Frank Iero: P.A.

I wake up. It’s Sunday. Last night it was Saturday. I had dinner with my boss. I had dinner with Gerard Way.

I dreamt about him last night. Well, not so much dreamt, but remembered. I kept replaying the night, but through someone else’s eyes; I saw it objectively. It looked romantic. Intimate. It looked like a date. But I know I wasn’t on a date with Gerard Way. There is no way that it could have been a date – Gerard has a pregnant girlfriend, of whom he keeps photos of on his desk, and I am completely, one hundred percent, without a shadow of a doubt straight.

It did look like a date, though. All that eye contact, meaningful conversation, the way he fixed up my hand... how gently he touched me – no one could be blamed for assuming it was a date.

I had more than one dream last night. The other was about the girl from the photographs. She was kissing Gerard, and he was kissing her back... hard. I dreamt of them conceiving the baby she’s carrying – and that was a nightmare, let me tell you. Dream Frank was watching it happen, and dream Frank didn’t like it. Not one bit. Actually, I’m not entirely sure real Frank liked it either.

Laying here in bed thinking about it all is definitely not helping. I need food.

I stumble out of bed and make my way downstairs to the kitchen. It, as I expected, is empty. The only evidence that someone has been in here is the solitary coffee cup sitting by the percolator. Gerard’s cup. This is actually one of the few times I have seen this cup on its own. Usually it seems as if it’s permanently attached to Gerard’s right hand as he circulates through the house. My own coffee cup is kept in a cabinet above the sink. I take it out and go to pour myself a cup.

Strange.

At this time of the morning there’s usually three cups worth of coffee missing. The coffee pot is almost full. Surely Gerard’s not still asleep – he’s an early riser.

I walk over to the full length windows where I’m able to see into the garage. Gerard’s car is missing. As I’ve mentioned, Gerard doesn’t generally drive anywhere; he relies mostly on public transport.

This is really odd.

Gerard never tells anyone when and where he’s going, but I still search the mansion for a note detailing his whereabouts. Of course I don’t find one. You’d think, though, after how much we shared last night he’d at least have the decency to tell me where he’s going. He could get injured or die in a car accident, or have a building collapse on him and no one would be have the least bit of a clue because he hasn’t said how long he should be at wherever it is he is going. He’s risking his own life here if you ask me. Stupid cocksucker...

I return to the kitchen and go about making myself some breakfast, although I should probably refer to it as brunch considering what time it is. Cereal will do. I grab the box of cornflakes; they tap loudly against the ceramic bowl. There’s not much point in watching TV on a Sunday, so I just pull out one of the bar stools at the kitchen island and eat in here.



More than half the day has passed and Gerard still hasn’t returned. Since breakfast I have searched the house four times just in case I missed him this morning. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve knocked on his studio door. I entered his bedroom multiple times as well, checking that he definitely hadn’t come back without my noticing – and that definitely had nothing to do with the photos of his pregnant girlfriend that had been carelessly left on his desk in plain sight under a whole pile of paperwork. Oddly, one of those photos seems to now have black Sharpie scribbled all over it. No idea how... that... got... there.

I’m starting to run out of things to do. The place is spotless, none of these DVD’s are holding my interest, and it’s too early for dinner. Where the hell is he? And why the hell do I care?

It seems like an eternity before the front door finally slams shut. The ever-so-up-himself Gerard Way has returned.

I step out into the hallway from the living room, expecting him to offer me some sort of explanation. I don’t get one. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence whatsoever; instead he throws his black trench coat over the banister as he ascends the stairs and proceeds toward his studio. That door slams, too. I know that I won’t be seeing him again this evening.

I lounge about in the living room for a while until the novelty of resting my dirty feet on Gerard’s coffee table wears off. Knowing that Ellie would end up having to disinfect the coffee table and not Gerard, I go in search of a sponge to wipe away the dirty marks my feet have left on the glass surface. With nothing else keeping me entertained – even the Jetson’s marathon bores me – I opt for sleep.

The marble stairs are cold beneath my bare feet. I take my time climbing them; there’s no reason to rush up them when the clock has barely struck nine o’clock. I’m about to enter my bedroom, but I can’t resist casting a glance up the hallway at Gerard’s studio door. The rock music he’s listening to echoes down the hallway; it’s too soft for me to pinpoint what song it is. I just stand there, listening to the muffled beat and staring blankly at his door. For the first time since I’ve been here, I realise that I’d like to know what it looks like on the other side of that door.



Early mornings have never been my thing; I’m sure you’re not surprised by that. However, today my body is telling me that I like waking up at five-thirty and being ready for work by six-fifteen. That is why I am now sitting in my office working at this ungodly hour.

I’ve managed to reply to an entire sack of fan mail by the time Gerard walks into my office at precisely eight o’clock. He walks straight past my desk toward the connecting door between our two offices, reading one of the pages of a folded over art magazine while taking a sip from his coffee mug. He pauses about two feet from the door and slowly turns his head toward my desk. I can tell he’s shocked to see me even though his face is quite composed.

“Are you aware of what time it is?” he asks sardonically.

“Eight a.m.,” I reply, “sir.” I add the ‘sir’ just to piss him off.

He closes his eyes and huffs. “Well, it’s good to see that you actually know how to arrive at your desk on time for work.”

He continues on to his office. I wait a few minutes for him to get settled before I gather up a stack of replies to art galleries and take them into his office for him to sign – he only signs replies himself when they’re for galleries. When I walk in there he has his head in his hands on his desk. My jaw drops a little; I’ve never seen Gerard look like this before. How long has he been sitting there like that? And why?

I clear my throat loudly to catch his attention. He quickly composes himself and begins shuffling papers about on his desk in some attempt to mask what I’d just seen. Really? He honestly thinks he can cover that up?

“You need to sign all these before I send them off,” I say, gesturing to the pile I’ve just sat on the corner of his desk.

“Okay, yes.” That’s his version of dismissing me.

I start to leave his office, then turn back to him instead.

“Are you alright, Gerard?”

He ignores my query. “There’s a representative from the MOMA coming at twelve to discuss an auction for one of my pieces, I need you to inform Ellie that I’ll require hors d'oeuvres and fresh coffee for then.”

I ignore his order. “Has something happened?”

“Frank, the weekend is over. I am your boss again and I’ve asked you to go do something. Get it done or be fired, your choice,” he says seriously, his hazel eyes daring me to challenge him.

Something tells me that he’s not just trying to get rid of me, but is actually serious; he would fire me. I leave him to attend to the replies and go off to the kitchen to speak to Ellie. As I walk to the kitchen images of Gerard with his head in his hands keep flashing in my mind. How was he feeling? Stressed? Upset? Vulnerable? Depressed? Maybe a combination of them all.

“Le maître des humeurs fétides veut vous faire faire des hors-d'œuvre et du café frais pour sa réunion à midi,” I call out to Ellie as I enter the kitchen.



She chuckles as she extracts her head from the oven she’s cleaning. “Je vais faire faire. J'espère qu'il vous a contrarié une fois de plus?”



“Oui,” I say on my way out of the kitchen. With Gerard in one of his foul moods again, I don’t stay to chat with Ellie; I know he’ll expect me back in my office immediately.

I’m almost back to the office when I recall seeing a tray of cupcakes on the kitchen bench. They looked really yummy. I know that if I was sad/stressed/pissed/depressed that I’d like a yummy cupcake. But Gerard’s not me... Oh, fuck it. I head back to the kitchen.

“Serais-je capable de prendre un de ces?” I ask Ellie when I get to the bench.

[center Would I be able to take one of these?

She smiles. “Eh bien, je les cuire pour le parti de mes petits-fils jumeaux "premier anniversaire, mais je ne peux épargner un.”


I thank Ellie as I take one of the monkey face cupcakes from the tray. An idea quickly forms in my head and I grab a few other things from the kitchen before returning to my office. Gerard better fucking be nice to me after this very selfless act; I didn’t even ask Ellie for a second one for myself.

I make a few adjustments to the cupcake at my desk before I take it through to Gerard. He’s staring down at some paperwork and doesn’t seem to hear me come in. Perfect. I walk as silently as I can to his desk and place the cupcake in front of him, right on top of his paperwork. I can hardly contain my smirk as I admire my handiwork. Gerard looks down at the cupcake, clasps his hands in front of him, then looks up at me with one eyebrow raised.

“I thought a monkey cupcake might cheer you up,” I say.

He observes the cupcake again before meeting my eyes once more; he looks confused. “Why is there a lit candle lying sideways on it?”

“The monkey is smoking,” I say, as seriously as I can even though I’m finding my idea more hilarious by the second.

He looks at it once more, noticing that the end of the candle is stuck to the corner of the monkey’s icing mouth. His face breaks out into a grin and then he’s laughing. Gerard Way is fucking laughing.

“Thank you, Frank,” he says, his laughter dying out. His face is serious, but sincere, again. “I really needed that.”

I nod and leave him to his work. There’s a little sense of pride in me as I leave his office knowing that he was happy because of something I’ve done.

Work is especially busy today – Monday’s always are as art galleries and interviewers are unable to contact Gerard on weekends. My inbox barely goes half an hour without an email. I answer as many of them as I can without Gerard’s guidance, but even then I’m still frequently moving between the two offices.

Sometimes in this job, you have interviewers who don’t give up when you tell them that Gerard either can’t fit their interview into his schedule or that he doesn’t do that style of interview. And today I am dealing with one of those assholes. This particular interviewer wants to meet Gerard in person here, film a tour of the mansion, and then do an interview with him in the studio. I’ve told him multiple times throughout four phone calls that Gerard Way doesn’t do television interviews, nor does he invite interviewers, especially the kind with camera crews, to his home. If he calls again, I’m going to have to tell Gerard.

The phone rings. I sigh inwardly, dreading who this will probably be.

“Gerard Way’s office,” I answer.

“This will be great publicity for Gerard –”

It’s him.

“Look, I’ve told you already, Gerard Way is not interested in doing television interviews.”

“If you’ll just put me through to Gerard –”

“Please hold the line, sir,” I say, pressing the call waiting number. I’ve got to tell Gerard now.

Gerard holds up his hand to me as I approach his desk. He is finishing up a phone call himself. I pretend to study one of the artworks on his wall, but really I’m eavesdropping; I could tell from the expression on his face that this was not a work related call.

“Yes, yes, I know...” He sounds stressed. “I’ll do my best to come by tonight,” he says to whoever he’s talking to. “Look, I’ll have to ring you back later, my assistant is waiting to speak to me... Okay, sweetie, bye.”

The girlfriend. Great.

“Yes?” he asks, sounding irritated.

I cut straight to the chase. “Asshole journalist won’t give up trying to get a filmed interview and studio tour with you. He keeps calling and asking to speak to you, what do you want me to do?”

He sighs. “Transfer him through.”

“Okay, I’ll – wait, what?”

He gives me that ‘just do as I say look’. So I do. Eager to know just how this is going to pan out, I creep over to the connecting door and wait for Gerard to start talking once I’ve transferred the call.

“Hello, this is Gerard Fucking Way. As in, Gerard fucking doesn’t do anything other than phone interviews. Also as in, there is no fucking Way that you are going to get your Way. Ever.” I try to stifle my laughter as he insults this asshole, but it’s very hard. He continues, “Are we on the same page now Mr... Mr. Highland?” There’s a long pause. “If you persist with this harassment, Mr. Highland, I’ll have your program cancelled before your crew even has a chance to pick up a camera,” he says. His voice changes to some strange upbeat tone, “Thank you for calling the office of Gerard Way.”

The phone clicks back onto its cradle, signalling the end of the phone call. I push myself off the wall and head back over to my desk.

“Frank,” Gerard calls, “if you’re done eavesdropping now, I’d like you to organise for the pieces upstairs outside my studio to be picked up this afternoon.”
How the fuck did he know I’ve been eavesdropping? I didn’t make a fucking sound! Well, hardly any sound. That cocksucker...

I trudge upstairs to retrieve the pieces. They’re resting up against the wall beside the door to his studio. There are three canvases in total, lined up side by side to prevent them damaging each other. You can still detect the smell of paint coming from them; he must have only finished them this morning. Generally, I’ll only glance at what he has created when it comes time for me to send his art off to some gallery, museum, or private buyer, but this time I actually study the canvases. Two are just intertwining lines of various colours – more of the French art private buyers are walking over hot coals for – but the third piece is different. Very different. It’s a man and woman; although their eyes are shut, you can tell they see each other. Their faces are white, and covered in blood.

It’s beautiful.

I pick up the canvas and trace my fingers softly over the strong lines. Surely he’s given it a name. I flip the canvas over, finding a paragraph of text, not just a name.



This is so deep... so meaningful... and you know what? I can see it. All of that, I can see it in this piece of art. Gerard’s art. I love it.

And it is at this moment I realise, there is something very special about Gerard Way.