Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > A Love Story for The Six Page
“It doesn’t really sound like you’ve got the job.”
Frank is sitting on the couch with Jamia’s head in his lap, stroking her hair softly while they are talking to each other about their weeks spent separate. They are taking advantage of the empty flat; Jamia’s roommate travelled home for a few days, so now they can have a little peace for themselves. He just finished telling her about his interview and he cannot help the sinking feeling he gets in his stomach when he hears her opinion.
“And why would you want it, anyway? I mean, what the hell, Frankie? You know I support you and all, but you, working for a /fashion magazine/? That’s just – no” she snorts, playing with a loose thread on her shirt. She pauses for a few moments, thinking. “Though, it does sound like a good opportunity, if the guy is really that influential. So yeah, scratch what I said, just do it, babe. Go for it. Sell your soul to the nasty men in Gucci!” She exclaims with too much enthusiasm.
Frank laughs, kissing her forehead. “You can be damn sure I’m taking it if can. I mean, I can do this for one year or I can go somewhere else, do the same assistant job for like three years, and then maybe move on, maybe, but this way I can skip all that.”
Jamia sits up next to him, and smiles that beaming, heart-warming smile of her as she gently sweeps away a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “Whatever you choose, Frank, just remember that I love you, okay? I agree that this can be it for you, this can be what you’ve been waiting for, but I’m a bit afraid it’s gonna be too much, you know?”
He furrows his eyebrows, looking at her. “I can do it, Jamia, really, I can. If they want me for the position, that is.” His voice trembles a bit. It was easier back in college when he had essays and deadlines and grades and rules and a clear path to follow, professors to guide him, and now Frank is out in the real world, all on his own and –
Jamia kisses him slowly and carefully, and then snuggles close to him. She rests her head on his chest. “Why wouldn’t they?” And it’s settled, easy as that.
After getting comfortable, she grabs the TV remote, flicking to some late night show. They’ve been watching it for a few minutes when she speaks up again.
“What’s his name again? The Runway guy’s?”
“Gerard.”
“Gerard?” She asks a couple of seconds later, clearly confused.
“Uh, yeah, Gerard Rush. He was weird, I called him Mr. Rush then he snapped at me and told me to call him Gerard. He doesn’t seem to like family names, said my forename too.”
“Huh. Well, I have my doubts, but let’s just hope for your sake that this is his oddest habit.”
Frank smiles and hugs her closer.
The shrill voice hits him like a heart attack as he awakes, his hand automatically reaching out to mute the source of the horrendous noise. He finds the damned phone and takes the call instinctively as he tiptoes out from the tiny bedroom in the vain hope that Jamia does not wake up, ready to end the life of whoever is on the other side of the line. Didn’t they get the fucking note that it’s Saturday?
But he only manages to grumble something incomprehensible, much to the displeasure to the caller.
“Frank? Am I talking to Frank Iero?” It’s a woman, definitely, her annoying voice a bit familiar.
Lindsey. The bitchy assistant. It’s /Runway/, oh shit. Is it a good sign that they call now or is it a bad and why is Lindsey up at the crack of the dawn and oh shit, /Runway/.
“Yeah, it’s me, Lindsey.” He tries not to freak out and fails miserably as he nervously jumps around in the messy kitchen.
She sighs impatiently. “So, first of all, you are completely inadequate for this job and generally for any position that has remotely anything to do with fashion, I hope you know that. And also, Gerard has not made a single misstep since running this rather prestigious magazine, and by that I mean none at all/. So I really, really hope, for your own sake and mine, that you don’t turn out to be the first mistake, Frank.” She pauses, probably not for the dramatic effect, but to get herself together and fight the urge to say some more things which would definitely cross the line. “So, welcome to the /Runway family. You start on Monday, six a.m. sharp. I will email you the contract and work details in a few hours.”
“Oh fuck yes!” He cries out rather professionally and he can practically hear Lindsey’s eye roll, but he is so past caring. Not bothering to react to all her insults (which will probably be an everyday occurrence from this point, he realizes), he only says, “There’s no way I can start on Monday though. I don’t have a place in the city right now.”
She chuckles. “To quote myself, welcome to the Runway family, Frank.”
The line goes dead.
“I don’t know, man. I just don’t wanna annoy Mikey even more and Jamia shares with this other chick.”
After telling the news to his girlfriend and making celebratory morning pancakes, he called Ray and asked for a huge favor. Renting a decent apartment in New York is fucking expensive and Frank is not in the mood to look for tolerable roommates – other than Ray, that is. After all, they have known each other since high school.
“You mean you don’t want to sleep on a couch until you get your first paycheck,” Ray responds, and the following silence says everything. “My place is not that much bigger than his.” Frank hums a bit, and contemplates begging before the other finally succumbs with a deep sigh. “I’ll have to ask my landlord first and you will have to pay back half the rent when you manage to get some money.”
Relief washes over him and his tight hold on the phone in his hand loosens up a bit. “Oh God, thank you dude, I fucking love you, okay? Seriously, you have no idea how much this means to me.” Right now, he just wants to wrap up Ray into his arms and kiss him. Luckily for everyone, he is not present in the room; otherwise it would certainly lead to some uncomfortable moments.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Meet you tonight then. You can probably move in on the next weekend, so try and survive until then somehow.” For Frank, talking to Ray always feels like chatting with a cool uncle and as they say their goodbyes, he smiles to himself. This is happening, really happening, and it’s going to be awesome. Fucking Elias-Clark, damn it.
He is meeting Mikey and Ray in some dark, loud bar, the kind of which people at their age spend all their time in. He is the last one to arrive, naturally; the other two are always twenty minutes early, no matter where they go, but at least it means they already got him a beer by the time he gets there. He flops down on one of the bar stools and takes a big gulp. “Hey!”
“Well hello, pretty one. When were you planning on telling me the big news?” Mikey asks in a mocking high-pitched voice, leaning forward, fluttering his eyelashes.
“Whoa, I thought he was the one getting a job at Pansy Mag, not you, dude,” Ray laughs, entertained by Mikey’s little show.
“Just because I got work at a fashion magazine, I still feel a hundred percent heterosexual, thank you very much,” Frank grumbles, playing with a coaster.
Mikey winks and licks his lips. “Ooh, baby, don’t get your panties in a twist, we love you.” He puts his hands on Frank’s left one, who almost falls out of his seat trying to get away. ”We are family. We are the Non-Judging Breakfast Club.” He announces dramatically.
“You’ve been watching way too much Gossip Girl, sweetheart. I mean, the clothes weren’t even good after season three!” Ray adds, fake-horrified.
Frank throws up his hand, trying to hold back the smile that is starting to form on his lips. “You’re supposed to be the straight and manly one, Ray!” He shouts.
“Well, what can I say, Ed Westwick is wick-ed hot.”
Frank finally breaks out in loud laughter and Mikey groans at the terrible attempt at a pun before joining in, while Ray just smiles into his beer.
“I fucking missed you, man,” Frank grins at his friend, patting his shoulder.
Ray smirks back. “Thinkin’ of me every night in Europe while watching the stars? Wishing I was there with you?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“You bet your sorry ass I did.”
Mikey huffs and pokes him. "Don't believe a word he says, he told me the same last night after sex."
"Unbelievable. Next thing you know he's got a girlfriend."
“I know, right?”
Frank rolls his eyes.
“No, seriously, Frank, apart from the fact that Ray had to tell me, your /best-fucking-friend/, how the hell did you get a job at a fashion magazine? Was it a phone interview?” Frank flips him off while Ray goes “Ooh, snap!”
“It’s just the fact that I’m fuckin’ pretty even in shitty clothes. I’m irresistible and everyone knows it. Even rigid, snobbish editor-in-chiefs.”
Mikey grows quiet after that, fidgeting with his fingers. “I just… I really don’t get it. I don’t get why you would do such thing.” Frank furrows his eyebrows, not sure if he really has a problem with him getting this goddamned job or simply acting weird.
“Mikes, hey, I’m not selling out, alright? It’s just, a great opportunity. One year and I won’t even go near a designer shoe ever–“
“No, uh, I get that. Just– what’s the name of the magazine again? I don’t think Ray said it.” Mikey cuts him off, looking at him with his poker face back on.
He is acting awfully weird, but Frank is not about to comment on it. “/Runway/. Don’t worry, I’ve never heard of it before either,” he adds when he sees Mikey's face falling.
Ray breaks the uncomfortable tension by tsk-ing sounds. “Frankie, Frankie, my dear, you bring a shame on your family.”
Mikey does that thing with his mouth when he does not really smile, but his mask breaks a bit and the corners of his mouth twitch; Frank had known him for at least a year before he noticed this little change of expression. But now at least he knows that Mikey’s alright; he does not want a (he has to admit, possibly idiotic) career choice to come between them. Still, his reaction was certainly strange; Mikey never makes a fuss out of anything.
With a shake of his head and a deep sigh, he raises his drink. “I’d like to propose a toast, gentlemen.”
Ray looks skeptically at the half empty glasses of cheap beer. “How classy of you, Frank” he comments, but holds up his own anyway. Mikey hesitates for a few seconds, but then joins in.
“We might be broke and desperate and sleep-deprived and having an existential crisis, which leads to the inevitable crumble of our self-respect and make us go and accept a work at a fashion magazine- “
“Uh-huh, speak for yourself, man.”
“- As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted, it doesn’t matter, because, as always, no matter what happens – we have each other, guys.”
Ray and Mikey aww-s, the latter putting his free hand on his heart.
“So, on that note… I’d like to propose this toast to straight men working at fashion magazines.” They clink their glasses together while Ray laughs quietly.
“Knew it, you little fucker. Trying to hide up your cheesiness as always.”
They all take a big gulp, the beer leaving a bitter but familiar taste in Frank’s mouth.
“Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, fuckity fuck, fucking shit, /shit/!” Frank screeches, his voice piercing through the quiet flat. Seconds later, he can hear Mikey’s groan from behind his closed bedroom door.
“Shut up, man. And wow, A+ on your vocab, no wonder you majored in English!” He half-yells in a still sleepy voice.
/Shit, shit, shit/. Frank somehow slept through his alarm, and now it was almost half past five. He needs at least forty minutes to get to the Elias-Clark building, and he has not even brushed his teeth, let alone found something remotely appropriate to wear.
He skips coffee and shower and somehow manages to get ready in under ten minutes, run down the stairs and hail a taxi just before an elder man gets inside while screaming “sorry, sorry, sorry”.
“One World Trade Center, West Street, I pay triple if you get me there by six,” he says out of breath. /God, he should work out/.
The taxi driver does not answer, but starts to maneuver the car in the morning traffic.
Frank tries and fails to calm his nerves in the following thirty minutes, alternating between drumming his fingertips on his knees and wiping the sweat off his palms, checking the time on his phone twice a minute. Three minutes before six, he writes a text to Lindsey, deleting and retyping at least five times before tapping the send button.
ill be about 10mins late, I overslept, im so sorry
His phone beeps almost immediately, and he really, really does not want to read the message, but he forces himself to open it.
Congratulations. You can shove that apology up you-know-where. And, for future reference, nobody cares about your personal problems here. That includes excuses as well.
Frank winces, cursing himself for not setting multiple alarms. Seeing that they are getting near the building, he fishes his wallet from his pocket, getting out his last crumpled banknotes. The car stops as they hit another red traffic light and Frank throws much more money than necessary at the driver.
“I’ll get out here, thanks, man.”
He does not wait for an answer as he leaps out the door, trying not to think about how he wasted his last dollars on taxi. He runs faster than he can ever remember running (not that he does it too often), and only slows down once he is in front of the massive glass doors.
"Six minutes. Not like I expected you to be on time. And if you're really going to be late, at least try to inform me correctly because we're on a schedule. 'About ten minutes late' does not equal six minutes late, understood?" Lindsey informs him as he arrives heavily panting.
"Yes, sure, yes, I'm so sorry- "
"What did I say about apologies? I don't understand why I have to keep repeating myself." She turns around on her high heels and leads him to the same receptionist guy who let him in on the day of his interview. Frank barely sees anyone else there besides them, and he wonders whether only assistants have to come to work at dawn. Fuck important people anyway. "I'd like a pass for him. He's going to bring his work contract down after he finishes today," Lindsey tells the guy.
"Sorry, ma'am, you know I can't do that. Guest sticker until I have the papers, that's the rule," he shrugs, not looking very apologetic.
Lindsey huffs impatiently. "He's Gerard Rush's new assistant. I think you can give him the freaking pass, Mr... Bob Bryar," she squints at his nametag.
Frank’s eyes widen as the poor guy turns pale and starts going through a drawer, pulls out a white plastic card, types something in the computer and swipes it on the automatic door for the first time before handing it to the couture bitch. She smirks at him. Why is this fucking Gerard guy treated like royalty?
"There ya go, ma'am, m'sorry for the inconvenience."
She ignores him and sticks the card in Frank's hand, who mouths a 'sorry' at this Bob guy before letting himself in and stepping into an elevator. Lindsey presses button 38 and the doors close.
She immediately gets her phone out and starts texting, while Frank awkwardly examines the floor, trying to avoid seeing his reflection in the mirror, but he can imagine how terrible he looks even before Lindsey decides to comment on it.
"If you had any doubt when you were choosing your outfit this morning, yes, you do represent Runway from now on. Just a, uh, reminder," she informes him in a monotone voice, not once looking up from her phone.
Frank does not respond, silently praying that no one will notice his tattoos. This is the first time in his life he is not proud of the ink covering his skin; usually, he is telling everyone who is even remotely interested stories behind each and every design, loving how his tattoos remind him of every important thing in his life.
They finally reach the main floor of Runway (according to Lindsey, the magazine occupies five floors out of Elias-Clark's forty in the 110 story building) and Frank has to notice that not even the receptionist girl is there yet.
"The two of us are always the first to arrive, usually the last to leave as well, although that varies. That means we have to let ourselves in which can sometimes be a bit tricky..."
After entering a code on the panel next to the entrance, they enter the massive, empty office while she babbles on and on about the job, marching into the bullpen for the two assistants and sitting down. Frank notices after a few minutes that he will probably forget half of the stuff she is saying so he grabs his phone and starts typing the important stuff into his note app. It is near seven when he thinks she is finally finished and he can see some people wandering in the office.
She lets out a deep sigh and clasps her manicured hands together.
"Okay. Quick summary, then I’ll have to introduce you to some people. No personal business at work. Phone calls always answered, especially from Gerard - I'm going to give you your business phone in a few minutes. Never ever ever leave the desk if I'm not here and allow you to. And Frank, one thing I forgot," she looks in his eyes for the first time during the whole morning, and weirdly, he is aching for a simple 'good luck' from this lunatic woman. "Fresh coffee should be available in under a minute at any given time. Exactly as he likes. Remember that."
Oh well.
“Also, we are doing completely different jobs. Which basically means you get to do the time-consuming a boring stuff while- “
“Ooh, I get it! You’ll do the interesting part of the fashion assistant job. Wow. Congrats, girl,” he cuts her off, smiling annoyingly.
A guy’s laughter echoes in the office. Frank turns to the now-open door and he can see the flaming homosexual from the day of his interview. “Well, Linds, he might look like the tattooed love child of Janis Joplin and Sid Vicious, but the kid is right about some stuff.”
Lindsey rolls her eyes. “Pete. Good timing, as always.”
Pete smiles at her as Frank stands up. “You probably didn’t mean that as a compliment, but I could imagine worse things than being the kid of a Sex Pistols member.” He awkwardly sticks out his hand and the other grabs it firmly. “Frank Iero.”
“Pete Wentz.” He studies him before his eyes land on his shoes. What is everyone’s problem? They are goddamned black Converses. “Interesting choice,” he raises his eyebrows. "Definitely an interesting choice from Gerard's part as well. But we all know that Mr. Rush never makes mistakes, now don't we?" There is just something about his stare and little smile that unsettles Frank.
“As I was saying…” Lindsey interrupts, pushing herself out of her chair, “/I/ get to go to Paris this year. I will sit in the front row of the Chanel and Valentino shows with Gerard. I’ve been waiting for this for years and no punk oh-I’m-such-above-this-crap guys will ruin it.”
Frank presses his lips together, but he cannot help the comment coming out. “You’ll have no contest for that honor.”
Pete flashes a grin at him while Lindsey ignores what he just said. “Come on, we have to get started and I haven’t even introduced you to anyone.”
For the next twenty minutes, it is just a whirlwind of names and faces, mostly of beautiful, much too skinny girls in immaculate outfits – hey, I’m Sarah and that’s Kristin, editorial staffers; oh, that’s Kitty, Frank, she’s fab; I’m Eliza, I just popped over to see Pete, oh yeah, I used to be the senior assistant…
Frank ignores the comments on his appearance (approximately twenty-four, it’s like self-esteem camp) and smiles at the few who wish him a good first day (three and a half, he honestly can’t decide if that Kat girl was serious or not). Pete comes over after he has met everyone whom Lindsey declared to be important and winks at him.
“Enjoying yourself?” he smirks. “Use this time wisely, before Gerard comes in. Suit up, maybe.” He holds up something for Frank, and he notices the pair of fancy shoes.
He laughs nervously. “No way, man. Just – thanks, really, but no.”
“Well, I’m sure individuality and not conforming to certain things are appreciated at some places, but Runway is not one of those, honey.” He smiles. “Oh, Frank, Frank, you still have a lot to learn. No worries, though, you came to the best place.”
He steps back, spreads his arms dramatically and drops the shoes, while editors and models try not to bump into him in their rush. He beams at Frank and yells:
“WELCOME TO THE FUCKING DOLLHOUSE, BABY!”
Frank is sitting on the couch with Jamia’s head in his lap, stroking her hair softly while they are talking to each other about their weeks spent separate. They are taking advantage of the empty flat; Jamia’s roommate travelled home for a few days, so now they can have a little peace for themselves. He just finished telling her about his interview and he cannot help the sinking feeling he gets in his stomach when he hears her opinion.
“And why would you want it, anyway? I mean, what the hell, Frankie? You know I support you and all, but you, working for a /fashion magazine/? That’s just – no” she snorts, playing with a loose thread on her shirt. She pauses for a few moments, thinking. “Though, it does sound like a good opportunity, if the guy is really that influential. So yeah, scratch what I said, just do it, babe. Go for it. Sell your soul to the nasty men in Gucci!” She exclaims with too much enthusiasm.
Frank laughs, kissing her forehead. “You can be damn sure I’m taking it if can. I mean, I can do this for one year or I can go somewhere else, do the same assistant job for like three years, and then maybe move on, maybe, but this way I can skip all that.”
Jamia sits up next to him, and smiles that beaming, heart-warming smile of her as she gently sweeps away a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “Whatever you choose, Frank, just remember that I love you, okay? I agree that this can be it for you, this can be what you’ve been waiting for, but I’m a bit afraid it’s gonna be too much, you know?”
He furrows his eyebrows, looking at her. “I can do it, Jamia, really, I can. If they want me for the position, that is.” His voice trembles a bit. It was easier back in college when he had essays and deadlines and grades and rules and a clear path to follow, professors to guide him, and now Frank is out in the real world, all on his own and –
Jamia kisses him slowly and carefully, and then snuggles close to him. She rests her head on his chest. “Why wouldn’t they?” And it’s settled, easy as that.
After getting comfortable, she grabs the TV remote, flicking to some late night show. They’ve been watching it for a few minutes when she speaks up again.
“What’s his name again? The Runway guy’s?”
“Gerard.”
“Gerard?” She asks a couple of seconds later, clearly confused.
“Uh, yeah, Gerard Rush. He was weird, I called him Mr. Rush then he snapped at me and told me to call him Gerard. He doesn’t seem to like family names, said my forename too.”
“Huh. Well, I have my doubts, but let’s just hope for your sake that this is his oddest habit.”
Frank smiles and hugs her closer.
The shrill voice hits him like a heart attack as he awakes, his hand automatically reaching out to mute the source of the horrendous noise. He finds the damned phone and takes the call instinctively as he tiptoes out from the tiny bedroom in the vain hope that Jamia does not wake up, ready to end the life of whoever is on the other side of the line. Didn’t they get the fucking note that it’s Saturday?
But he only manages to grumble something incomprehensible, much to the displeasure to the caller.
“Frank? Am I talking to Frank Iero?” It’s a woman, definitely, her annoying voice a bit familiar.
Lindsey. The bitchy assistant. It’s /Runway/, oh shit. Is it a good sign that they call now or is it a bad and why is Lindsey up at the crack of the dawn and oh shit, /Runway/.
“Yeah, it’s me, Lindsey.” He tries not to freak out and fails miserably as he nervously jumps around in the messy kitchen.
She sighs impatiently. “So, first of all, you are completely inadequate for this job and generally for any position that has remotely anything to do with fashion, I hope you know that. And also, Gerard has not made a single misstep since running this rather prestigious magazine, and by that I mean none at all/. So I really, really hope, for your own sake and mine, that you don’t turn out to be the first mistake, Frank.” She pauses, probably not for the dramatic effect, but to get herself together and fight the urge to say some more things which would definitely cross the line. “So, welcome to the /Runway family. You start on Monday, six a.m. sharp. I will email you the contract and work details in a few hours.”
“Oh fuck yes!” He cries out rather professionally and he can practically hear Lindsey’s eye roll, but he is so past caring. Not bothering to react to all her insults (which will probably be an everyday occurrence from this point, he realizes), he only says, “There’s no way I can start on Monday though. I don’t have a place in the city right now.”
She chuckles. “To quote myself, welcome to the Runway family, Frank.”
The line goes dead.
“I don’t know, man. I just don’t wanna annoy Mikey even more and Jamia shares with this other chick.”
After telling the news to his girlfriend and making celebratory morning pancakes, he called Ray and asked for a huge favor. Renting a decent apartment in New York is fucking expensive and Frank is not in the mood to look for tolerable roommates – other than Ray, that is. After all, they have known each other since high school.
“You mean you don’t want to sleep on a couch until you get your first paycheck,” Ray responds, and the following silence says everything. “My place is not that much bigger than his.” Frank hums a bit, and contemplates begging before the other finally succumbs with a deep sigh. “I’ll have to ask my landlord first and you will have to pay back half the rent when you manage to get some money.”
Relief washes over him and his tight hold on the phone in his hand loosens up a bit. “Oh God, thank you dude, I fucking love you, okay? Seriously, you have no idea how much this means to me.” Right now, he just wants to wrap up Ray into his arms and kiss him. Luckily for everyone, he is not present in the room; otherwise it would certainly lead to some uncomfortable moments.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Meet you tonight then. You can probably move in on the next weekend, so try and survive until then somehow.” For Frank, talking to Ray always feels like chatting with a cool uncle and as they say their goodbyes, he smiles to himself. This is happening, really happening, and it’s going to be awesome. Fucking Elias-Clark, damn it.
He is meeting Mikey and Ray in some dark, loud bar, the kind of which people at their age spend all their time in. He is the last one to arrive, naturally; the other two are always twenty minutes early, no matter where they go, but at least it means they already got him a beer by the time he gets there. He flops down on one of the bar stools and takes a big gulp. “Hey!”
“Well hello, pretty one. When were you planning on telling me the big news?” Mikey asks in a mocking high-pitched voice, leaning forward, fluttering his eyelashes.
“Whoa, I thought he was the one getting a job at Pansy Mag, not you, dude,” Ray laughs, entertained by Mikey’s little show.
“Just because I got work at a fashion magazine, I still feel a hundred percent heterosexual, thank you very much,” Frank grumbles, playing with a coaster.
Mikey winks and licks his lips. “Ooh, baby, don’t get your panties in a twist, we love you.” He puts his hands on Frank’s left one, who almost falls out of his seat trying to get away. ”We are family. We are the Non-Judging Breakfast Club.” He announces dramatically.
“You’ve been watching way too much Gossip Girl, sweetheart. I mean, the clothes weren’t even good after season three!” Ray adds, fake-horrified.
Frank throws up his hand, trying to hold back the smile that is starting to form on his lips. “You’re supposed to be the straight and manly one, Ray!” He shouts.
“Well, what can I say, Ed Westwick is wick-ed hot.”
Frank finally breaks out in loud laughter and Mikey groans at the terrible attempt at a pun before joining in, while Ray just smiles into his beer.
“I fucking missed you, man,” Frank grins at his friend, patting his shoulder.
Ray smirks back. “Thinkin’ of me every night in Europe while watching the stars? Wishing I was there with you?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“You bet your sorry ass I did.”
Mikey huffs and pokes him. "Don't believe a word he says, he told me the same last night after sex."
"Unbelievable. Next thing you know he's got a girlfriend."
“I know, right?”
Frank rolls his eyes.
“No, seriously, Frank, apart from the fact that Ray had to tell me, your /best-fucking-friend/, how the hell did you get a job at a fashion magazine? Was it a phone interview?” Frank flips him off while Ray goes “Ooh, snap!”
“It’s just the fact that I’m fuckin’ pretty even in shitty clothes. I’m irresistible and everyone knows it. Even rigid, snobbish editor-in-chiefs.”
Mikey grows quiet after that, fidgeting with his fingers. “I just… I really don’t get it. I don’t get why you would do such thing.” Frank furrows his eyebrows, not sure if he really has a problem with him getting this goddamned job or simply acting weird.
“Mikes, hey, I’m not selling out, alright? It’s just, a great opportunity. One year and I won’t even go near a designer shoe ever–“
“No, uh, I get that. Just– what’s the name of the magazine again? I don’t think Ray said it.” Mikey cuts him off, looking at him with his poker face back on.
He is acting awfully weird, but Frank is not about to comment on it. “/Runway/. Don’t worry, I’ve never heard of it before either,” he adds when he sees Mikey's face falling.
Ray breaks the uncomfortable tension by tsk-ing sounds. “Frankie, Frankie, my dear, you bring a shame on your family.”
Mikey does that thing with his mouth when he does not really smile, but his mask breaks a bit and the corners of his mouth twitch; Frank had known him for at least a year before he noticed this little change of expression. But now at least he knows that Mikey’s alright; he does not want a (he has to admit, possibly idiotic) career choice to come between them. Still, his reaction was certainly strange; Mikey never makes a fuss out of anything.
With a shake of his head and a deep sigh, he raises his drink. “I’d like to propose a toast, gentlemen.”
Ray looks skeptically at the half empty glasses of cheap beer. “How classy of you, Frank” he comments, but holds up his own anyway. Mikey hesitates for a few seconds, but then joins in.
“We might be broke and desperate and sleep-deprived and having an existential crisis, which leads to the inevitable crumble of our self-respect and make us go and accept a work at a fashion magazine- “
“Uh-huh, speak for yourself, man.”
“- As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted, it doesn’t matter, because, as always, no matter what happens – we have each other, guys.”
Ray and Mikey aww-s, the latter putting his free hand on his heart.
“So, on that note… I’d like to propose this toast to straight men working at fashion magazines.” They clink their glasses together while Ray laughs quietly.
“Knew it, you little fucker. Trying to hide up your cheesiness as always.”
They all take a big gulp, the beer leaving a bitter but familiar taste in Frank’s mouth.
“Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, fuckity fuck, fucking shit, /shit/!” Frank screeches, his voice piercing through the quiet flat. Seconds later, he can hear Mikey’s groan from behind his closed bedroom door.
“Shut up, man. And wow, A+ on your vocab, no wonder you majored in English!” He half-yells in a still sleepy voice.
/Shit, shit, shit/. Frank somehow slept through his alarm, and now it was almost half past five. He needs at least forty minutes to get to the Elias-Clark building, and he has not even brushed his teeth, let alone found something remotely appropriate to wear.
He skips coffee and shower and somehow manages to get ready in under ten minutes, run down the stairs and hail a taxi just before an elder man gets inside while screaming “sorry, sorry, sorry”.
“One World Trade Center, West Street, I pay triple if you get me there by six,” he says out of breath. /God, he should work out/.
The taxi driver does not answer, but starts to maneuver the car in the morning traffic.
Frank tries and fails to calm his nerves in the following thirty minutes, alternating between drumming his fingertips on his knees and wiping the sweat off his palms, checking the time on his phone twice a minute. Three minutes before six, he writes a text to Lindsey, deleting and retyping at least five times before tapping the send button.
ill be about 10mins late, I overslept, im so sorry
His phone beeps almost immediately, and he really, really does not want to read the message, but he forces himself to open it.
Congratulations. You can shove that apology up you-know-where. And, for future reference, nobody cares about your personal problems here. That includes excuses as well.
Frank winces, cursing himself for not setting multiple alarms. Seeing that they are getting near the building, he fishes his wallet from his pocket, getting out his last crumpled banknotes. The car stops as they hit another red traffic light and Frank throws much more money than necessary at the driver.
“I’ll get out here, thanks, man.”
He does not wait for an answer as he leaps out the door, trying not to think about how he wasted his last dollars on taxi. He runs faster than he can ever remember running (not that he does it too often), and only slows down once he is in front of the massive glass doors.
"Six minutes. Not like I expected you to be on time. And if you're really going to be late, at least try to inform me correctly because we're on a schedule. 'About ten minutes late' does not equal six minutes late, understood?" Lindsey informs him as he arrives heavily panting.
"Yes, sure, yes, I'm so sorry- "
"What did I say about apologies? I don't understand why I have to keep repeating myself." She turns around on her high heels and leads him to the same receptionist guy who let him in on the day of his interview. Frank barely sees anyone else there besides them, and he wonders whether only assistants have to come to work at dawn. Fuck important people anyway. "I'd like a pass for him. He's going to bring his work contract down after he finishes today," Lindsey tells the guy.
"Sorry, ma'am, you know I can't do that. Guest sticker until I have the papers, that's the rule," he shrugs, not looking very apologetic.
Lindsey huffs impatiently. "He's Gerard Rush's new assistant. I think you can give him the freaking pass, Mr... Bob Bryar," she squints at his nametag.
Frank’s eyes widen as the poor guy turns pale and starts going through a drawer, pulls out a white plastic card, types something in the computer and swipes it on the automatic door for the first time before handing it to the couture bitch. She smirks at him. Why is this fucking Gerard guy treated like royalty?
"There ya go, ma'am, m'sorry for the inconvenience."
She ignores him and sticks the card in Frank's hand, who mouths a 'sorry' at this Bob guy before letting himself in and stepping into an elevator. Lindsey presses button 38 and the doors close.
She immediately gets her phone out and starts texting, while Frank awkwardly examines the floor, trying to avoid seeing his reflection in the mirror, but he can imagine how terrible he looks even before Lindsey decides to comment on it.
"If you had any doubt when you were choosing your outfit this morning, yes, you do represent Runway from now on. Just a, uh, reminder," she informes him in a monotone voice, not once looking up from her phone.
Frank does not respond, silently praying that no one will notice his tattoos. This is the first time in his life he is not proud of the ink covering his skin; usually, he is telling everyone who is even remotely interested stories behind each and every design, loving how his tattoos remind him of every important thing in his life.
They finally reach the main floor of Runway (according to Lindsey, the magazine occupies five floors out of Elias-Clark's forty in the 110 story building) and Frank has to notice that not even the receptionist girl is there yet.
"The two of us are always the first to arrive, usually the last to leave as well, although that varies. That means we have to let ourselves in which can sometimes be a bit tricky..."
After entering a code on the panel next to the entrance, they enter the massive, empty office while she babbles on and on about the job, marching into the bullpen for the two assistants and sitting down. Frank notices after a few minutes that he will probably forget half of the stuff she is saying so he grabs his phone and starts typing the important stuff into his note app. It is near seven when he thinks she is finally finished and he can see some people wandering in the office.
She lets out a deep sigh and clasps her manicured hands together.
"Okay. Quick summary, then I’ll have to introduce you to some people. No personal business at work. Phone calls always answered, especially from Gerard - I'm going to give you your business phone in a few minutes. Never ever ever leave the desk if I'm not here and allow you to. And Frank, one thing I forgot," she looks in his eyes for the first time during the whole morning, and weirdly, he is aching for a simple 'good luck' from this lunatic woman. "Fresh coffee should be available in under a minute at any given time. Exactly as he likes. Remember that."
Oh well.
“Also, we are doing completely different jobs. Which basically means you get to do the time-consuming a boring stuff while- “
“Ooh, I get it! You’ll do the interesting part of the fashion assistant job. Wow. Congrats, girl,” he cuts her off, smiling annoyingly.
A guy’s laughter echoes in the office. Frank turns to the now-open door and he can see the flaming homosexual from the day of his interview. “Well, Linds, he might look like the tattooed love child of Janis Joplin and Sid Vicious, but the kid is right about some stuff.”
Lindsey rolls her eyes. “Pete. Good timing, as always.”
Pete smiles at her as Frank stands up. “You probably didn’t mean that as a compliment, but I could imagine worse things than being the kid of a Sex Pistols member.” He awkwardly sticks out his hand and the other grabs it firmly. “Frank Iero.”
“Pete Wentz.” He studies him before his eyes land on his shoes. What is everyone’s problem? They are goddamned black Converses. “Interesting choice,” he raises his eyebrows. "Definitely an interesting choice from Gerard's part as well. But we all know that Mr. Rush never makes mistakes, now don't we?" There is just something about his stare and little smile that unsettles Frank.
“As I was saying…” Lindsey interrupts, pushing herself out of her chair, “/I/ get to go to Paris this year. I will sit in the front row of the Chanel and Valentino shows with Gerard. I’ve been waiting for this for years and no punk oh-I’m-such-above-this-crap guys will ruin it.”
Frank presses his lips together, but he cannot help the comment coming out. “You’ll have no contest for that honor.”
Pete flashes a grin at him while Lindsey ignores what he just said. “Come on, we have to get started and I haven’t even introduced you to anyone.”
For the next twenty minutes, it is just a whirlwind of names and faces, mostly of beautiful, much too skinny girls in immaculate outfits – hey, I’m Sarah and that’s Kristin, editorial staffers; oh, that’s Kitty, Frank, she’s fab; I’m Eliza, I just popped over to see Pete, oh yeah, I used to be the senior assistant…
Frank ignores the comments on his appearance (approximately twenty-four, it’s like self-esteem camp) and smiles at the few who wish him a good first day (three and a half, he honestly can’t decide if that Kat girl was serious or not). Pete comes over after he has met everyone whom Lindsey declared to be important and winks at him.
“Enjoying yourself?” he smirks. “Use this time wisely, before Gerard comes in. Suit up, maybe.” He holds up something for Frank, and he notices the pair of fancy shoes.
He laughs nervously. “No way, man. Just – thanks, really, but no.”
“Well, I’m sure individuality and not conforming to certain things are appreciated at some places, but Runway is not one of those, honey.” He smiles. “Oh, Frank, Frank, you still have a lot to learn. No worries, though, you came to the best place.”
He steps back, spreads his arms dramatically and drops the shoes, while editors and models try not to bump into him in their rush. He beams at Frank and yells:
“WELCOME TO THE FUCKING DOLLHOUSE, BABY!”
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