Chapter Text
November 02, 1998
Yellow is very rapidly becoming Frank’s least favorite color. Madame Yellow, Pencey’s shitbox van, finally crapped out after weeks of death rattling. So, here Frank is, stranded in the East Village without a phone or a pager, or even a carrier pigeon. What he does have is a paper map and some poorly scrawled directions on the back of a bar napkin. The napkin, softened and smoothed by overhandling, also has a large, brown stain that partially obscures the venue’s address. Excellent. Not even the world’s most ambitious Boy Scout would thrive under these conditions, and Frank’s no Boy Scout.
Frank, embarrassingly, has to, with all the orienteering skills and coordination of a newborn deer after a fifth of schnapps, figure his shit out and jog to the club. He makes it a few blocks before he, looking crazed, has to accost a woman on the street for directions. She stares at him wide-eyed, her gloved hand poised to dip into her purse, probably for a taser or something equally alarming. Thankfully, she seems to be dissuaded from her attack by Frank’s pathetic wheezing– he seriously needs to stop smoking. She points him in the right direction, with all the care and affection of someone removing a roach from their home, and sends him on his way.
Frank is kind of egregiously late, but that’s nothing new. John had mentioned that the club manager took appointments for a roughly 2-hour window on Mondays, and there were like 20 minutes left in that window when Yellow kicked the bucket. So, Frank illegally left the van double-parked. Really, “double-parked” was a generous description. Frank had pretty much just abandoned her, belching blue smoke like the fucking Alice in Wonderland caterpillar, in what definitely did not qualify as the curb lane. Whatever, Yellow needs a tow anyway. Frank might as well let the city handle it. He definitely doesn’t have enough AAA miles to cover the cost of a truck dragging her back to Jersey. Plus, not pissing off this booker is highly fucking important. This would be their first gig that wasn’t just a basement show or an after-hours jam at a small local venue, and, God willing, he refuses to fuck it up.
Frank tries not to panic about leaving what is currently Pencey’s only mode of transportation behind, as he careens around a corner, his shoulder colliding painfully with a streetlight pole. What the fuck ever, man. The van is just a problem for another day… even if none of them own another car at the moment. They’ll work something else out; they’ll have to. Maybe they could bum rides from other guys at the practice space. Really, Frank just feels bad for the poor sucker who will have to deal with Yellow, who, thankfully, is void of any equipment. As far as he knows, she’s just full of receipts, fast food wrappers, and soda bottles full of what look suspiciously like piss— probably because some of it most definitely is.
His lungs are burning from the cold, and his toes are numb by the time he shoulders his way into the dingy venue, which is, very much so, in a basement. Pencey might be moving up in the world, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll be moving above ground. Frank lives in a basement, he primarily plays basement shows, and he studies in the sublevel stacks at school. He is practically a mole person at this point. Frank thinks this makes him something of a basement connoisseur, so he feels confident in deeming this particular hole-in-the-ground promising. It smells of stale beer, cigarettes, and leather, and everything looks like it's covered in a thin layer of grime, dim lighting making the whole place look like he's viewing underexposed film.
He’s still sweating uncomfortably when he stumbles into the back office. The booker has a corny nameplate on his desk that clashes comically with the papered, graffiti-covered walls. He–Dougie, according to the plaque– ashes a cigarette into a half-full bottle of Tropicana and glances lazily over an outdated copy of Newsweek, his eyes narrowing marginally when they land on Frank. Frank knows he probably looks as crazed as he feels. He’s only wearing a faded red t-shirt (complete with a gaping hole in the left armpit) despite the blackened snow piled in the gutters. Plus, he’s still breathing a bit heavily from his mad dash over here. He fights the urge to squirm or pick at the skin on his elbows.
“Whaddya want, kid?” ‘Dougie’ grumbles, still eyeing him dubiously.
“I’m in a band– Pencey Prep. The bouncer, John, at our regular spot said we should come talk to you about booking a gig.” Frank giggles nervously, finding it oddly difficult to maintain eye contact like a normal fucking human adult.
Dougie raises one sleazy, appraising eyebrow and runs a hand through his bad combover. “Sure…yeah. We can do a 10:30 slot on the 10th, but I can’t promise a big crowd. John told you the rules? You have to have your own gear, and I mean all your own gear; we aren’t going to set you up with shit. And you gotta play mostly original stuff. No one wants to hear you butcher another band’s material for an hour straight. If the crowd heckles you too much, you can’t fight any of 'em— not in here at least, take it out back,” Dougie rattles off mechanically. He looks bored and a little irritated, but Frank is beginning to think that this might just be the guy’s default expression– like, Dougie’s mom had never warned him that if he scowled too long, his face would get stuck like that.
Frank is a little shell-shocked. That was easy. Even if this guy does totally fucking blow chunks. “You don’t want to hear us play or anything? I brought a cassette.”
“Nah… John is usually pretty reliable, and with the 10:30 show, I’d s’pect that only the drunks left over from the bigger bands will be hanging around… plus.. ya’ know the 10th is a Tuesday.”
Ok, Frank is a little miffed. He is, of course, excited about getting to play, but he’s also pissed about how little of a shit this guy seems to give. “Yeah,” Frank says, trying not to sound like a complete asshole, “About that. Any chance we could land a Saturday? I don’t care what time slot, but a weekend would really be…” he trails off as Dougie squints his little, piggish eyes at him, the corners of his mouth careening downwards.
“Not a chance, buddy.”
Frank inhales, poised to retort, but before he can get anything out, Dougie is steamrolling on, “Play the Tuesday, and if you don’t shit the bed, then we can get you lined up for a Saturday. I’m not running a charity here. The only reason you’re getting the Tuesday spot so soon is that someone else dropped out. You understand. Tragic accident, yada yada, drummer lost a thumb. What fucking ever. Now you’re here. So, kid, take what you can get… and get it while it’s hot.”
God, this guy fucking sucks.
Frank has to fight the urge to clamber over the desk and punch the guy, or at least glower at him. Who does this dude think he is? (Don Corleone, clearly.) Even so, Frank at least wishes he would stop calling him 'kid'. Sure, Frank is still nursing the hangover from his 20th birthday weekend, and playing the Tuesday slot is really only a problem because he has an abnormal psych exam the next day, but this is a business meeting of sorts, and he wants to be taken seriously. “Tuesday the 10th it is!” Frank exclaims, forcing a phony ass smile that feels like it might split his face open. “...By the way. Can I use your phone?”
—
Frank is pretty sure that he is literally freezing his ass off. He’s sitting on the frigid concrete steps of some city campus building, chain-smoking. He’s burning through the pack, literally, pretending that if he inhales enough smoke, he might trap some residual warmth in his chest. He’s practically vibrating, what with the shivers jolting through him and the fidgeting he’s doing to distract himself from them.
He checks his watch for what might be the thousandth time in the last few minutes. He thinks it’s unsurprising that art school types aren’t exactly punctual. But goddamn, if this guy takes any longer, he’s going to find a Frank-shaped icicle stuck to the sidewalk. Mikey’s brother is probably caught up in a lecture about the theory of forms, or whatever, too wrapped up in it to consider the fact that he was supposed to meet Frank 15 fucking minutes ago.
Frank has never met Mikey’s brother. The guy has been at school in the city the entire time he and Mikey have known each other– well, at school, or allegedly skulking around the basement of Mikey’s house like some kind of live-in ghoul. Regardless, Mikey seems to think pretty highly of him. Mikey’s fond, even. Well, as much as Mikey can be fond or outwardly emotional at all, really. Frank swears that he’s seen him smile—not smirk, really smile — a total of like 5 times.
Mikey was the second person Frank had called from the club’s phone. Well, third, if you count the wrong number he’d dialed before he fully locked down the correct digits.
Shaun, Frank’s first call, answered the phone irritably, shouting over depressing afternoon bar-goers. He was clearly unavailable. He had also peevishly told Frank to stay put until he worked out how to get Yellow out of impound– ‘You absolute fucking asshole! You know they charge by the hour or some shit. God, maybe it’s by the minute. We’re so fucked. You fucked us, you realize that, Frank, right?’ And, ‘No, Frank, it’s probably not more cost-efficient just to get a new van… well, maybe now it is since the city nabbed it, shit, dude’. At the time, Frank hadn’t really known if the van had been towed, but it was pretty goddamn likely. Turns out his intuition was correct, hoo-fucking-ray.
Mikey, of course, couldn’t do anything to help because he had had a full day of classes followed by a closing shift at the video store. Frank knew full well what ‘closing the video store’ usually entailed: namely, Mikey doing unspeakable things with his roster of hookups in the back office. ‘Yes, Frank, I know we get customers this late, that’s what the buzzer on the counter is for,’ Mikey had deadpanned one night when Frank had the gall to try and rent C.H.U.D. after 8 pm. Mikey had taken about 10 minutes to emerge from the back room, and when he did, he looked utterly debauched. The hair at the back of his head was all smushed down, and his t-shirt was rucked up. Frank swore he could see a hickey blooming on his neck in real time. He didn’t even want to look at him; he could feel his cheeks burning. Long story short, you could not pay Frank to get anywhere near the couch in that staff lounge. It was probably like a level 10 biohazard… if that was even a thing.
So, Videoland’s finest and most in-demand (on multiple fronts) employee had promised to get in touch with his brother, who was in the city today for classes. Frank had to ask Dougie if he could stick around and wait for a call back, which was kind of mortifying but also cruel and unusual. Frank palled around with the barback, trying to ignore Dougie’s beady little eyes following him around the room, until Mikey finally, finally called back with further details.
Frank had supposed, initially, that he could take a train home, but either he’d been pick-pocketed at some point, or he’d left his wallet with his coat in the van. Maybe the snooty, gloved lady who’d given him directions was some kind of freak klepto, but maybe he just had shit luck. Regardless, there is no way in hell he’s asking Dougie for train fare. Dougie should probably remain completely, blissfully unaware of Pency’s current lack of transportation if at all possible– he, thankfully, had let Frank make his calls in private.
So, here Frank is waiting for an arranged rendezvous with Mikey’s elusive older brother outside of his depressing, industrial University building. What’s more, he is probably going to lose a finger to the cold. Oh god. He’ll lose a finger, and then he won’t be able to play guitar anymore, and at that point, his life will be basically over. Well, unless he pulls a Toni Iommi, but he really doesn’t think he has the chops for that.
Frank is relieved to finally see people start trickling into the building’s lobby through the tall windows. He scans their faces, as if he might find some Mikey clone to flag down and save him. He makes eye contact with a gothy chick in a large black leather jacket. She arches her expressive eyebrows at him quizzically. Then, she shuffles towards the double doors. Oh… she’s coming right towards him. Frank feels a little flustered, cheeks warm despite the cold.
“You’re Frank?” The person chirps as they approach, another pointy eyebrow rocketing towards their hairline. Then, they glance downwards, scuffing their boots against the gum-spotted pavement. It’s as if they can’t decide between snark and awkward shyness.
Frank’s mind tumbles over itself a bit as he tries to catch up. Maybe the cold has really gotten to him. This is Mikey’s brother.
“Uh, yeah,” He says, the words cascading out of his mouth in a stupid high giggle. Mikey’s brother is pretty. Just point blank pretty, and Frank is more than a little caught off guard.
“Why are you outside?” probes Mikey’s brother– Gee, Gerard– Frank remembers. Gerard’s eyes rake critically over Frank’s torso, eyebrows dancing across his forehead once again, forming about a million distinct and unreadable expressions. It takes Frank a second to process that he’s being poked fun at for his lack of a coat.
“S’waiting for you,” Frank chatters. “You are Mikey’s brother, right?” God, the fucker looks like Christina Ricci.
“Yeah, man, I’m Gerard. You know the doors to the building are unlocked, right? There’s not like special security access codes or card swipes or anything. This is SVA, not The Pentagon.”
Frank feels more than a little dumb and also kind of irritated. Apparently, being brusque is a heritable trait that both Gerard and Mikey share.
“I didn’t think to try the door. I just kind of assumed that it’d be locked. Aren’t schools supposed to be secure?”
In the moment, Frank can’t really recall if the buildings on his campus are locked most of the time, but that isn’t really the point. He’s still shivering violently. His arms are wrapped around his torso in a vice grip. It’s kinda embarrassing, to be honest. Gerard probably thinks he’s doing a bang-up Oliver Twist impression.
“Well, yeah, but that’s mostly for housing and private spaces, not classrooms. God! You must be freezing. Let's duck into a coffeehouse or something. I’ll buy you a drink.” Gerard speaks like the words are bubbling out of him. Everything has an odd, lilting cadence to it, like he’s trying to inject suspense into the spaces between his words, despite the rapid speed at which they shoot out of his mouth.
“Yeah, I mean, you’d have’ta… I may have misplaced my wallet.” Frank grinds the toe cap of his sneaker against the pavement, his eyes glued to the place where the rubber meets the road. “Sorry, I’ll, like, totally repay you at some point.”
Gerard has the decency to look pityingly at him for a fraction of a second before some kind of sly mirth dances across his features. “Jesus, man. Talk about a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day,” he says through a hoking sort of laugh. Then, he starts walking briskly, but gracelessly. It’s awkward. It looks like he’s operating at a different frame rate than the rest of the world. He turns his head back towards Frank, his dark hair rippling with the movement. Frank takes the hint and follows.