Frank Iero: P.A.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

That sound is all I hear for eight hours straight. Four days a week. And it echoes in my head long after that.

Working as a cashier is so monotonous. All you do is smile at the customer, ask them how they are (like I care), scan their items, say ‘have a nice day’, and repeat. Occasionally you get to go on a field trip to the back of the store to stack shelves, but that’s a rarity. That’s it. Sometimes I wish that I had never resigned. It may have been hard working for someone that I had fallen for, but at least I could mix up my routine. And I could get away with coming in late – you can’t do that here, as I found out on my third day.

It’s been five years since I last saw Gerard Way. I think about him every day. I try not to, but he’s kind of addictive. Most nights I’ll dream about him. Sometimes it’s sweet, sometimes it’s sexy, and sometimes it’s scary. But he’s not all I miss. I miss Emma-Lea, too. I hardly knew her, but she left a huge imprint on me. I’m not sure if Gerard was aware, but during the few instances where he was away from her side for longer than five minutes, I’d go into her room and talk to her. Never about me, always about him. I figured that he always spoke to her about Mikey and Alicia, which of course he should have, but I wanted her to know about Gerard, too. I miss telling her about him. I wonder what she looks like now, what kind of girl has she grown into? She probably doesn’t even remember who I am.

Ellie, completely by chance, found where I worked about two months after I left Gerard’s place. She was picking up a few things on the way to her daughter’s house and spotted me working one of the registers. I scanned her items slowly and pretended to be having problems processing a packet of icing sugar so we could talk without my manger noticing. She told me how Emma-Lea was, and that she was doing less work for Gerard; I told her about where I was living now and how much I liked working here (a lie of course). Then she left. She has come by the store every couple of weeks since then, always buying a full cart of groceries – which I think she does to prolong the limited time we have to talk. Gerard is never mentioned. While she doesn’t say it, I think she knows he is the real reason why I left.

I’m working at the moment. Only one more hour until my shift is over. All I want to do is go home.
My manager walks over to me – a blonde bimbo, probably too dumb to actually work the register herself, who walks around making bubbles with her gum and popping them loudly when she wants your attention. She’s rarely seen without her right hand ho Stacey who works over in the Pharmacy.

“Yes, Chloe?” I ask when she pops a bubble behind my back.

“Stacey and me are taking our breaks, go cover for her at the pharmaceutical counter,” she orders.

I look up at the line of customers I have waiting for service. “Are you serious? What about these customers?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “They can go somewhere else.” She turns to the people queuing at my register, one of whom, an elderly man, has just put his items on the conveyor belt. She snaps at them, “This register is closed!”

I walk over to the Pharmacy in complete disbelief of what Chloe just did. Seriously, what kind of person does that? I may hate working here, but I’d never make a long line of people disperse so I could go on my break, especially when an elderly man had just unloaded his cart. I’m still frustrated when I get behind the counter. Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to fill in at the Pharmacy so Stacey can run off with Chloe, so I’m pretty competent working in this section.

I serve a couple of customers, mainly elderly people. It begins to get monotonous, much like working at the register. I look up at my next customer and almost have a heart attack right then and there. Before my eyes is not an elderly person, or teenage girl picking up the pill, but Gerard fucking Way.

He looks different than he did five years ago; his smouldering good looks still remain, but his raven hair has been cropped, his chin has faint traces of stubble, and his dress sense is much more relaxed – baggy jeans and a loose fitting shirt. The light that was once behind his eyes has vanished.

“Frank?” he says, sounding as shocked as I look. “This is where you work?”

“Uh... kind of... I generally work over at the checkout,” I reply. I try not to look him in the eye; my heart is racing fast enough – seeing those hazel eyes will definitely push me over the edge. I scan the children’s cough medicine he’s placed on the counter. “Is Emma-Lea sick?”

“A slight cold; the doctor says she’ll be fine in a few days,” he answers. “Do you really classify Wal-Mart as a better job than working for me?”

I ignore his question. “That’s $9.96.”

He hands me a twenty dollar bill. I get his change, print off the receipt, and hand him the bag. In a few seconds he’ll be far away from me and I’ll be able to get my heart rate back to normal.

Why is he not moving?

“Is that all, sir?” I ask. He doesn’t move. Can the man not take a hint?

Gerard takes the receipt out of the bag and scribbles something on the back of it. He hands it to me. It’s an address. “Come by tomorrow at four o’clock.”

Then he’s gone.

I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of my shift after coming face to face with Gerard after five years. He still has the ability to control my world, emotionally and physically. As I left the Wal-Mart complex and headed for the bus stop I found myself stopping by the newsstand. This is the first time in five years I’ve had the nerve to buy a magazine, the first time I’ve needed to know something about Gerard and his life now. I purchase three artsy magazines and race to catch my bus.

Something I’ve never quite gotten used to after all these years is coming home to an empty apartment. I never appreciated it, but there was something comforting to being in Gerard’s mansion with him; even if we were at opposite ends of the place, I still felt warm and safe knowing he was there, too. My apartment is empty, though, and despite the homey furnishings and brightly coloured walls, it has never felt safe and warm. That has never been more apparent to me than right now.

I drop my shoulder bag by the front door, switch on the lights, and look about the small living room. How depressing. I walk to the pokey kitchen and prepare myself a cup of coffee. There’s some left in the coffee pot from this morning, so I pour the remaining brown liquid into my old Bugs Bunny mug, heat it up in the microwave, and add milk. My overstuffed armchair beckons me as I come back into the living room. I slump down into the beige chair and throw my legs over one of the arms.

I lay in the chair for a while, letting my sore back and shoulders relax a little. You wouldn’t believe how painful standing up all day can be. A packed bus doesn’t alleviate the situation either. After twenty minutes and a good portion of my coffee, I reach out to the end table and grab the small stack of magazines I bought. Time to find out about Gerard Way.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Not a single damn thing.

I scanned every single page of all three magazines in search of his name. He wasn’t mentioned once, not even as a comparison. Back when I worked for him you couldn’t go past a single magazine, art related or not, that didn’t have something written about him. I know fame tends to dim over time, but not this much to someone as talented as him. What the hell has happened?

The only way I’m truly going to know is to meet him tomorrow.



The taxi travels through suburban New York, passing small, neat, and, I’m willing to bet, really expensive houses. In the distance is the New York skyline, glowing against the cloudless sky like The Wizard of Oz’s emerald city. This neighbourhood is nothing like the one of fabulous mansions that Gerard lives in; I do like it, I’m just not sure why he wants me to meet him here of all places.

After twenty minutes in the backseat, the checkered cab finally comes to a halt. I pay the driver and step out onto the pavement. The taxi drives off the second I shut the door, leaving me in front of a modest white brick two storey house. The front yard is enclosed by a white picket fence; there’s a small tree on the right side of the green manicured lawn and a path of pavers that lead to the front porch, which is surrounded by small rose bushes. I open the gate and follow the path to the porch, ascending the three steps. I ring the doorbell and wait anxiously on the welcome mat for someone to answer.

A few seconds later I see a shadow approaching through the frosted glass panel of the front door. It swings open, revealing a casually dressed Gerard Way. I notice his stubble has been shaved off.

“Frank,” he says, a smirk forming on his lips, “you’re late.”

Late? I check the time on my phone and fix him with a deadpan look. “It’s four-o-three.”

He shrugs his shoulders and takes a step backward, allowing room for me to come inside. “I said four.”

“I see you managed to maintain your winning personality after all these years,” I say sarcastically as I step past him into the house.

“Hey, I had to keep something from my old life.”

We’re standing in a tiled hallway with cream walls. There is an archway on either side of us that lead to the living room and kitchen respectively, and a set of stairs at the end of the hallway where it widens to allow room for the back door.

“Whose place is this, anyway?” I ask, mentally running through the names of people who might live here. Ellie and Bernard, one of their children, Ray...

“It’s mine,” he replies as if it were obvious.

I look at him, perplexed. “Yours? But what about the mansion?”

He shrugs. “Sold it.”

“And your career as an artist?” I question, because while I have been doing my best to block him out of my life, I’ve seen very little about him on the news over the years – which is very odd considering how many people wanted him when I was his P.A. Those magazines still have me wondering, too.

“Please, make yourself comfortable in the living room, I’ll fix us some afternoon tea,” he says, gesturing to the archway on my left. Along with his winning personality, it seems he decided to keep his habit of avoiding the question, too.

I do as he instructs and head into the living room, electing to sit on the couch opposite the archway so I’ll be able to watch Gerard in the kitchen. This room is far less formal than the living room at his old place, but the couches are still the same, as are the end tables and coffee table; he’s downsized on the television, though, and put it in an entertainment unit instead of mounting it on the wall like he had it before.

As if Gerard knew what I’d planned on doing, he stays out of my line of vision. Disappointed, I start looking about the living room, taking it all in. What catches my eye is a framed photograph on the table beside me. I pick it up, recognising it immediately; it’s the photo from Mikey and Alicia’s apartment of their wedding day – their original wedding – in the same frame and everything. I remember the tale of them eloping, and it brings a smile to my face. It’s been so long since I’ve thought about them. To be honest, I’ve been repressing my memories of them just as much as the ones of Gerard... God, I miss them.

“That’s my mummy and daddy,” a small, angelic voice says, interrupting my thoughts.

My head snaps up, knowing that it can only be one person. I’m met with the sight of a little girl dressed in pink pyjamas with little red rosebuds on them; she’s holding a brown teddy bear that’s seen better days. I’ve often wondered what Emma-Lea would look like, who’d she take after, and now I know. She has Alicia’s dark hair, styled into two plaits, and slate eyes, but the facial structure is all Mikey – same nose, same cheekbones, same jaw line... it’s all Way. If you didn’t know the situation, you could be forgiven for thinking that she’s Gerard’s daughter.

“I know,” I say softly, a smile forming on my lips, “they were friends of mine.”

Emma-Lea, with far more courage than I ever had at her age, walks confidently toward me and takes a seat next to me on the sofa. Her feet don’t reach the floor, so she swings them back and forth.

“I don’t remember them, but Uncka Gee tells me they were nice.” She looks at the photo intently for a couple of seconds. “They look nice.”

I smile at her innocent observation, then place the frame carefully back on the table. “I’m Frank,” I say, offering my hand to her.

Without hesitation, she places her small hand in mine and shakes it firmly while nodding. “I already knew that.”

Already knew that? How?

“But we’ve never met before...” I point out. Well, I’ve met her, but she wouldn’t remember that.

“Uncka Gee has drawings of you in his art room. I’m not meant to go in there, but he draws pretty – he draws you really pretty.” She pauses. “Oh, and there’s a photo of you and my mummy next to Uncka Gee’s bed.”

My cheeks redden as I recall his studio back in the mansion; all those drawings and paintings of me... and him... I dream about that room still. Part of me is glad he never got rid of them, but I still wonder why he ever made them in the first place.

“What else does he draw?” I ask her. I know it’s wrong to interrogate a kid for my own selfish purposes, but I’ve got five years of catching up to do.

She raises her eyes to the ceiling briefly before answering. “Mummy and Daddy, you, me, superheroes, New York, you...”

“You already said me,” I remind her.

“He draws you a lot,” she says, shrugging in that same way that Gerard does.

“You’re very smart,” I tell her. It’s true –this conversation is more intelligent than any of the ones I’ve had at work with Chloe.

She smiles at the compliment. “Uncka Gee says it’s important for girls to be smart because then no one can tell them that they can’t be what they want to be.”

“And what do you want to be?” I ask her.

She takes a moment to ponder this looking upward like she did when I asked her a question before, her small index finger taps her chin as she thinks. It’s very cute to watch.

“I want to be a mummy, just like Uncka Gee.”

I can’t help but giggle at her answer. Seriously – she just called Gerard Way a mother! She looks at me with a confused expression, but then starts to giggle, too – I don’t think she even knows why, but I’m glad she is; she giggles just like Gerard.

“What’s going on in here?” Gerard’s voice asks.

I stop my giggling, but still smirk, as Gerard comes into the room. He is carrying a small plastic plate and a pink Sippy cup. When he reaches the coffee table he sets them down, then plucks a throw cushion from the couch and drops it to the floor.

“A choc-chip cookie and OJ for you, my little ladybug,” he says to Emma-Lea.

She’s off the couch in a flash and sitting on the cushion before I have a chance to blink.

“What about Professor Bearington?” she asks, looking up at Gerard with curious eyes. I assume Professor Bearington is her teddy.

“He had a big lunch,” Gerard says. He picks up the remote control from the coffee table and switches the television on. “Here, watch some Aquabats while Frank and I have our afternoon tea.” He looks to me and gestures to the kitchen. “Frank?”

I get up from the sofa and follow Gerard into the kitchen. There’s a small dining table in the centre of the room that’s been laid with plates, cutlery, and coffee cups; a pot of freshly brewed coffee sits in the centre. I pull out a chair and sit down. Instead of cookies, Gerard and I have a plate of brownies to share. He pours us both a cup of coffee and places a brownie on each plate before sitting down across from me.

“She’s a great kid,” I say, referring to Emma-Lea.

He nods, smiling softly. “Considering everything she’s been through, she’s turned out really well.” He pauses. “She’s so fearless – nothing scares her. She starts school soon and is so excited to go, and here’s me nervous as all hell about her being away from me all day.”

I smile. “She’ll be fine.”

“I know that,” he replies, “it’s me that I’m worried about.” I laugh when he says this. “I’ve never left her alone with anyone she doesn’t know before, and even when I leave her with people she does know, it’s rarely for more than a couple of hours.”

“What about preschool?” I ask. Judging by how maturely she speaks and what Gerard told her about being smart, I assume she’d be going to one.

“Ellie’s daughter Juliet is a preschool teacher,” he says with a smile. Trust Gerard to find a loophole for his anxiety. “Unfortunately for me and my nerves, I couldn’t convince her to try teaching kindergarten.”

We share a laugh. The thing is, I don’t think he’s kidding about trying to convince Juliet to be a kindergarten teacher.

We sit in a comfortable silence, eating our brownies and drinking coffee. It reminds me of the time Gerard cooked for me after he fucked up. The brownies are amazing and fresh, and I know he was the one that baked them; one bite instantly transported me back to our picnic in Central Park.

"So, why the change of house?” I ask him after a while.

“I can never give Emma-Lea her parents back,” he says solemnly, “but I can at least try to give her a normal life. This house is a part of that.”

“And what about your art? Your fame? Everything you’ve built?”

“I’ve never needed fame,” he replies. “I’m still drawing and painting; I’m just not selling it.”

I smile at that statement; it’s so completely Gerard. So many people want to become famous from their best talent, but not him. Some might argue that he only feels that way now that he has experienced fame, but if that were true, why would he have gone to so much trouble to make sure no one ever knew what he looked like? There were times when I worked as his P.A. that we’d go to a gallery where a room full of people would be discussing his work with no idea that Gerard was standing next to them. He’s really never needed fame; his pure talent has always been enough.

“You’re quiet,” he comments, not looking at me, just drinking his coffee. I nod, even though he’s not looking at me, but apparently he notices. “There’s nothing more you want to say?”

“I guess it was a good thing I resigned when I did?” I offer. I’m still trying to progress from Gerard’s admission.

He stands up, his chair scraping along the floor. He takes his now empty cup over to the sink. “I told you then, Frank, you didn’t resign, you quit.”

“I gave you a letter; that means I resigned,” I argue weakly. Do I sound as pathetic to him as I sound to myself?

“No, Frank – you gave up on me, on Emma-Lea, on u– you quit,” he presses further, coming real close to me.

“I did everything you asked of me professionally,” I say, not meeting his eyes. I can’t... “and personally, I did more than I was prepared to. In the contract I signed, it said nothing about me helping you raise your niece.” I stand up and force myself to meet his eyes. “I resigned. That’s it.”

I walk away from him. I keep walking until I’m outside, hoping a taxi will drive past so I can get the hell away from here . I’m not expecting Gerard to follow me; all that needed to be said was said.

There are no taxies. This is New York for Christ sake – why is there not a taxi?!

“I don’t get you, Frank!” Oh, God – why did he have to follow me? “The first time we met you were one hundred percent honest; you didn’t hold anything back. Now you won’t tell me the truth?”

I turn around. He’s descending the front steps and heading straight for me. There’s a letter in his left hand and a CD in his right – the CD I gave him. He stops right in front of me, with barely a foot of pavement separating us. My heart starts hammering in my chest.

“Why did you give me this?” he says, thrusting the CD towards me as if I didn’t know what it was. I don’t say anything. He huffs, frustrated. “Why did you really quit, Frank?” I still say nothing. “Was it because I was too much of a jerk to you? Was it because of Emma-Lea? Or couldn’t you handle working for a gay man? Tell me why, Frank.”

“Because I fell for you! That’s why!” I shout at him. Fuck. I didn’t mean to tell him that – I never wanted him to know. Well, now that it’s out, I might as well keep going. “I knew you could never feel the same way about me, so I quit!” Yep, keep going, Frank, dig your grave the entire six feet. “You’re Gerard fucking Way and all you have room in your life for is Emma-Lea and your art!”

As if on cue, a taxi drives down the street toward the house. I hail it down. It swerves into the gutter and I jump in immediately. Even though I don’t want to see his face, I turn my head to check if he’s still there. He is. He, and how he does it eludes me, manages to lock his eyes with mine until the taxi turns the corner at the end of his street. I’m not sure if I’ll ever see him again. Maybe that’s how it’s meant to be, though.