Sequel: Gerard Way: Artist

Frank Iero: P.A.

Nine

Gerard waits for me to read him his schedule. He’s tapping his foot impatiently as I flip through the pages of his appointment book.

“At nine o’clock you have a phone interview with the New York Times – they want to talk to you about the recent demand for your French art. At ten your lawyer is coming around to go through the MOMA contract with you. You have another phone interview at eleven-thirty with The New York Observer. There is a truck coming by at one o’clock to pick up a piece for a private buyer – a Mr. Jonathon Richardson. The Met emailed through some questions for you that they need answered and in their inbox by three o’clock. And some business tycoon wants to discuss purchasing one of your pieces at three-thirty – they said they’ll call you then. Plus there is an exhibition at the MOMA this evening that you need to see at some point today so you can critique it tomorrow for the Inquirer.”

He looks up to the ceiling as he takes it all in. “That’s not going to work,” he says. There’s a short silence while he appears to go over what I’ve read out to him. He walks around my desk and leans over my shoulder; he runs his finger down the page of the appointment book, stopping at certain points. “Hmmm...” The sound makes me shiver. “Okay, phone my lawyer and have him come around at nine instead – I can deal with him and the journo at the same time. Ring up the Observer and see if they’ll reschedule to eight-thirty, if not then move it to tomorrow. That piece for Richardson is done, so get Ellie to deal with the truck. The business tycoon can wait, and I’ll go get those questions done now.”

I write down all his changes on a post-it note. He straightens, takes the sheet of questions from my desk, and heads into his own office. He has essentially cleared his whole day.

“Um, Gerard?” I call after him. “Is there a reason why everything is getting moved around?”

He doesn’t respond straight away.

“I have somewhere to be at ten-thirty; I’m not sure how long it will take me,” he replies.

This must have something to do with Mikey. I want to ask, but he’ll probably just give me some spiel about this being office hours and therefore his personal life is off limits. Instead of questioning him, I go about making the changes to his schedule he’s requested. I start with The New York Observer, then ring his lawyer, before going off to inform Ellie that she has to deal with the truck. She takes the extra workload well, and it occurs to me that perhaps the reason why she’s never really concerned when Gerard disappears is because she knows about Mikey. I’ll ask her about it; she’s much more approachable than Gerard.

“Ellie, may I ask you something?” I ask her. Her back is to me as she cleans the sink vigorously, but she nods. “You know about Mikey having cancer, don’t you? That’s why you’re always so patient with Gerard, right?”

Her movements cease. Maybe she’s doesn’t know after all... She turns around, looking surprised, but also sad.

“How did you find out about that?” she asks.

“Gerard told me.”

She looks more surprised than before. “He... told you?”

I nod. She, still looking a little shocked, removes her yellow rubber gloves and lays them by the sink. Dabbing at the corner of her eyes, she points at one of the bar stools. I take a seat and wait for her to speak.

“I love both of those boys so much,” she says in English; it’s serious if she’s speaking in English. “The day Mikey found out he came here to tell Gerard and I in person. His wife came with him; I knew it wasn’t good news when I saw the look on her face.” She pauses a moment, remembering. “Gerard didn’t cry, he just kept saying no.”

I place my hand over hers. “What about you?”

“Oh, I cried – a lot.” She inhales deeply. “We keep going, though. Mikey is fighting this as best as he can. I just hope he can beat it.”

I squeeze her hand tightly and say, “So do I.”

***


At ten o’clock I’m busy answering phone calls when Gerard emerges from his office. He looks nervous. I consider not asking him where he’s going –technically it’s none of my business – but if he is going to see Mikey, I want to be able to offer him support.

“Where are you going?”

He glances over at me, drops his eyes to the floor, and replies, “Mikey has chemotherapy at ten-thirty; I’m going to be there for him.”

“Okay, Gerard.” He nods and continues toward the door. “I hope the side effects aren’t too severe today...”

His movements stall. “Me, too.” He starts walking again, but stops just outside the door. “And, uh, you can take a few hours off while I’m gone.”

I can take a few hours off? Meaning I don’t have to stay couped up in this office while he’s away? I feel like cheering! That is, until now as I remember that Gerard’s not going off to get laid or anything as equally fun, he’s actually doing something really difficult; witnessing his little brother having chemo.

No.

I’m going to keep working – even if it means just answering fan mail. I can’t fix what is happening with his brother, but at least I can maintain some form of normalcy here in the office for him.
I sit behind my desk, becoming some kind of growth on the chair. I don’t move to eat or drink or go to the bathroom; all I do is work. There is this strange feeling of accomplishment that comes with all this hard work. What I’m doing is probably insignificant on the grand scheme of things, but I’m almost certain that Gerard will appreciate. He has been softening towards me over the past couple of days. I used to be able to say that I hate him, but I’m not sure I can say that anymore.

Apparently I’ve been totally engrossed in my work, because the next time I look up to the clock it’s almost four o’clock. I consider getting up and taking a break, but I really don’t feel the need to. There is only one more sack of mail left, and if I work quickly and keep the responses short, I could be done by six-thirty. I pluck out the first envelope I see and read it quickly.

Woah...

Dear Gerard,
I got the drawing you did for me today. It is so cool! I hope one day I can draw as good as you. You’re my hero.
From,
Andrew Jones
P.S. I drew you a picture too!


That’s the boy Gerard did a request for a few days ago. I check the envelope and unfold the only other piece of paper inside. The drawing is by no means a work of art; it’s basic shapes and stick figures, and there’s no concept of complimentary colours, but it’s cute. From what I can gather, it is of two superheros – I assume that the triangles connected to the necks of the stick figures are capes – who are flying through the air over a burning city, throwing paint down to put out the flames. It’s a very advance concept for a young boy. There are arrows pointing to both of the superheros with names close by – Gerard’s and his. I laugh; he’s drawn Gerard with red hair! As if Gerard would ever have red hair! Oh, but it’s still cute that this is Andrew’s interpretation of the reclusive artist.

I put the drawing and letter to one side of my desk and grab another envelope from the sack instead; I think this is one letter that Gerard should reply to himself. I reply to roughly twenty letters before the front finally opens again. A few moments later Gerard materialises before me in my office. He looks exhausted.

“You’re working?” he asks, a tone of surprise to his voice.

I shrug. “I haven’t stopped.”

He glances to the corner of the office where there are two full sacks of replies waiting to be sent out. I could be wrong, but I swear he just smiled.

“Well, uh, thanks,” he mumbles. He clears his throat. “Go upstairs and change into a suit; we have to get to that exhibition so the people at the Inquirer don’t lose their shit tomorrow.”

I push my chair back and walk around my desk. The letter from Andrew catches my eye.

“Gerard?” He turns to look at me; he was on his way through to his own office. “That drawing you did the other week for that boy who had leukaemia,” I wait for a hint of recognition on his face before continuing, “well, he sent you something back. I thought maybe you might like to reply to it yourself?”

Gerard raises his eyebrow; I scoop up the two pieces of paper swiftly and hand them to him. I watch as he scans the letter and then the drawing. There’s a twitch to his lips. Good – that inadvertently means that I did something right by saving the letter for him. He, noticing that I’m staring at him like a demented fuck, folds up the sheets of paper and proceeds through to his office, but not without giving me a warning look first. Oh, well, I know I did something right a few seconds ago at least.

I don’t waste any time once I get up stairs. I’m showered, dressed in a suit and tie, and am back downstairs in the record time of thirteen minutes. You’d think I’d be pretty proud of myself for that, but by some weird fucking combination of witchcraft and sheer brilliance, Gerard is standing by the front door already dressed and smelling of just the right amount of masculine cologne.

“It’s about time,” he complains as I approach him, not looking up from the text message he’s typing.

Well excuse me, Mr. Time Lord.

We head from the house over to the driveway where his Maserati is parked in silence. He’s inside and revving the engine before I even get the passenger door open. I glare at him for his impatience, but Gerard being Gerard, ignores me. He’s a bit of a rev head, so even with the horrible New York traffic, we make it to the MOMA in under half an hour.

Gerard is an expert when it comes to navigating art galleries and museums, even if he’s never visited them before. The MOMA, however, is a museum he visits regularly. Ironically enough, though, no one ever realises that he’s Gerard Way – even when he’s there for the premiere of his own exhibitions. I have to admit, I admire the air of anonymity Gerard has about him.

I follow Gerard upstairs until we reach the room the exhibit we’re here for is in. There are a few canvases hung up on walls and a sculpture in the middle. I can’t keep the disgusted look from my face; I prefer Andrew’s stick figured superheros to this junk. Gerard has a similar expression on his face.

He checks his watch, looks up at me briefly, and says, “I’ll be back.”

What the hell?

We’re here for this stupid exhibition and he hasn’t even spent thirty seconds in the room. There’s no point in asking him where he’s going because, a; he’s already gone, and, b; he probably wouldn’t tell me anyway.

I walk about the room and pretend to be interested in what some people deem to be art, but after fifteen minutes of hearing the art aficionados around me expressing their love for the collection of crap before me, I can’t take it anymore. There’s bound to be better stuff around this multistorey building worth looking at. Besides, if I have to suffer through this crap, then Gerard should have to as well.

I keep an eye out for Gerard as I walk in and out of the various rooms, but there’s no sign of him. Like I said, he does anonymity very well, even from me. Having no luck finding him in the popular exhibits, I start moving toward the obscure foreign stuff that people are often apprehensive about. You wouldn’t think it’d be Gerard’s style, but he likes a range of different things. I have to ask for directions a couple of times, but I manage to locate the area I’m after.

There are two rooms dedicated to the type of stuff Gerard could be looking at. The only occupants of the first room I check are an elderly couple and a pair of teenagers making out in the corner. Gross. They might as well be having sex, that’s how intimate they’re getting with each other. I reach the second room, and again there’s a couple making–

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God.


That’s Gerard Way... and he’s kissing... a man!

Oh my God – Gerard gay’s Way! I mean Gerard’s Way Gay! GRRR! GERARD WAY IS GAY!

He really is a cock-sucker.