Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Control
1. Birth
For most, life begins with birth and ends with death.
My life began and ended with Pete.
I was 18 years old, fresh out of high school, my virginity, and a steady income. I had a part time job wasting my life behind the cash register of the record store below my apartment. With the recent technological advancements, CDs and records were old news. I still bought CDs; I was perfectly fine with my walkman. The rest of the world, however, was bored and thought iPod was the cool new thing. My income was meager to begin with, and it wasn’t exactly getting any bigger. I filled in my free time with writing songs and presenting them to Joe. If they’re good, we play them. If they suck, I am laughed at. That much hasn’t changed, anyways. It’s not really much of a band (with just drums and guitar it’s hard to really get anywhere), but it passes the time and keeps me from reminiscing about her. Dawn. My summer’s misery. My worst heartbreak. It wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t have my virginity to her name. She was the only thing that tormented me at that point. I thought it was bad that I was screwed and dumped within the same week. I didn’t know what real pain was.
Then, I met Pete.
Pete Wentz, the man that Joe never shut up about, a legend in the underground, a real hero.
“Dude you’re going to LOVE this guy he’s like a frickin’ prodigy. No classical training or anything. Chicks love him; dudes envy him. Whatever he touches turns to gold. We are SO lucky, you don’t even know.” We are in my dirty, burgundy Civic, cruising at a steady pace of 80 miles an hour on the highway. Wilmette was kind of far from Glenview, my hometown, so the highway was unavoidable.
“I’m sure he’s just awesome, Joe.” I couldn’t help the skepticism in my voice. I had a bad feeling about this guy. Only today do I wish I listened to that feeling.
I pictured him in my mind as some sort of “god” of the Chicago punk scene, seeing as any local I spoke to either knew him, or at least knew of him. In my mind he was tall (something I could never be), handsome, getting laid by dozens of chicks. I thought of him as your average all-American rock star, just closer to home. I know now my mind-image was no more than a fallacy.
We parked the car in the street, the driveway was on a sharp incline and, in the middle of a midwest December, I wouldn’t risk the ice. His house was decorated for the fast approaching holiday, a wreath hung on the dark wooden door and a Christmas tree was prominently displayed in his front window. The house itself was at least two stories and had a large front yard. How much money could this guy possibly make?
Joe rang the doorbell and we waited. I played with my scarf nervously. What if he liked Joe, but he doesn’t like me? I would have to go back to just a cashier, a college student, a loser. Joe was my only friend, but I knew him well enough to know he only cared about music.
A middle aged woman opened the door. Joe and I stood there gaping in confusion.
“Are you sure this is the place?” I whispered through the corner of my mouth. He nodded.
“Oh, are you here to see Pete?” She asked. Her smile was polite and welcoming. He nodded again. She moved out of the door and showed us to her living room.
I learned later that this was Pete’s mom; he still lived with his parents.
The 20-something sitting on the floral-patterned couch was not the rock star I had pictured him to be. In fact, he looked just like all of the other trash that went to my college. He was only an inch taller than I was, and had unnaturally red, buzzed hair. He was wearing a black Blink-182 shirt and low-slung camo shorts, held up by a studded belt. He had warm brown eyes and a lazy smile.
This was not the Pete I would grow to fear in the coming seven or so years. This was the down-to-earth Pete, all about the music Pete, the scars and stories, not the fame. The Pete I know today is your Hot Topic poster boy, molded and toughened by the gossip and the money. Then, he was funny, friendly, and carefree. Today, my worst nightmare.
Joe goes up and high-fives him, I stand there awkwardly.
“I’m guessing you’re Patrick?” He smiles at me. Why am I so afraid?
“Yeah.” I mumble.
“The drummer?”
“Yeah.” I say again.
“Cool cool.” He had a metallic blue five string in his lap and was plunking out a bass line. Joe tunes, I am still standing.
“You know, Patrick can sing pretty well.” I glare at Joe. I thought I was horrible at the time, which was basically true. With out the help of auto-tune, high notes are still not my friend.
“Oh really now?” He was smiling again. I did not want to sing in front of this douche bag. I had a job, an education, and humility and all he had to his name was maybe enough money to repair his bass. And he was cool.
“Yeah I guess. A little.” This was getting more awkward by the minute.
“Well do you and Joe over here have any songs with words?” Joe nodded excitedly. I had not stopped giving him a dirty look since he opened his mouth. He played the opening riff for what would later be called “Pretty In Punk”, a title Pete came up with. I sang the words meekly; I wasn’t very bold when it came to singing. We only did the first verse and chorus, the truth being that was all there was of the song at the time. Pete just sat there, nodding, thinking.
He plainly said, “He sings.”
Thus, Patrick Stump the singer was born.
Fast-forward about three years.
It’s a few months after the commercial success of our third album, From Under The Cork Tree. I have started getting used to the fame, the attention. I still didn’t like it though. Girls want you for the money that you don’t even want in the first place. I thought life was complicated. I didn’t know what I had coming. It was August, warm and the leaves were falling off the trees every which way. At this point in the game, I already tried to quit the band three times. Once after the first album, once after the second, and after we crashed the van into a tree. After tonight, I would try to escape for the rest of my young adult life.
Pete called me over to celebrate selling a certain number of records; I don’t remember the exact number. He said Andy and Joe would be there, his girlfriend and maybe a couple singles. I didn’t want to date; I didn’t care. Yet I didn’t want to upset Pete either, I’m sure this was a huge milestone in his eyes. He had a loft now; he was Mr. Cool with an apartment and a full kitchen. I was grateful just to have a new car. I gave myself the excuse of possibly meeting someone worthwhile, and seeing the inside of his new apartment for the first time.
But when I was actually inside his residence, it was just me and him. He was sitting at the island in his kitchen with a bottle of wine in front of him, running his hands through his hair.
“Hey,” I said, taking a stool next to him. It had been a while since he last cut his hair, this was the beginning of Pete turning into the “emo kid” he was in the present. His closet was slowly filling up with girl pants and multicoloured hoodies. He filled the second wine glass generously and handed it to me. I felt nervous as he watched me, almost as if he was anticipating something.
“Uh, cheers I guess” We silently clinked glasses and I downed its contents. He waited until the last drop was gone. I wasn’t even attentive enough to see he hadn’t touched his.
He knocked me off my stool and pinned me to the ground within moments. His lips roughly pressed against mine. I tried to push him off, but my body was slowly losing feeling. I could see and feel, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t struggle when he ripped the clothes from my body. I couldn’t fight back when he forced me into his bed. I couldn’t scream when he penetrated me and I felt as if I was being ripped in two. All I could do was take it, and cry silently. I passed out before he finished with me, and I awoke the next morning as I would awake many mornings after.
Try as I may, I could not wash his sin from my body. I was used, broken, damaged in my mind, and I would remain that way for several years. It would be a very long time before the emotional barrier I put up because of Pete is torn down. I would keep this secret, however, for only one more year.
For most, life begins with birth and ends with death.
My life began and ended with Pete.
I was 18 years old, fresh out of high school, my virginity, and a steady income. I had a part time job wasting my life behind the cash register of the record store below my apartment. With the recent technological advancements, CDs and records were old news. I still bought CDs; I was perfectly fine with my walkman. The rest of the world, however, was bored and thought iPod was the cool new thing. My income was meager to begin with, and it wasn’t exactly getting any bigger. I filled in my free time with writing songs and presenting them to Joe. If they’re good, we play them. If they suck, I am laughed at. That much hasn’t changed, anyways. It’s not really much of a band (with just drums and guitar it’s hard to really get anywhere), but it passes the time and keeps me from reminiscing about her. Dawn. My summer’s misery. My worst heartbreak. It wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t have my virginity to her name. She was the only thing that tormented me at that point. I thought it was bad that I was screwed and dumped within the same week. I didn’t know what real pain was.
Then, I met Pete.
Pete Wentz, the man that Joe never shut up about, a legend in the underground, a real hero.
“Dude you’re going to LOVE this guy he’s like a frickin’ prodigy. No classical training or anything. Chicks love him; dudes envy him. Whatever he touches turns to gold. We are SO lucky, you don’t even know.” We are in my dirty, burgundy Civic, cruising at a steady pace of 80 miles an hour on the highway. Wilmette was kind of far from Glenview, my hometown, so the highway was unavoidable.
“I’m sure he’s just awesome, Joe.” I couldn’t help the skepticism in my voice. I had a bad feeling about this guy. Only today do I wish I listened to that feeling.
I pictured him in my mind as some sort of “god” of the Chicago punk scene, seeing as any local I spoke to either knew him, or at least knew of him. In my mind he was tall (something I could never be), handsome, getting laid by dozens of chicks. I thought of him as your average all-American rock star, just closer to home. I know now my mind-image was no more than a fallacy.
We parked the car in the street, the driveway was on a sharp incline and, in the middle of a midwest December, I wouldn’t risk the ice. His house was decorated for the fast approaching holiday, a wreath hung on the dark wooden door and a Christmas tree was prominently displayed in his front window. The house itself was at least two stories and had a large front yard. How much money could this guy possibly make?
Joe rang the doorbell and we waited. I played with my scarf nervously. What if he liked Joe, but he doesn’t like me? I would have to go back to just a cashier, a college student, a loser. Joe was my only friend, but I knew him well enough to know he only cared about music.
A middle aged woman opened the door. Joe and I stood there gaping in confusion.
“Are you sure this is the place?” I whispered through the corner of my mouth. He nodded.
“Oh, are you here to see Pete?” She asked. Her smile was polite and welcoming. He nodded again. She moved out of the door and showed us to her living room.
I learned later that this was Pete’s mom; he still lived with his parents.
The 20-something sitting on the floral-patterned couch was not the rock star I had pictured him to be. In fact, he looked just like all of the other trash that went to my college. He was only an inch taller than I was, and had unnaturally red, buzzed hair. He was wearing a black Blink-182 shirt and low-slung camo shorts, held up by a studded belt. He had warm brown eyes and a lazy smile.
This was not the Pete I would grow to fear in the coming seven or so years. This was the down-to-earth Pete, all about the music Pete, the scars and stories, not the fame. The Pete I know today is your Hot Topic poster boy, molded and toughened by the gossip and the money. Then, he was funny, friendly, and carefree. Today, my worst nightmare.
Joe goes up and high-fives him, I stand there awkwardly.
“I’m guessing you’re Patrick?” He smiles at me. Why am I so afraid?
“Yeah.” I mumble.
“The drummer?”
“Yeah.” I say again.
“Cool cool.” He had a metallic blue five string in his lap and was plunking out a bass line. Joe tunes, I am still standing.
“You know, Patrick can sing pretty well.” I glare at Joe. I thought I was horrible at the time, which was basically true. With out the help of auto-tune, high notes are still not my friend.
“Oh really now?” He was smiling again. I did not want to sing in front of this douche bag. I had a job, an education, and humility and all he had to his name was maybe enough money to repair his bass. And he was cool.
“Yeah I guess. A little.” This was getting more awkward by the minute.
“Well do you and Joe over here have any songs with words?” Joe nodded excitedly. I had not stopped giving him a dirty look since he opened his mouth. He played the opening riff for what would later be called “Pretty In Punk”, a title Pete came up with. I sang the words meekly; I wasn’t very bold when it came to singing. We only did the first verse and chorus, the truth being that was all there was of the song at the time. Pete just sat there, nodding, thinking.
He plainly said, “He sings.”
Thus, Patrick Stump the singer was born.
Fast-forward about three years.
It’s a few months after the commercial success of our third album, From Under The Cork Tree. I have started getting used to the fame, the attention. I still didn’t like it though. Girls want you for the money that you don’t even want in the first place. I thought life was complicated. I didn’t know what I had coming. It was August, warm and the leaves were falling off the trees every which way. At this point in the game, I already tried to quit the band three times. Once after the first album, once after the second, and after we crashed the van into a tree. After tonight, I would try to escape for the rest of my young adult life.
Pete called me over to celebrate selling a certain number of records; I don’t remember the exact number. He said Andy and Joe would be there, his girlfriend and maybe a couple singles. I didn’t want to date; I didn’t care. Yet I didn’t want to upset Pete either, I’m sure this was a huge milestone in his eyes. He had a loft now; he was Mr. Cool with an apartment and a full kitchen. I was grateful just to have a new car. I gave myself the excuse of possibly meeting someone worthwhile, and seeing the inside of his new apartment for the first time.
But when I was actually inside his residence, it was just me and him. He was sitting at the island in his kitchen with a bottle of wine in front of him, running his hands through his hair.
“Hey,” I said, taking a stool next to him. It had been a while since he last cut his hair, this was the beginning of Pete turning into the “emo kid” he was in the present. His closet was slowly filling up with girl pants and multicoloured hoodies. He filled the second wine glass generously and handed it to me. I felt nervous as he watched me, almost as if he was anticipating something.
“Uh, cheers I guess” We silently clinked glasses and I downed its contents. He waited until the last drop was gone. I wasn’t even attentive enough to see he hadn’t touched his.
He knocked me off my stool and pinned me to the ground within moments. His lips roughly pressed against mine. I tried to push him off, but my body was slowly losing feeling. I could see and feel, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t struggle when he ripped the clothes from my body. I couldn’t fight back when he forced me into his bed. I couldn’t scream when he penetrated me and I felt as if I was being ripped in two. All I could do was take it, and cry silently. I passed out before he finished with me, and I awoke the next morning as I would awake many mornings after.
Try as I may, I could not wash his sin from my body. I was used, broken, damaged in my mind, and I would remain that way for several years. It would be a very long time before the emotional barrier I put up because of Pete is torn down. I would keep this secret, however, for only one more year.
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