Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > The Reprise of an Untitled Story
When Gerard awoke the next morning, he was hot, and his jaw hurt. He soon discovered this was due to the cellphone he was using instead of a pillow. Which was vibrating at a rapid pace, sloshing his gray matter around and probably scrambling it or something. Didn't cellphones give you cancer? He unstuck it from his dry, stubbly cheek and answered.
"Gerard?" He could only groan, because coming from that phone was Brian Schechter's voice, and while the man was a bomb manager, he was also manic. Gerard didn't feel like he was up for manic right now. He elected not to respond.
"Gerard? Gerard, are you there? Is this fucking--Gerard? My phone says you picked up, is it on mute? Goddamn it--". Brian cut off suddenly; Gerard had hung up. He plunged the phone beneath his real pillow and laid back down, blindly tugging off articles of clothing as he went. He'd deal with Brian and whatever neurotic concerns he'd conjured up, after he slept. A lot more.
Two seconds of peace and his phone rang again. Or not.
With perhaps more force than was needed to retrieve it, he yanked the device from beneath it's downy covering and pressed it to his ear, foregoing 'hello' in favor of a more obscene approach.
"Brian Schechter, I swear to fucking God that if this isn't the most goddamn profound thing you've ever said to me, I'll kill you, and you're fired, too." A whooshing sound crackled over the line; it might have been Brian sighing.
"Bob's leaving the band."
Gerard found himself unable to comprehend. Though he knew the words Brian was saying, he couldn't make them make sense. The room felt even more stifling than before, almost like it was a pressure cooker. There was cotton in his ears.
"That's…what? He's what?"
"He just gave notice," Brian's voice sounded flat over the phone. Gerard slowly fell back onto the bed.
"Ah…shit," he groaned. This had to be some stunt they were pulling on him; Bob wouldn't leave the band, not for anything in the world. Music was as much a part of his life as theirs. Without it he would be miserable, Gerard was sure of it. He reveled in that, privately smug in the assurance that they had Bob and he couldn't get away. Despite this assurance, he proceeded with caution, afraid to ask any questions for fear of answers he didn't like.
"Brian…" he began slowly, "Bob's not leaving. I'm coming back to Jersey, I should be there by tomorrow morning I think. Don't let him sign any papers or shit until I'm there. Nothing legal, you got that? This is just some crazy shit he's cooked up in his brain because he's bored, I'll guarantee it." That had to be it. Bob was being a shithead and messing around.
"I won't let him sign anything, not yet. But I think you should know he really doesn't have to. He didn't sign a contract to be in the band, and he doesn't have to sign a new one to get out. And as of right now…from what he's telling me, man, I really do think he's done."
"He's not fucking done," Gerard retorted crisply. Brian scoffed quietly.
"Just get here fast man." And then Brian hung up, on Gerard this time.
He rose angrily from the bed and yanked each piece of clothing back on with much more aggression than he'd yanked them off. It was a struggle to drag the fabrics across his sweaty skin in the muggy room, which only aggravated him further, and soon enough he heard the tell-tale snaps of stitches popping. The tiny rips jolted him from the haze of anger, and he acknowledged that he needed to calm down. Little though his music suggested it, Gerard was one for peace keeping and rational thought as much as possible. After spending his teens and early twenties mad about everything and nothing--just pissed off to have something to do--he had a distaste for prolonged anger. He attributed it to growing up and getting sober. It was exhausting to remain miserable all the time, and damn difficult, too, when you were stone cold.
With nothing for him in the motel room, he decided to hit the road again. If nothing else, his car had air conditioning. He stumbled from the cloying little cell into blinding sunlight, rebounding at him from the pool and the pale dirt this place had instead of grass. It was so fucking hot.
That day was a blur of trees and other cars and long stretches of bleached highway that flickered around the edges.
~*~
Gerard made it home that night, and immediately went looking for Bob. He wasn't at the apartment he stayed in in New Jersey and he wasn't at his home in Chicago (at least, he didn't pick up if he was). He wasn't with Frank or Mikey or Ray. He wasn't with Brian. As it turned out, Bob Bryar was at the studio, and by the time Gerard got there, battling traffic into the city and a growing fear that he was about to lose his drummer and his friend, he was furious.
He found Bob sitting at his set, the sticks silent in his hands. He was leaning back against the wall, and for all the words appeared to be asleep, except for the tenseness of his demeanor. His brow was tightened and his shoulders up and hunched as if an instinct drove him to protect against a storm that was coming; his figure looking generally ill at ease. Gerard could see deep lines around his friend's eyes and mouth, deeper than they'd been when they'd met by far. He hadn't noticed their gradual carving, but now, as he studied them, it looked as if Bob was a statue whittled from some battered wood, and those lines were cracks where the wood was splitting. Bob just looked so…tired. But he couldn't let himself feel sorry for Bob, couldn't allow his resolve to grow soft, so he barked at the man, startling him and causing him to drop his sticks, which crashed against the cymbals on their way down and made an unholy noise.
"Tell me Brian's lying to me." Bob struggled into consciousness, looking at Gerard as if he were unsure whether he were a demonic apparition or the real thing.
"Gerard, what--?"
"I mean, this is some practical joke, right? A really, really stupid joke," he accused, not giving the other man time to get his bearings. Bob just stared at him, slack-faced, which infuriated Gerard, and he slammed his palm down onto the kit like a child, trying to knock the fog right out of Bob's brain.
"Do you know where I've been?" he spit, and Bob nodded slowly.
"Nashville. You…told us that's where you were going. You did go there, right?"
"Yeah. And while I was there, I saw Egan. Do you remember her?" Bob's face had grown dark when Gerard said the name; clearly he remembered the tiny woman. He only nodded.
"Well, seeing her pretty much fucked up my bearings. And I go to come home, and I'm asleep in this shitty motel after driving all fucking day, and Brian wakes me up and tells me you're quitting. Which is fucking beautiful, it's just great, you know? That's what I really need to hear after seeing the woman I thought I was gonna marry for the first time in five years."
"I can imagine," Bob mumbled sympathetically, which was all wrong, because Bob was the villain right now, not the friend who felt for Gerard when he was confused. But that was who Bob really was: a tough exterior that shielded a caring friend. Gerard fought to stay angry, but it was an uphill battle which he was losing. Bob watched him settle down with weary eyes. Once again Gerard noted how tired he looked in every aspect. He moved to be next to his friend, to lean against the wall.
"I need to know, Bob," he implored, his voice quieting, "Are you leaving?" Bob's gaze dropped to his fallen sticks.
"Yeah man. I think I have to."
"Fuck."
"That's pretty much how I feel about it too."
"Then why are you quittin', man?" It took Bob a long time to answer. He looked dead miserable.
"You know how this was your…your, like, dream and stuff? To perform? You said you've wanted to do this forever. I…didn't." He shrugged. "I don't like the cameras, I don't like the attention. I hate giving interviews. I just like to play the drums. And I can do that on my own, in my spare time, without being in the goddamn spotlight."
"What about the fans?" Gerard demanded, turning to face him.
"What about the fans, man?" Bob countered. "Maybe I'm tired of the fans."
"That's…that's really low Bob. That's pretty harsh."
"The fans won't mind. It'll be fine," he mumbled, turning away again.
"Look," Gerard said, "If you wanna beat yourself up inside your own head, put yourself down, that's fine. I'm not gonna try and fix your goddamn pity party. But don't lie to me and say it doesn't matter, that none of it matters. That's all just total bullshit and you know it, and I do too. You're a great player and I fucking know how hard the fans would take it if you left. You're part of this band and you can't just walk out all of a sudden because you say you got a little fucking camera shy and shit like that! That's a pussy move and I'm not gonna let you do it!"
"Gerard!" Bob exploded, "I am thirty one fucking years old and I can't play the drums without pain! I can't even grip a stick right! I play the drums for a living. How much longer do you think I can keep that up, huh? I physically can't be in this band anymore." Bob's put his head in his hands. His shame was exposed. He was broken, and it was finally showing through. Gerard recognized that this could be the end. This probably was the end.
"What would we do if you left though? What's a rock band without the drums? We'd just be a bunch of pretty boys without a backbone," he joked. Bob smiled a little, but it didn't come close to reaching his eyes.
"The album's done, we have all the tracks in. The only thing left to do is run it through production to get it finished."
"You think we're never gonna wanna make another record again? You think we won't need you on drums when we tour?"
"I think you'll get a replacement, just like after Matt."
"That was different, Bob, don't give me that. We asked Matt to leave. Nobody wants you to go. You were our miracle man. We'd be stupid to try and replace you. We're not gonna replace you."
"Well, I'm sure that'll make for some interesting new music." They sat silently at an unspoken impasse. Gerard studied Bob's face again, the last of many times that night. Bob was weary, yes, but weathered into him was a resoluteness. Bob Bryar was stubborn as a fucking mule; he wasn't going to change his mind about this. Gerard didn't know if he wanted him to, really. He didn't want Bob here against his will.
"This is it?" he murmured after some time, afraid of the answer. Bob nodded.
"Yeah, I think so. This is it." Slowly he got to his feet, and Gerard watched as Bob massaged his bad calf, wincing as he pressed into the tenderer parts. He walked out of the practice room with his head hung low, leaving Gerard sitting alone. He left his sticks laying next to the drum kit.
This was the end.
Author's Note: I'm a sucky fan, but I don't know if they record out in California or at home in NJ (or, more accurately, the studios in New York, which are near NJ), so I just put them as recording in New York. "Teenagers" was written in a practice studio in New York, so I just went with that. Also, this chapter and this whole story are dedicated to shysmile. I don't think she even reads in this fandom anymore, but she was always a really great encourager, and in my early writing days when I was a shiny new high schooler and totally unsure about everything I did, that encouragement was a godsend. So, to reiterate, shysmile, this is for you :]
"Gerard?" He could only groan, because coming from that phone was Brian Schechter's voice, and while the man was a bomb manager, he was also manic. Gerard didn't feel like he was up for manic right now. He elected not to respond.
"Gerard? Gerard, are you there? Is this fucking--Gerard? My phone says you picked up, is it on mute? Goddamn it--". Brian cut off suddenly; Gerard had hung up. He plunged the phone beneath his real pillow and laid back down, blindly tugging off articles of clothing as he went. He'd deal with Brian and whatever neurotic concerns he'd conjured up, after he slept. A lot more.
Two seconds of peace and his phone rang again. Or not.
With perhaps more force than was needed to retrieve it, he yanked the device from beneath it's downy covering and pressed it to his ear, foregoing 'hello' in favor of a more obscene approach.
"Brian Schechter, I swear to fucking God that if this isn't the most goddamn profound thing you've ever said to me, I'll kill you, and you're fired, too." A whooshing sound crackled over the line; it might have been Brian sighing.
"Bob's leaving the band."
Gerard found himself unable to comprehend. Though he knew the words Brian was saying, he couldn't make them make sense. The room felt even more stifling than before, almost like it was a pressure cooker. There was cotton in his ears.
"That's…what? He's what?"
"He just gave notice," Brian's voice sounded flat over the phone. Gerard slowly fell back onto the bed.
"Ah…shit," he groaned. This had to be some stunt they were pulling on him; Bob wouldn't leave the band, not for anything in the world. Music was as much a part of his life as theirs. Without it he would be miserable, Gerard was sure of it. He reveled in that, privately smug in the assurance that they had Bob and he couldn't get away. Despite this assurance, he proceeded with caution, afraid to ask any questions for fear of answers he didn't like.
"Brian…" he began slowly, "Bob's not leaving. I'm coming back to Jersey, I should be there by tomorrow morning I think. Don't let him sign any papers or shit until I'm there. Nothing legal, you got that? This is just some crazy shit he's cooked up in his brain because he's bored, I'll guarantee it." That had to be it. Bob was being a shithead and messing around.
"I won't let him sign anything, not yet. But I think you should know he really doesn't have to. He didn't sign a contract to be in the band, and he doesn't have to sign a new one to get out. And as of right now…from what he's telling me, man, I really do think he's done."
"He's not fucking done," Gerard retorted crisply. Brian scoffed quietly.
"Just get here fast man." And then Brian hung up, on Gerard this time.
He rose angrily from the bed and yanked each piece of clothing back on with much more aggression than he'd yanked them off. It was a struggle to drag the fabrics across his sweaty skin in the muggy room, which only aggravated him further, and soon enough he heard the tell-tale snaps of stitches popping. The tiny rips jolted him from the haze of anger, and he acknowledged that he needed to calm down. Little though his music suggested it, Gerard was one for peace keeping and rational thought as much as possible. After spending his teens and early twenties mad about everything and nothing--just pissed off to have something to do--he had a distaste for prolonged anger. He attributed it to growing up and getting sober. It was exhausting to remain miserable all the time, and damn difficult, too, when you were stone cold.
With nothing for him in the motel room, he decided to hit the road again. If nothing else, his car had air conditioning. He stumbled from the cloying little cell into blinding sunlight, rebounding at him from the pool and the pale dirt this place had instead of grass. It was so fucking hot.
That day was a blur of trees and other cars and long stretches of bleached highway that flickered around the edges.
~*~
Gerard made it home that night, and immediately went looking for Bob. He wasn't at the apartment he stayed in in New Jersey and he wasn't at his home in Chicago (at least, he didn't pick up if he was). He wasn't with Frank or Mikey or Ray. He wasn't with Brian. As it turned out, Bob Bryar was at the studio, and by the time Gerard got there, battling traffic into the city and a growing fear that he was about to lose his drummer and his friend, he was furious.
He found Bob sitting at his set, the sticks silent in his hands. He was leaning back against the wall, and for all the words appeared to be asleep, except for the tenseness of his demeanor. His brow was tightened and his shoulders up and hunched as if an instinct drove him to protect against a storm that was coming; his figure looking generally ill at ease. Gerard could see deep lines around his friend's eyes and mouth, deeper than they'd been when they'd met by far. He hadn't noticed their gradual carving, but now, as he studied them, it looked as if Bob was a statue whittled from some battered wood, and those lines were cracks where the wood was splitting. Bob just looked so…tired. But he couldn't let himself feel sorry for Bob, couldn't allow his resolve to grow soft, so he barked at the man, startling him and causing him to drop his sticks, which crashed against the cymbals on their way down and made an unholy noise.
"Tell me Brian's lying to me." Bob struggled into consciousness, looking at Gerard as if he were unsure whether he were a demonic apparition or the real thing.
"Gerard, what--?"
"I mean, this is some practical joke, right? A really, really stupid joke," he accused, not giving the other man time to get his bearings. Bob just stared at him, slack-faced, which infuriated Gerard, and he slammed his palm down onto the kit like a child, trying to knock the fog right out of Bob's brain.
"Do you know where I've been?" he spit, and Bob nodded slowly.
"Nashville. You…told us that's where you were going. You did go there, right?"
"Yeah. And while I was there, I saw Egan. Do you remember her?" Bob's face had grown dark when Gerard said the name; clearly he remembered the tiny woman. He only nodded.
"Well, seeing her pretty much fucked up my bearings. And I go to come home, and I'm asleep in this shitty motel after driving all fucking day, and Brian wakes me up and tells me you're quitting. Which is fucking beautiful, it's just great, you know? That's what I really need to hear after seeing the woman I thought I was gonna marry for the first time in five years."
"I can imagine," Bob mumbled sympathetically, which was all wrong, because Bob was the villain right now, not the friend who felt for Gerard when he was confused. But that was who Bob really was: a tough exterior that shielded a caring friend. Gerard fought to stay angry, but it was an uphill battle which he was losing. Bob watched him settle down with weary eyes. Once again Gerard noted how tired he looked in every aspect. He moved to be next to his friend, to lean against the wall.
"I need to know, Bob," he implored, his voice quieting, "Are you leaving?" Bob's gaze dropped to his fallen sticks.
"Yeah man. I think I have to."
"Fuck."
"That's pretty much how I feel about it too."
"Then why are you quittin', man?" It took Bob a long time to answer. He looked dead miserable.
"You know how this was your…your, like, dream and stuff? To perform? You said you've wanted to do this forever. I…didn't." He shrugged. "I don't like the cameras, I don't like the attention. I hate giving interviews. I just like to play the drums. And I can do that on my own, in my spare time, without being in the goddamn spotlight."
"What about the fans?" Gerard demanded, turning to face him.
"What about the fans, man?" Bob countered. "Maybe I'm tired of the fans."
"That's…that's really low Bob. That's pretty harsh."
"The fans won't mind. It'll be fine," he mumbled, turning away again.
"Look," Gerard said, "If you wanna beat yourself up inside your own head, put yourself down, that's fine. I'm not gonna try and fix your goddamn pity party. But don't lie to me and say it doesn't matter, that none of it matters. That's all just total bullshit and you know it, and I do too. You're a great player and I fucking know how hard the fans would take it if you left. You're part of this band and you can't just walk out all of a sudden because you say you got a little fucking camera shy and shit like that! That's a pussy move and I'm not gonna let you do it!"
"Gerard!" Bob exploded, "I am thirty one fucking years old and I can't play the drums without pain! I can't even grip a stick right! I play the drums for a living. How much longer do you think I can keep that up, huh? I physically can't be in this band anymore." Bob's put his head in his hands. His shame was exposed. He was broken, and it was finally showing through. Gerard recognized that this could be the end. This probably was the end.
"What would we do if you left though? What's a rock band without the drums? We'd just be a bunch of pretty boys without a backbone," he joked. Bob smiled a little, but it didn't come close to reaching his eyes.
"The album's done, we have all the tracks in. The only thing left to do is run it through production to get it finished."
"You think we're never gonna wanna make another record again? You think we won't need you on drums when we tour?"
"I think you'll get a replacement, just like after Matt."
"That was different, Bob, don't give me that. We asked Matt to leave. Nobody wants you to go. You were our miracle man. We'd be stupid to try and replace you. We're not gonna replace you."
"Well, I'm sure that'll make for some interesting new music." They sat silently at an unspoken impasse. Gerard studied Bob's face again, the last of many times that night. Bob was weary, yes, but weathered into him was a resoluteness. Bob Bryar was stubborn as a fucking mule; he wasn't going to change his mind about this. Gerard didn't know if he wanted him to, really. He didn't want Bob here against his will.
"This is it?" he murmured after some time, afraid of the answer. Bob nodded.
"Yeah, I think so. This is it." Slowly he got to his feet, and Gerard watched as Bob massaged his bad calf, wincing as he pressed into the tenderer parts. He walked out of the practice room with his head hung low, leaving Gerard sitting alone. He left his sticks laying next to the drum kit.
This was the end.
Author's Note: I'm a sucky fan, but I don't know if they record out in California or at home in NJ (or, more accurately, the studios in New York, which are near NJ), so I just put them as recording in New York. "Teenagers" was written in a practice studio in New York, so I just went with that. Also, this chapter and this whole story are dedicated to shysmile. I don't think she even reads in this fandom anymore, but she was always a really great encourager, and in my early writing days when I was a shiny new high schooler and totally unsure about everything I did, that encouragement was a godsend. So, to reiterate, shysmile, this is for you :]
Sign up to rate and review this story