Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > My Way Home
AN: Hello! Here is my (hopefully realistic) take on a glimpse into My Chem beginnings. I wanted to write something that portrays Gerard as a real human being (for example, I'm sure he can be a bastard sometimes - shock!). I've changed details to fit my story. The female main character is based on a real person as closely as I can recount, just to bring in an extra touch of realism!
Please be advised that the story contains language (ie. swearing) that may be offensive to some readers.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I am not associated with My Chemical Romance in any way, shape, or form, and am not making profits from this work of fiction. I only own the fruits of my imagination (although I do wish I owned Gerard Way!).
Green eyes scanned the dark veil of night that had fallen upon the run-down buildings surrounding the Diner. She heard a police siren resounding in the distance before dying like a whisper on the lips. A woman dressed in a purple flowing skirt and a questionably matched flowered top was trying to feed quarters into the dimly-lit jukebox and Felicita walked over to politely explain that the machine was out of service. Well, not technically, since it was playing music. It was just that it had been on its own rotation since before she had taken the job and no one could get it to cooperate. Even if unplugged, the stubborn thing would simply start a new playlist once given its electrical life back. It was kind of charming, thought Felicita, but the woman facing her did not seem to concur, as she walked back to her lone table with a sulk on her overly made-up face, looking more and more like an experiment gone astray.
Felicita let out a small sigh mixed with a hint of a smile. She had accepted the position as a server at the small Diner on the corner of Johnson and Meing Street a year ago when she had moved out East to attend school. At the ripe age of twenty-two, she had finally decided to follow her undeniable passion in life, writing. Upon being accepted in New Jersey City University (NJCU), she had waved goodbye to her former life and all the fears and expectations associated with it. Her new life consisted of classes in the mornings and five evening shifts at the Diner, usually from four in the afternoon to midnight. She liked the shift because it started off with a dinner rush and eventually died down to one or two customers by closing time. Most of the customers were genuine people, the working poor some might say, who brought with them stories and histories to ponder over, taste, and appreciate. It was not uncommon for inebriated men and women to stumble into the Diner, but this did not particularly alarm her. She always found a way to be cordial, and besides, there were two burly cooks in the kitchen (Eddie and Joe) in case things ever got too out of hand.
Thinking how much she enjoyed the later part of the evenings, quietness marrying perfectly with simplicity, Felicita picked up a steaming coffee pot from its holder and walked over to old Dino's table.
"Thanks, dear," he smiled in response to her pouring, a winning toothless grin that caused her to smile in turn.
"You're very welcome," was Felicita's cheery reply. "Anything good in there tonight?" She motioned to his faithful newspaper, noticing the faint ink stains on his wrinkled fingers. Old Dino had decided long ago that he wanted to be informed of the day's events in the news just before he closed his eyes to the world in sleep and so, it had become tradition for him to sit in the corner booth by the window each night, drink exactly three cups of coffee with his New York Times, and pay in change left in neat upright columns on the table. From what he had told her, Felicita guessed that this ritual had been taking place ever since his wife's death, over four years ago.
He shrugged at her question and pushed his square glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Earthquake here. Robbery there. Same old, same old."
"Well, you keep me up to date if you come across anything interesting."
Dino chuckled and slowly turned the page, absorbed in his nightly task.
The jingle of bells above the door marked the arrival of a new customer. He walked over to the counter and sat on a stool, taking in the surroundings of the modest Diner with an air of cool detachment. The rest of the stools remained empty, resembling plump mushrooms under an artificial bed of fluorescent lights.
Felicita languidly made her way over to him with a ready smile. "Hi, what can I get for you?" She noticed he was dressed in all black, as if he were coming straight from a funeral, except for a striped grey and black scarf around his neck. He was wearing a stylish hat with a wide brim in the front, and wisps of rebellious black hair escaped from the sides. His face was clean-shaven and young looking.
"Coffee, please," he replied in a raspy, almost melodious, voice. Felicita placed a white mug in front of him and filled it with the dark liquid. Spirals of steam danced towards the ceiling.
"Would you like any cream or sugar?"
He shook his head, placing his hands around the mug as if to warm them. "Just black, thanks."
Felicita straightened her green apron with her hands, unsure of what to do with herself next. He solved her dilemma by stating, "you're not from around here." This was said without looking up from the reflection in his coffee.
Felicita opened her mouth to question his observation but he beat her to it.
"You don't have a Jersey accent," came the explanation in his own Jersey accent (as if to make a point), before taking a sip from his cup.
"I guess a year isn't long enough to pick up an accent," smiled Felicita, a small dimple forming on her left cheek. "I'm from a small town in California."
"Why New Jersey?" asked the stranger, crossing his arms over his chest in a comfortable gesture, seeming genuinely interested. She met his eyes for the first time and could not decide on their exact hue. They were a mystical blend of grey and green, with a tiny taste of blue thrown in the mix. Nearly blushing at the intense way she was examining them, like one would examine a long-lost valuable painting, Felicita shook herself out of the moment by shrugging her shoulders. Her hands automatically reached over to the stack of brightly-colored, laminated menus, adjusting them to her liking. Busy hands, busy mind, as her mother would often say.
"I thought to myself 'what's more different than California?'. I knew off the bat that I did not want to move to New York, so I settled for its kid brother instead."
"Sometimes distance is the only cure." He said this as if he had lived through it himself, as a sort of testimonial. Felicita was surprised that she should sense a sort of smugness in his tone, as if he had read all of her deepest, darkest secrets without asking for her permission. She had no time to process her reaction because a voice from the kitchen loudly called her name.
"I'm going to University out here," Felicita felt the need to add in defense, her verbal escape perfectly colliding with her physical one as she made her way to the kitchen.
She picked up the order for table six, along with a bottle of ketchup she stuffed in the front pocket of her apron, and strode confidently towards the woman who had been interested in the jukebox.
"Thanks, dearie," she replied in turn with surprising grace. "How much do I owe you?"
"Please start enjoying your meal. I can bring the check in a minute if you'd like."
The woman nodded and Felicita distanced herself from the table. She checked up on old Dino's cup (his second one of the night) and saw that it was still full, so she had no choice but to walk back towards the counter. Being in her position, she had become skilled at making small talk, but somehow could not think of anything to say to the man who had walked in minutes earlier. It was as if the wheels of her mind had suddenly become rusty with introverted observations. Annoyed at her reaction and not knowing why, Felicita furrowed her brows together as she tapped the touch-screen monitor beside the cash register.
"Your name," she heard his voice again, causing her attention to shift in his direction. "It means 'happiness' in Italian?"
So he had heard Joe call out her name from the kitchen (mind you, Joe's booming voice could easily travel through walls).
"Yes," she nodded in turn. "It's impressive that you know that. Some people have trouble even pronouncing it."
"I have some Italian in me from my mom's side," he revealed with a hint of a smile, his face lighting up with an attractive glow.
"As do I, only from both sides."
He loosened the scarf around his neck and thoughtfully took another drink of his coffee.
"You mentioned going to school," he casually conversed as his eyes found her face. "NJCU?" he guessed. Felicita did not know why she found it relevant to note that his lips curved slightly to the right in speech.
She nodded while the small printer fed receipts into her waiting hand like a noisy, spouting geyser.
"What are you studying?"
"I'm in the faculty of writing arts."
"Wow," came the response with a prolonged head nod. "What do you eventually want to do with your degree?"
Felicita smiled, a well-known spontaneous smile that reached her eyes. "We'll see where my dreams take me."
He looked down, examining the counter intensely, before meeting her eyes once again. Felicita could have chosen to read a million different expressions in his eyes, but walked away instead to serve her waiting customer with the bill.
Before she had any time to collect her racing thoughts, he was standing and walking to the door. She watched his retreating figure before he abruptly turned around, lifting his hand in an awkward wave. "Thanks for the coffee, Felicita."
He was replaced by a gust of wind in the span of one blink. The humming of the coffee machine brought Felicita back to the present and she shook her head. Picking up the empty cup he had left behind, she noticed a twenty-dollar bill beside it on the counter. She had not even learned his name.
Please be advised that the story contains language (ie. swearing) that may be offensive to some readers.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I am not associated with My Chemical Romance in any way, shape, or form, and am not making profits from this work of fiction. I only own the fruits of my imagination (although I do wish I owned Gerard Way!).
Green eyes scanned the dark veil of night that had fallen upon the run-down buildings surrounding the Diner. She heard a police siren resounding in the distance before dying like a whisper on the lips. A woman dressed in a purple flowing skirt and a questionably matched flowered top was trying to feed quarters into the dimly-lit jukebox and Felicita walked over to politely explain that the machine was out of service. Well, not technically, since it was playing music. It was just that it had been on its own rotation since before she had taken the job and no one could get it to cooperate. Even if unplugged, the stubborn thing would simply start a new playlist once given its electrical life back. It was kind of charming, thought Felicita, but the woman facing her did not seem to concur, as she walked back to her lone table with a sulk on her overly made-up face, looking more and more like an experiment gone astray.
Felicita let out a small sigh mixed with a hint of a smile. She had accepted the position as a server at the small Diner on the corner of Johnson and Meing Street a year ago when she had moved out East to attend school. At the ripe age of twenty-two, she had finally decided to follow her undeniable passion in life, writing. Upon being accepted in New Jersey City University (NJCU), she had waved goodbye to her former life and all the fears and expectations associated with it. Her new life consisted of classes in the mornings and five evening shifts at the Diner, usually from four in the afternoon to midnight. She liked the shift because it started off with a dinner rush and eventually died down to one or two customers by closing time. Most of the customers were genuine people, the working poor some might say, who brought with them stories and histories to ponder over, taste, and appreciate. It was not uncommon for inebriated men and women to stumble into the Diner, but this did not particularly alarm her. She always found a way to be cordial, and besides, there were two burly cooks in the kitchen (Eddie and Joe) in case things ever got too out of hand.
Thinking how much she enjoyed the later part of the evenings, quietness marrying perfectly with simplicity, Felicita picked up a steaming coffee pot from its holder and walked over to old Dino's table.
"Thanks, dear," he smiled in response to her pouring, a winning toothless grin that caused her to smile in turn.
"You're very welcome," was Felicita's cheery reply. "Anything good in there tonight?" She motioned to his faithful newspaper, noticing the faint ink stains on his wrinkled fingers. Old Dino had decided long ago that he wanted to be informed of the day's events in the news just before he closed his eyes to the world in sleep and so, it had become tradition for him to sit in the corner booth by the window each night, drink exactly three cups of coffee with his New York Times, and pay in change left in neat upright columns on the table. From what he had told her, Felicita guessed that this ritual had been taking place ever since his wife's death, over four years ago.
He shrugged at her question and pushed his square glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Earthquake here. Robbery there. Same old, same old."
"Well, you keep me up to date if you come across anything interesting."
Dino chuckled and slowly turned the page, absorbed in his nightly task.
The jingle of bells above the door marked the arrival of a new customer. He walked over to the counter and sat on a stool, taking in the surroundings of the modest Diner with an air of cool detachment. The rest of the stools remained empty, resembling plump mushrooms under an artificial bed of fluorescent lights.
Felicita languidly made her way over to him with a ready smile. "Hi, what can I get for you?" She noticed he was dressed in all black, as if he were coming straight from a funeral, except for a striped grey and black scarf around his neck. He was wearing a stylish hat with a wide brim in the front, and wisps of rebellious black hair escaped from the sides. His face was clean-shaven and young looking.
"Coffee, please," he replied in a raspy, almost melodious, voice. Felicita placed a white mug in front of him and filled it with the dark liquid. Spirals of steam danced towards the ceiling.
"Would you like any cream or sugar?"
He shook his head, placing his hands around the mug as if to warm them. "Just black, thanks."
Felicita straightened her green apron with her hands, unsure of what to do with herself next. He solved her dilemma by stating, "you're not from around here." This was said without looking up from the reflection in his coffee.
Felicita opened her mouth to question his observation but he beat her to it.
"You don't have a Jersey accent," came the explanation in his own Jersey accent (as if to make a point), before taking a sip from his cup.
"I guess a year isn't long enough to pick up an accent," smiled Felicita, a small dimple forming on her left cheek. "I'm from a small town in California."
"Why New Jersey?" asked the stranger, crossing his arms over his chest in a comfortable gesture, seeming genuinely interested. She met his eyes for the first time and could not decide on their exact hue. They were a mystical blend of grey and green, with a tiny taste of blue thrown in the mix. Nearly blushing at the intense way she was examining them, like one would examine a long-lost valuable painting, Felicita shook herself out of the moment by shrugging her shoulders. Her hands automatically reached over to the stack of brightly-colored, laminated menus, adjusting them to her liking. Busy hands, busy mind, as her mother would often say.
"I thought to myself 'what's more different than California?'. I knew off the bat that I did not want to move to New York, so I settled for its kid brother instead."
"Sometimes distance is the only cure." He said this as if he had lived through it himself, as a sort of testimonial. Felicita was surprised that she should sense a sort of smugness in his tone, as if he had read all of her deepest, darkest secrets without asking for her permission. She had no time to process her reaction because a voice from the kitchen loudly called her name.
"I'm going to University out here," Felicita felt the need to add in defense, her verbal escape perfectly colliding with her physical one as she made her way to the kitchen.
She picked up the order for table six, along with a bottle of ketchup she stuffed in the front pocket of her apron, and strode confidently towards the woman who had been interested in the jukebox.
"Thanks, dearie," she replied in turn with surprising grace. "How much do I owe you?"
"Please start enjoying your meal. I can bring the check in a minute if you'd like."
The woman nodded and Felicita distanced herself from the table. She checked up on old Dino's cup (his second one of the night) and saw that it was still full, so she had no choice but to walk back towards the counter. Being in her position, she had become skilled at making small talk, but somehow could not think of anything to say to the man who had walked in minutes earlier. It was as if the wheels of her mind had suddenly become rusty with introverted observations. Annoyed at her reaction and not knowing why, Felicita furrowed her brows together as she tapped the touch-screen monitor beside the cash register.
"Your name," she heard his voice again, causing her attention to shift in his direction. "It means 'happiness' in Italian?"
So he had heard Joe call out her name from the kitchen (mind you, Joe's booming voice could easily travel through walls).
"Yes," she nodded in turn. "It's impressive that you know that. Some people have trouble even pronouncing it."
"I have some Italian in me from my mom's side," he revealed with a hint of a smile, his face lighting up with an attractive glow.
"As do I, only from both sides."
He loosened the scarf around his neck and thoughtfully took another drink of his coffee.
"You mentioned going to school," he casually conversed as his eyes found her face. "NJCU?" he guessed. Felicita did not know why she found it relevant to note that his lips curved slightly to the right in speech.
She nodded while the small printer fed receipts into her waiting hand like a noisy, spouting geyser.
"What are you studying?"
"I'm in the faculty of writing arts."
"Wow," came the response with a prolonged head nod. "What do you eventually want to do with your degree?"
Felicita smiled, a well-known spontaneous smile that reached her eyes. "We'll see where my dreams take me."
He looked down, examining the counter intensely, before meeting her eyes once again. Felicita could have chosen to read a million different expressions in his eyes, but walked away instead to serve her waiting customer with the bill.
Before she had any time to collect her racing thoughts, he was standing and walking to the door. She watched his retreating figure before he abruptly turned around, lifting his hand in an awkward wave. "Thanks for the coffee, Felicita."
He was replaced by a gust of wind in the span of one blink. The humming of the coffee machine brought Felicita back to the present and she shook her head. Picking up the empty cup he had left behind, she noticed a twenty-dollar bill beside it on the counter. She had not even learned his name.
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