Catacomb Kids

I was never much for being creative. Even when I was little, everything from my finger paintings to my Halloween costumes could be compared to about 9,000 carbon copies across the globe. It’s not that I didn’t have ideas, it’s just that these ideas were mass produced by kids, who, just like me, had a brain that worked the same way a lot of other people’s did.

I was a victim of common brain syndrome. Everything I wrote, drew, or said, had already been done at some point by some other suffering individual. This made me, Frank Iero, illegible for any sort of creative leadership opportunities. Those kind of things were more up Gerard’s alley.

Gerard Way was my best friend. He was this chubby sort of kid, but he made up for it by being about a head or two taller than me. He was almost embarrassingly pale, and he had this unkempt, greasy black hair that fell to about his jawline. He really didn’t care about much; he was barely sliding through junior year with four Cs, one B and two Ds. He had a B in physical education, and he would have an A if he actually showed up to half of the classes.

Gerard had gym third hour, which was incidentally my study hall. So basically, I’d offer to collect attendance slips from the classroom with some random student, ditch them, and nip off under the bleachers where Gerard would meet me. Gerard never gave excuses to his teacher for leaving, and I think that after a while the teacher stopped asking where he’d been.

These periods of free time were usually reserved for recreational marijuana usage, but if we were feeling particularly adventurous we’d sometimes head out on foot to the comic book store a couple of blocks over. Gerard would lie about being out of school; it wasn’t hard for him to pass as eighteen or even older. I, on the other hand, would make up some lie about being his younger brother out on a trip to a doctor’s appointment or some bullshit like that. Even my lies were cookie cutter average.

Anyways, back to the main idea here: I was a practical thinker, not a creative one.
So when my visual arts teacher gave us no boundaries, limits, or guidelines for our semester project, I was panicking a little bit. I had no idea what I was going to do. You might be thinking that I shouldn’t have taken visual arts in the first place, but at my school, it was practically required. I had an A in the class thanks to a lot of outside influence on what my projects should be, but this time, I was stuck. It was funny how whenever teachers let our imaginations run wild, that’s when my compromised artistic flow stopped.

Not only was I worried about finding a topic, but the looming idea of choosing the wrong subject ran around my head as well. I couldn’t imagine failing our semester test project; it would drop my grade an entire letter at least. I couldn’t stand the thought of it, so I knew I had to take action and find an amazing subject for the project, the sooner the better.

There was the conflict. The haunting, intimidating, quiver-inducing conflict. I had yet to find my solution, but I was actively searching for one. So, what did I do? Of course, I turned to Gerard.
It was that night that I’d begged him for motivation. We were lying in his basement of a bedroom; he sprawled from the head of the bed to the adjacent nightstand, and I curled up on the rest of the twin sized mattress.

I gave the due date for the project as well as all my fears about it, and finally, my need for a good grade. I ended the sentence with, “So, Mr. Mad Genius. Hit me with an idea.”
Gerard lay there, staring up at the ceiling. He scratched the side of his nose, sighing. “Well, shit. I dunno, Frankie.”

I scoffed. “Are you joking? The one time I need to be hit with one of those thoughts of yours, and you don’t have one.”

Gerard began to pick at a scab on his forearm, then suggesting, “Film us, I guess.”

“Yeah, because we’re soooo interesting,” I mocked.

“No, I’m serious,” Gerard replied. “Like, film your day from when you wake up to when you fall asleep. It’d be really cool, you know? Make it like a movie.” He flicked some of his scab he’d peeled off onto the floor. “Then wrap it up with some sort of reflection.”

“That… that could work,” I realized.

“Yeah, no shit,” Gerard muttered, pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He lit the thing and stood, walking swiftly for the basement door. Gerard was lucky to have that screen door leading outside just ten feet away from his bedroom; how else was he supposed to smoke without his parents knowing?

I remained in his bed, trying to iron out the details in my head. Although, there wasn’t much to sort. It was a simple enough idea, a video journal almost. I could always just film everything and then deal with the finer points later. Voiceovers would be nice, but I wasn’t so sure about that reflection garbage. I mean, what would I have to say about my shitty school and the shitty people that go there? Sure, I have my friends, but even when it comes to them I can’t form the words I mean to say.

I didn’t totally dismiss the idea, but I still wasn’t fond of it. I put it on the back burner mostly for Gerard’s sake; I kept the option in mind so he could go to sleep at night telling himself it was valid. Gerard is fragile like that.

Gerard returned within the next ten minutes, smelling only faintly of smoke. He made himself comfortable once again in his bed, and I did my best to try to relax a little.

But taking it easy was a lot less work at that point; I had my topic.

Notes

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