If Life Would Always Go As Planned, Wouldn't It Be Boring?

Chapter 8: Waiting for a Phone Call

*Frank P.O.V.*

I wave one last time at Gerard and Lindsay leaving my shop and the lean back against the table to take a deep breath and run my hand through my hair. I let out a long sigh. Was it really that good of an idea to stick my number to the back of the sketch I gave back to Gerard? It's something so stereotypical to do...maybe Gerard and Lindsay would just have a good laugh about me being ridiculous and actually thinking that this would work. However, the way I got to know these two very opposite people, they weren't the ones to do this kind of mean thing. The thing about being different from the norm is, that you don't just start being the weird kid in school, I experienced that it's a sneaking and gradual process you go through. Sure, you've got to be different inside before the obvious changes for example in clothing; this all needs courage and the guts to face being different. Kids like us go through shit at school, be it bullying, beatings or just being excluded and talked about, but if you find the right people, all other people become unimportant. Their gossiping doesn't hurt anymore, cause you've got people you can rely on. I found those people, people who listened to the same music, shared similar interests and wanted to be in a band. "Pencey Prep" (that was Shaun, Hambone, Neil, Tim and myself) seriously kicked ass and was essential to my life, especially throughout the last two high school years. We broke up in 2001 though after making some awesome music. All these memories make me a bit melancholic, but I don't regret moving to NY and becoming a tattoo artist. The ringing of the bell tears me out of my thoughts. It's this guy called Chris I tattooed last week or so.

"Hey", he says and raises his hand.

"Hi. How's it going?" I ask and point at his shoulder. Chris smiles.

"It's been healing really well! Although sometimes when I move awkwardly it still hurts."
"That's good to know. Did ya come here for a check-up?" Chris nods. I get up from my comfy table and go to the back room. Chris follows me. I sit down on the stool and point to the stretcher. "So take off your shirt and just lie down", I instruct him. Chris does so while I put on some gloves and once he's lying next to me, I take a close look at the black design. There are no light spots in the ocean of black and I feel satisfied with my work. Carefully I touch the inked skin; it's all smooth now not swollen and angry anymore. Goosebumps form on Chris' skin and I notice that my hands are damn cold.

"Shit sorry, man. I never notice if my hands are cold", I apologize, but Chris waves it off.

"No problem...my girlfriend's hands are like ice too, so I'm used to it." I have to chuckle, but at the same time feel the hole inside me that would be filled when I was in a relationship, which I currently am not. Haha fuck my life.

"Everything's fine", I state and take off the gloves and dump them in my bin. Chris scrambles off the stretcher and starts to get dressed again. I walk to the front and after a moment Chris is standing beside me.

"So um, I just wanted to say thanks for the great work again. If I'm getting other tattoos, I'll come here again!" I laugh.

"Thanks dude. Yeah just come bye if you wanna develop some ideas you've had."

"Sure thing", he replies. We then bump our fists (dunno why we did that, I guess I've got a new friend).

"So see ya, Chris", I say and he nods.

"Bye Frank." Then he turns around, opens the door and while a cold wind slips in and chills me, Chris leaves and walks out into the chilly evening air.

It's already pretty dark outside and I look at the clock on the wall: 7.45 p.m. I'd close at 8 p.m. anyways so I call it a day, quickly pack my stuff, turn off the electricity and go onto the street. It's actually gotten pretty cold and I can't help a shiver running down my back. I lock the shop door and let down the fancy iron protection that makes it look a jail- to which I have the key. I make my way to Starbucks and get a quick coffee to go. While sipping the coffee (why the fuck did I even buy that I wanna sleep at night!) I walk down the street past my parlor and two blocks onwards I reach the front door to the apartment house I live in. I take my keys out of my pocket and unlock the door to the rather shabby building. Cursing, I walk up three flights of stairs before I finally reach the battered door to my apartment. After unlocking this final door, I go in and slam the door shut; it bangs really loudly. I kick off my dirty vans and shuffle into my living room slash kitchen area. I toss the now empty cup into the bin and open the fridge: emptiness rules this cold realm.
"Fuck dat shit!" I curse loudly and slam the fridge door shut. Before experiencing another low of the day (a.k.a. the contents of the kitchen cupboards), I toss my bag onto the sofa and hang my jacket onto a hook in my tiny vestibule. Then I go to my stereo system and put in a Black Flag CD. "My War" starts to play full volume, nearly blasting my ears so I turn it a little bit down. Remembering not to start head-banging, but actually preparing something for dinner, I walk back the kitchen cupboard that is most likely to contain something edible. My expectations in the cellar to avoid the disappointment of not finding something tasty, I look into the cupboard and my expectations are actually underbid by the contents that aren't even close to being edible. I grab the piece of paper leaning against the back inside the cupboard and read what's written on it in my handwriting:

"Haha man now you're fucked! Order some damn pasta you idiot!"

Beneath the sassy note a number is scribbled. I curse and kick the oven, crying out in pain of having hurt my toes. I glare at the note and wonder, why I actually had thought that this was going to be funny in the worst case scenario of me having absolutely no more food in the household. My cell phone's in my pocket and while dialing the number, I can only hope that this isn't the number for some shady telephone sex hotline. My stomach growls impatiently while I wait for some asshole to get off their ass and pick up. Finally some guy picks up and drawls out:

"Hello, Fernando Deliver Service. Would you like to order?"

"Yeah. I'd like to order Spaghetti Napoli please." There's a short pause in which the guy probably jots down the order.

"Where should we deliver?" I say my address and add that I live in the third floor. "Hm, okay. Food will be there in about 30 minutes." With this the guy simply hangs up and I feel stupid. Blankly, I look at the phone screen and suddenly think about what it would feel like to get a call from Gerard. I guess he found my note and even though I didn’t write my name next to it, it’s pretty obvious it’s mine and Gerard’s not stupid, so he’ll understand my subtle and kinda cowardly way of asking him out (but jeez I’m just too shy to ask him out and I only just met him…).

Unfortunately, I have to wait for Gerard to call me, ‘cause I don’t have his number…fuckin’ shit. Damn, I really hope he calls and doesn’t let me wait until the next meeting at the tattoo parlor and then I bet it would be really awkward, ‘cause him not calling would very clearly show, that he isn’t interested in me. I don’t even know what got me to think/hope that he could be interested, but if I interpreted Lindsay’s hints correctly, Gerard’s gay or at least bi; and damn this girl if she suggested the wrong stuff, I’ll tattoo her a dick inside the Black Parade (although it would be a shame to destroy Gerard’s beautiful design). Argh, all this I-don’t-know-for-sure shit makes me really agitated! I pull my hair and the long strands go all messy and hang into my eyes. However, pondering, pulling my hair and thinking about how fucking hungry I am won't get me any further and so I walk over to the couch and pick up my sketchbook in which I do all my tattoo designs.

I reach for a pencil and an eraser and slump onto the couch. I open the battered book and flick through the pages, only looking briefly at every colorful, black or grey picture until I reach an empty page. Time to start being productive and starting to make a sketch for the girl that had walked into the shop the other day, asking me to maybe do a design based on her ideas. Her ideas were good, but they weren't very specific and when I asked her to specify what she wanted, she told me to surprise her. I was like: "Um yeah kay thanks." So I actually have thought about a few designs that feature a shattering rose and now it's time to bring them to paper. My pencil moves across the white page, energized by the rhythm of the music. I create a few basic sketches and decide to draw one image in detail, ‘cause I like it most. Working quickly, I soon have the outlines of the rose and I'm about to start the detail when the doorbell rings loudly. I'd be lying if I say that it didn't startle me, but the thought of having food just in reach drives me off the couch and to the door. I rip it open and look at a guy in a daft red uniform and a bored face holding a bulging back that smells deliciously.

"Have you ordered the food?" The guy asks and looks at me. Don't I look like I'm close to starving?!
"Yeah I ordered it", I reply and take the bag that is being held out to me. The guy takes out a receipt and says:

"So that would be ten dollars." I take my purse from my jeans pocket and open it, taking out a ten dollar bill and some coins that look like they'd add up to two dollars. I give the money to the guy who says "Thank you" and I'm surprised that it actually sounds remotely gratefully.

"Bye", I say and close the door as the guy descends the stairs. I lock the door and literally run the few meters to the kitchen, where I tear the bag open and take out its contents kept in a plastic box, of which I rip the lid off. The delicious taste of pasta crawls in my nose and I hear and feel my stomach growl. Not bothering to dump the food on a plate (haha fuck manners!), I just take a fork and dig in before I even reach the couch. Before sitting down, I remember to turn off the music so I can watch TV. Afterwards, I sit on the sofa and turn on the TV while appreciating every bite of the spaghetti. I watch some cheap horror movie and can only roll my eyes at the B-movie "special effects" that include the non-realistic explosion of a head with brain flying all over. After finishing my dinner, I vow to go grocery shopping in the morning and then return to my work, the movie playing on in the background.

The rose takes on form, its petals ripped as if been cut with broken glass and the stem so delicate that it could be broken with tiny force. A shattered, fragile rose for a broken, insecure, beautiful girl. It's a truly tragic image and I decided- made it my duty- to give the girl a hug when I'll meet her next week. I then remember that she wanted it in color and so I reach for my pens and give the rose color and life. I don't know how long I worked, but I feel tired in a good way and I feel satisfied as I look at the finished rose. I really hope she likes it, because I do. Suddenly my pocket starts vibrating and I realize that it's my phone. I pull it out and look at the calling number. Unknown. I knit my brows, but pick up.

"Um hello?" I answer carefully. There's a brief silence in which I consider hanging up.

"Erm hi...is this Frank speaking?" A kind of familiar voice asks softly. Could it be? Holy shit he actually called me! I draw in a breath and say:

"Yeah it's Frank. Gerard?"