Frank Iero: P.A.

Now, back to the present.

Living where you work is one of life’s most convenient things. However, you can’t exactly make up an excuse if you’re late for work – your boss will know that you just couldn’t be bothered getting out of bed, or that you took an extra long shower. I’m telling you this because this morning, I am late for work.

“You’re late, Frank,” Gerard said bluntly as I ran into my office with a piece of toast hanging out of my mouth. He’s still drinking his third cup of morning coffee so I figure it’s fine for me to finish my breakfast on the job, too.

I pulled it out and looked as apologetic as I could. “Sorry.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t say up until 4 a.m. watching a Flintstones marathon you might get into the shower before seven forty-five, and you might be able to make it into the office by eight o’clock instead of,” he glanced down at his gold Rolex, “eight-twelve.”

Cock-sucker... “It won’t happen again.”

He gives me a deadpanned look; we both know it’ll happen again on Monday – there’s a Jetson’s marathon on Sunday night.

I sit down at my desk. It, much like my personality, is completely messed up. As a P.A. I should be organised, and I am... in my own way – I usually find what Gerard wants within five minutes of him asking for whatever it is. There are sheets of paper littering the desk, an empty Pepsi can from three days ago sits on the corner, the container marked ‘Paperclips’ is filled with staples, the stapler is out of staples, the clock needs new batteries, the lamp needs a new bulb, I’ve yet to file away his latest influx of business cards, and I could have sworn I left half a sandwich here yesterday.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Gerard asks me. He’s still drinking his coffee, but now he’s browsing through one of the elite art magazine’s he has a subscription to.

“Uh...” I shuffle some of the papers around until I locate the Holy Grail of appointment books. I turn the page to today’s date. “NY Arts Magazine is ringing at ten o’clock for an interview about your latest collection, those people are coming to steam-clean all the carpets at ten-thirty, there’s a truck coming at one o’clock to pick up those pieces for the MoMa, and you need to confirm that special exhibition for The Met by closing time tonight.”

“So a peaceful day then?” Gerard asks semi-seriously. I could have sworn he’d even smiled – but if he did it was gone immediately and he was back to glaring at me. “Well? Get to work; you’re already fifteen minutes behind schedule.”

He returned to his own office through the French doors that separate us. I’m not entirely sure what he does in there, but I know he’ll be in there until nine; after that he’ll head upstairs to his studio and I won’t see him again until dinner time. As much as a mystery as Gerard Way is, I think I’ve figured out why he always disappears at nine o’clock – that’s what time the phone starts ringing. It doesn’t stop ringing unfortunately, and that cock-sucker knows it and leaves it for me to deal with.

I begin my work with sorting out those stupid business cards. Gallery representatives are constantly leaving them in the mailbox after they are refused entry. Gerard doesn’t want them thrown away in case he ever changes his mind about selling out. It’ll never happen of course; it’d mean he’d have to smile and follow orders – he doesn’t like to do that.

Gerard’s inbox is also my responsibility. Each day I get the nightmarish task of responding to all of his mail: galleries asking for his artwork, producers asking for interviews, and amateur artists attempting to critique his work. I respond to them all this morning with the templates saved onto the computer. Out of the fifty-eight emails that came in overnight, only two of them were of any interest. I clicked on the printer icon and waited for the buzzing of the printer to cease. Collecting the two sheets on my way, I enter Gerard’s office and place them on his desk.

“Leslie Feely Fine Art wants to buy some of your French Art to sell in their gallery, and a request for a new piece,” I inform him.

Gerard slides the email from Leslie Feely in front of him and hands back the request to me. “You know I don’t do requests.”

I place it back in front of him and wait for his eyes to meet mine; they do, and they’re annoyed by my defiance. “It’s from a boy who’s in hospital; he has leukaemia,” I inform him. “You’re his favourite artist and he’s dying – I thought you could make an exception.”

He keeps eye contact with me for a few seconds, glance to the door, and then back to my eyes. “I don’t do requests, Frank.”

That’s my cue to leave and I obey. As I walk through to my office I hear the distinct sound of paper being scrunched up and thrown into the bin. Heartless cock-sucking bastard. How could he completely disregard the wishes of a dying child?

When nine o’clock hits Gerard retreats from his office and heads upstairs. I glare at him the whole time, still pissed at the way he turned that boy away. I start answering the phone.

At ten o’clock I answer the phone once again, this time to NY Arts Magazine. The interviewer exchanges pleasantries with me, but I’m not oblivious to the anxiousness in his voice; he wants Gerard just like everybody else. I jab at a few buttons to transfer the call through to line two and alert Gerard through the intercom (yes, he has a fucking intercom). I replace the receiver once I see Gerard has picked up the phone in the studio.

Ellie appeared at my office door just as I was putting the finishing touches on a press release for Gerard’s latest collection. A small sack of mail is tucked under her arm – fan mail from those who still believe in pen and paper.

“Le courrier vient d'arriver, Frank,” Ellie says to me. Did I mention that she’s French?

“Merci, Ellie. Les nettoyeurs de tapis pour le moment?” Did I mention that I can speak French? It’s the only skill I retained from high school.

She shook her head. “Aucun, pas encore.”

You’re probably completely lost right now, unless you speak French; she was telling me the mail was here and then I asked about whether the cleaners were here yet – they weren’t.

One of the things that still puzzles me about Gerard Way is why he’d hired a French housekeeper who is fast approaching her sixties. Gerard doesn’t speak French. Ellie speaks English with him, but with me it’s always French.

I went back to my work when Ellie left. With the mail delivery came my next task – printing out an adequate number of templates to forge Gerard’s signature onto.

I was still signing away when Gerard entered my office after lunch. He drops a manila folder onto my desk.

“Mail that off to this address,” he orders, handing me a folded piece of paper.

He retreats from the room without so much as a ‘thank you’. I unfold the piece of paper and am shocked to find the address of the hospital scrawled on it in Gerard’s handwriting. It had to have been a mistake. I open the manila folder and realise that it wasn’t a mistake. The same handwriting was written on the bottom of a new comic Gerard had drawn – a superhero with leukaemia who saved the world.



I drop the folder and address back onto my desk and rush out of the office after Gerard. He’s halfway up the marble staircase by time I get there.

“What made you change your mind?” I ask him.

He keeps ascending the stairs. “I liked the way the idea was pitched to me.”

I watch him continue along the landing toward his studio with a small smile on my lips. Suddenly I realise that right now I have a small amount of admiration for this cock-sucker. He may be a dick 99% of the time, but sometimes he uses that remaining 1% to take pity on the less fortunate – that’s how I ended up with a job and a bedroom bigger than the apartment I used to own.



The subtle click of expensive Italian dress shoes echoes throughout the hallway. I know immediately that it’s Gerard – where he is going, though, eludes me. I check the time on my phone – 6 p.m. – still another half-hour until we are both technically off duty. I expect him to continue past my office to the front door like he usually does when he goes out – and he does – but he backtracks to the open door.

“I’ve got plans for this evening,” he tells me distractedly as he adjusts the cuff of his sleeve to accommodate his Rolex. For a moment he looks as if he’s going to elaborate, but quickly changes his mind. “If there are any other calls tonight, you know what to do.”

“Tell them to fuck off?” I query, raising my eyebrows.

“Exactly.” He pauses, places a hand on the doorframe, looks at me – like he’s studying me – shakes his head, and pushes himself away from the door. “Goodnight, Frank,” he says faintly.

Well that was weird.

I give myself an early mark after I hear the front door close – if that cocksucker can fuck off half an hour early then so can I.

Ellie and I spend the night together in the kitchen. Tomorrow is Saturday, and because Ellie doesn’t work weekends she has to cook Gerard’s meals for him on Friday nights before she heads home. I don’t particularly enjoy the weekends here because it’s just Gerard and I alone in this big ass mansion; he spends all his time in his studio, meaning I have no one to talk to. It’s why I spend my Friday nights in the kitchen – it’s my last chance of human contact for two days.

There are delicious aromas wafting through the kitchen. Ellie is preparing a Crème Brulee for Gerard’s dessert tomorrow night. I know she’ll leave one in the fridge for me, too, but I’ll have to eat mine in my room; Gerard always eats by himself and, quite frankly, eating at a twelve seater table by myself is too pathetic, even for me.

I watch Ellie whisk up eggs and vanilla in a bowl; she’s too preoccupied to talk. My mind wanders to thoughts of Gerard. His behaviour today was completely out of character – smiling at me, doing a request, telling me where he was going, saying goodnight... I’ve never experienced that from him before. Now I can’t help but think about where he could be, who he could be with, why he went out. I just realised – I really know nothing about the cocksucker.

Suddenly I feel the need to question Ellie. “Avez-Gérard arrive à vous signaler où il allait ce soir?”



She hesitates for a moment, the whisk stalling in the mixture. “Il n'a pas mentionné quoi que ce soit pour moi, pourquoi?”



“Curiosité - c'est étrange qu'il vient de s'en alla sans rien dire à personne,” I shrugged like I didn’t really care he was gone – and I’m going to keep telling myself that I don’t care.



Ellie headed home around ten o’clock, leaving me alone in this giant ass mansion. I ambled about the place for a bit, watched some really shitty reality TV, and then saw no other option but to get in to bed, which is where I lay now. I’m sleepy, but I can’t sleep. I’m listening – I don’t know what for, but I think it’s better that I don’t know.

After two pointless hours of lying in bed attempting to fall asleep, I throw the covers back and pad across the shag carpet. My guitar sits in the corner and I pluck it up from its stand. I sit on my wooden stool beside it, the only remaining piece of furniture from my old apartment, and begin to play. It’s not a song, just a few random chords. I start to like what I’m hearing so I jot it down in this notebook I’ve had since I first started playing at eleven.

I finish the tune at 3 a.m. and decide to try sleeping again. I fail miserably. Completely bored out of my mind, I decide to watch TV downstairs in the living room. No, Gerard wasn’t so stingy to not give me my own TV – I have a massive plasma – I just feel like being out of this room.

The mansion is dark and I stumble from my room to the stairs. I make my way across the hallway into the living room. Gerard has a phenomenal movie collection that’s not just limited to DVD’s; he still has VHS tapes and the player for them. Every movie he owns is stored in the living room where he has shelving from the floor to the ceiling built into the wall. I select a horror movie and curl up on the sofa, pulling the throw rug down from the back of sofa and draping it over myself.

I doubt I’ll be getting any sleep tonight.