me –and indicate to snatch up the free space.

Once I manoeuvre the Maserati into the parking space after a lot of back and forth and stalling, I switch off the engine; Gerard is out of the car before I even get my seatbelt off. I move quickly to catch up with him as he crosses against the lights – almost getting us hit by a taxi – and enters the apartment block. He moves quickly to the elevator; I barely have enough time to get inside before the doors shut and we begin to travel up to the third floor. Gerard’s foot taps impatiently as the elevator makes its slow decent. When we reach the third floor, Gerard squeezes himself out through the barely open sliding doors and hurries along the corridor, letting himself into apartment 3C with his own key.

By time I get inside the apartment, Gerard has already found Mikey and launched himself at him. The two brothers are caught in tight embrace on the couch. Alicia is sat nearby watching the interaction with as much pity and sadness as I’m feeling right now. She has black mascara streaking her cheeks from all the tears I’m assuming she has cried since finding out the news. Tears leak from her eyes now, following the tracks already made. As I watch the intimate moment between the three I wonder to myself whether I should head back down to the car and wait for Gerard; I don’t really belong here.

“Frank?”

Alicia’s timid voice catches my attention. I turn my head to look at her; she makes no attempt to wipe away her tears. She pats the couch cushion beside her, indicating for me to join her. I hesitate a moment, feeling much like an intruder, but then take up her invitation. When I’m seated next to her she wraps her tattooed arms around me and rests her head against my chest. She cries silently, but I feel her slight frame tremble in my arms.

The poor girl.

I rest my chin atop her head lightly and rub her arms comfortingly. As I hold her, I glance across to Gerard and Mikey. They’re still huddled together in a tight embrace; both men are crying, Gerard more audibly than Mikey. It’s one of the most devastating things I’ve ever seen. All I want to is fix this horrible injustice, but there is nothing I can do to change what’s happening.



Grief and sadness are not my fields of expertise. I don’t know how to act in that kind of situation, nor what people really need. One thing I do understand, though, is hunger. It takes over your whole body and makes you feel excruciating pain; and it can be easily fixed. So half an hour ago, with that knowledge in mind, I dialled for a pizza and garlic bread.

As if the universe hadn’t thrown enough shit at Gerard Way today, the Dominos delivery guy was one of those assholes that don’t believe in carrying pizza upstairs in an apartment block. Really, considering this is New York, having such a policy is the definition of redundant. I explained this to the delivery guy when I met him downstairs in the foyer.

“So, really, you not bring pizza to the second floor and above makes no sense at all when eighty-five percent of New Yorkers live in an apartment block.”

“$16.81, sir,” the greasy teenager says after my lecture.

I narrow my eyes at him in annoyance – he took in nothing I just said – and dig out my wallet from my back pocket. Once I pay him and he makes to leave I flip him the bird behind his back and take our food up to the apartment.

Mikey is passed out asleep on the couch when I walk through the door, tucked under a crocheted blanket. I can hear Gerard and Alicia talking softly in the kitchen. I place the pizza and garlic bread on the round dining table and head into the kitchen. I’m met with the site of Alicia and Gerard hugging each other tightly, mumbling comforting words to each other about Mikey’s predicament.

“I bought us dinner,” I say, causing them to step apart. “Nothing fancy, just pizza and garlic bread.”

Alicia wipes at her eyes. “Oh... thank you, Frank. That’s very nice of you.”

She takes a few steps toward me and kisses my cheek lightly. It’s a small little gesture, but it’s enough to make me feel like I’m doing the right thing in being here. I watch her as she grabs a stack of plates from one of the overhead cabinets and walks back into the living room. Gerard, who has composed himself, is staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You bought dinner,” he remarks seriously. I don’t know if he expects a response to this, so I nod my head cautiously. “And you didn’t try to buy anything that promotes healthy living or has extra vitamins, or high in iron and such?”

“Uh, no?”

He takes a step toward me, leaving about two feet of distance between us; he’s too close for his next comment to be impersonal.

“Do you remember when we were last here, and I told you about what cooking means to me?” I nod. “Painting a picture won’t cure Mikey’s cancer, but cooking for him will keep him alive just a little bit longer,” he says as softly as whisper. Those were the exact words he used last time we were in the kitchen – they’ve always stuck in my mind. “Do you remember me telling you that?”

“Of course,” I reply earnestly.

“Good,” he says boldly, “because those words are more true now than they have ever been.” He raises his arm and places his hand on my shoulder lightly. “Thank you for trying to retain a sense of normalcy for all of us.”

I look down to where his hand rests upon the fabric of my hoodie. My gaze doesn’t intimidate him in the least; his hand remains there, squeezing instead of flinching away from me. His touch doesn’t make me uncomfortable, perse, it just causes me to feel awkward because the smallest amount of physical contact from him is enough to bring back memories of what happened in the mountains. Considering why we’re here and what we’re talking about, now really isn’t the best time to start recalling the incident.

“What are you doing?” I find myself asking him aloud.

He takes a breath, then locks his bloodshot hazel eyes with mine. “I’m trying... I’m trying to let you know just how much y– this means to me.”

Whoa.

Those words take my breath away. I literally feel the air being sucked from my lungs. How is it that Gerard Way in his happiest moments can be the biggest cocksucker and push people away like they don’t matter, but in his saddest ones he will draw you in and make sure you know your worth? It doesn’t make sense. I’m the one that’s meant to be helping him.

“Gerard,” I say, taking his hand from my shoulder and holding it instead, “don’t worry about me. Just let me be there for you. Okay?”

He stares at me for a long moment, not blinking, not speaking, not moving, just taking me in. I furrow my eyebrows, confused, but let him carry on. When the moment is gone, he tugs his hand out of my grasp.

“I’m hungry,” he says, sounding anything but.

With that, he walks away from me. I listen to his footsteps, the sound muffled by carpet as he enters the living room. My stomach rumbles as I stay rooted to the spot, Gerard’s words circulating in my mind. I ignore the hunger, the sadness of Mikey’s diagnosis, the pain I’ve witnessed on Alicia and Gerard’s faces, and just concentrate on his words. I don’t know what to think of them, or what meaning I’m meant to take; to me, they spoke of something stronger than friendship, something more than the events of today. But how could there be anything more?

There can’t be.

Gerard Way and I are just friends. He is gay, I am most certainly, one hundred percent, without a shadow of a doubt, straight. We are best friends.

I turn to face the dining table, my eyes falling upon Gerard. I watch as he extracts a slice from the box with thin, elegant fingers that scoop up the strings of cheese fall from the sides of the slice. I need to look away when he inserts his finger in his mouth to suck off the cheese.

Best friends. That is all.