Once in a blue moon, I get the mean reds.
Part three of slob, very late but longer than the other two. Well, a bit longer. And with Pete Wentz (though I'm not sure if that's any real compensation.
You go back to your own apartment to make yourself a coffee and grab your cigarettes. You do this because there are smoke stains on Gerard’s kitchen ceiling. Not nicotine stains but big, black, saved-by-the-fire-extinguisher burn marks that have bubbled the paint and left a thin layer of ash which breaks away when you brush your fingers against it. These marks probably have something to do with the sparks that occasionally shoot out from the plug sockets under the counter so, because you really, really don’t want to deal with an electrical fire before you’ve got some caffeine in your bloodstream, you edge out of the kitchen and back up the fire escape.
You almost don’t go back. The place is unlocked, sure, but it’s not like the kid has anything to steal and besides, it’s his own fault for leaving like that. He can’t expect you to run around after him, right? Right.
Except you’re kind of curious about Gerard now that you’ve seen his apartment. It doesn’t suit him. He’s all soft and shy (well, he isn’t but he is) and you’d half expected him to have scented candles and shit all over the place, all artsy and delicate. After all, he acts like he does, doesn’t seem to have noticed that he’s living in squalor with no one but a nameless cat and an over-loud wino for company. He flits along, apparently oblivious to the final demands that are piling up in his mailbox (not that you checked; yours is right next to it, you don’t really have a choice except to see them) or the eviction notice you saw tacked to his door last week (although he must have noticed that, because he’s singed it, crumpled it and thrown it on top of his overflowing trash can). It’s just weird.
So weird that your original plan for today, which involved practically blanket bombing local outfits with copies of your resume, is rejected in favour of just…looking. Because you’re fascinated. Which is weird in itself, because it usually takes three or four joints to get you this fixated on one thing, and even then you tend to focus on blank walls or people’s hair or that girl’s feet when she wore toe socks and you’re not entirely sure Gerard belongs on that list, even if you kind of want to touch his hair and are intrigued by his surprisingly blank walls.
It’s not that you’re snooping or anything. You’re not. Just because you stuff the letter you’re trying to decipher under the threadbare couch cushions as soon as there’s a knock on the door, doesn’t mean you’re doing anything you should feel guilty about. It’s just a reflex. Obviously. A pointless one as it turns out, because you open the door to find Pete in full flow.
He’s got out “Hey there, can you tell the guy upstairs that Pete came by and he should call the -” before you’ve even got the door halfway open, breaking in to a grin (that kinda sorta reaches his eyes) when he sees it’s you. “Bob!” he crows, leaning in and then pulling back just as quickly, eyes narrowed. “This isn’t your apartment, right? I haven’t been harassing some poor schmuck upstairs for fifteen minutes? You’re in the wrong place?”
“I’m upstairs, yeah. You should know.”
“I do, I do. I thought you were out, I’m just here to leave a message.” Another of those narrow-eyed pauses. “What are you doing here?”
“House sitting.” It comes out automatically, and isn’t technically a lie. “The guy’s lost his key, wanted me to keep an eye on the place while he went to get a new one cut.”
“You’re playing guard dog? In your pyjamas?”
“He was in a hurry. And it’s not like I have anything to dress up for.”
Pete tuts, shaking his head at your lacklustre ensemble. “Yeah? What if I said I was going to whisk you away some place romantic and let you eat caviar off my nipples?”
You make a show of considering this, then, finally: “Well, in that case I would call you a cocksucking liar.”
Pete laughs. “Guilty on both. Not that you’re complaining, huh? Gonna let me in?”
You consider, very briefly, whether or not you know Gerard well enough to fuck on his couch. Whatever. He owes you, and the couch already has an unmistakable broken in feel to it. “Sure.”
*
It takes effort to have a conversation with Pete. His words are carefully coded to convey maximum meaning with the minimum of clarity. An example: When Pete says, “Have you got a job yet? No? That sucks, man. But I might be able to help you out. This guy I know, don’t think you’ve met him, but this guy has a studio, new place, and he needs tech support like you wouldn’t believe, total dreamer no idea what he’s doing, just wants in. I mean there are a couple of guys with some serious paperwork buzzing round him, but I figure I can get your foot in the door.” What he means is: “Jesus Bryar, you’re pathetic. Do you have any idea how much you need me? Yes, need. If I have the time (and if you make it worth my while) I may deign to drop your name with one of my many people because, pathetic as you are, I like you. Your inability to achieve in the most basic areas of life gives me a pleasing feeling of smug superiority. You also give pretty good head. Speaking of which…”
The worst of it is that you know this, you can tell what he’s thinking, but you don’t dare do anything about it. You don’t dare to say, haul off and punch him in his fucking mouth (and then fucking keep punching, because he’s an asshole for doing this and you’re an asshole for letting him) in case he’s actually telling you the truth. In case he says something remotely honest. Because you really, really want what he’s promising you.
Actually, no; the worst of it is the fact that he puts on this huge act at the end of it all. He’ll remember something important and run out on you while you can still taste him, and it’s not that you want him around, you just hate the way he never says, “Thanks. Here’s your cash. Til next time.” It’s always a fucking performance, always “Did you get that job? No? That sucks, man. Look, do you want me to spot you some until next time? Strictly a loan, right? Three hundred to tide you over?”
Or maybe the worst of it is just that you don’t just say yes, you fucking thank the bastard.
*
Gerard doesn’t seem surprised to see Pete. “Hey,” he calls, bright and clear as always. “Wow, you’re like, early. Don’s friend, right? He said you’d come and help out but I wasn’t expecting you til like, five minutes before the main event. This is totally sweet of you.”
“No,” Pete replies, looking (for the first time since you’ve known him) wrong-footed, less than completely sure of himself. “I’m Pete? I was just looking for Bob?”
“Oh, oh right. Okay. That makes a lot more sense. And Bob, dude, if you’re coming tonight you should go and start sprucing because, you know, we’re casual but we’re not at a nightwear level of relaxed.”
“Tonight?” Pete asks. You shrug.
“People. Alcohol. Together. You know how it goes,” Gerard says. “Weed at six, vodka at eight, an orgy by midnight. You’d totally enjoy it.”
Pete grins and starts out of the door. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
Gerard looks at him, the kind of square, steady look you’ve never been able to give Pete. The kind that puts you on the same footing as him. The kind that lets you judge him. “I don’t know,” is Gerard’s eventual conclusion. “You look kind of busy. You’ll have something more important to do.” You realise, perhaps before Pete does, that this is an instruction. You try not to smile too much until he’s gone.
You go back to your own apartment to make yourself a coffee and grab your cigarettes. You do this because there are smoke stains on Gerard’s kitchen ceiling. Not nicotine stains but big, black, saved-by-the-fire-extinguisher burn marks that have bubbled the paint and left a thin layer of ash which breaks away when you brush your fingers against it. These marks probably have something to do with the sparks that occasionally shoot out from the plug sockets under the counter so, because you really, really don’t want to deal with an electrical fire before you’ve got some caffeine in your bloodstream, you edge out of the kitchen and back up the fire escape.
You almost don’t go back. The place is unlocked, sure, but it’s not like the kid has anything to steal and besides, it’s his own fault for leaving like that. He can’t expect you to run around after him, right? Right.
Except you’re kind of curious about Gerard now that you’ve seen his apartment. It doesn’t suit him. He’s all soft and shy (well, he isn’t but he is) and you’d half expected him to have scented candles and shit all over the place, all artsy and delicate. After all, he acts like he does, doesn’t seem to have noticed that he’s living in squalor with no one but a nameless cat and an over-loud wino for company. He flits along, apparently oblivious to the final demands that are piling up in his mailbox (not that you checked; yours is right next to it, you don’t really have a choice except to see them) or the eviction notice you saw tacked to his door last week (although he must have noticed that, because he’s singed it, crumpled it and thrown it on top of his overflowing trash can). It’s just weird.
So weird that your original plan for today, which involved practically blanket bombing local outfits with copies of your resume, is rejected in favour of just…looking. Because you’re fascinated. Which is weird in itself, because it usually takes three or four joints to get you this fixated on one thing, and even then you tend to focus on blank walls or people’s hair or that girl’s feet when she wore toe socks and you’re not entirely sure Gerard belongs on that list, even if you kind of want to touch his hair and are intrigued by his surprisingly blank walls.
It’s not that you’re snooping or anything. You’re not. Just because you stuff the letter you’re trying to decipher under the threadbare couch cushions as soon as there’s a knock on the door, doesn’t mean you’re doing anything you should feel guilty about. It’s just a reflex. Obviously. A pointless one as it turns out, because you open the door to find Pete in full flow.
He’s got out “Hey there, can you tell the guy upstairs that Pete came by and he should call the -” before you’ve even got the door halfway open, breaking in to a grin (that kinda sorta reaches his eyes) when he sees it’s you. “Bob!” he crows, leaning in and then pulling back just as quickly, eyes narrowed. “This isn’t your apartment, right? I haven’t been harassing some poor schmuck upstairs for fifteen minutes? You’re in the wrong place?”
“I’m upstairs, yeah. You should know.”
“I do, I do. I thought you were out, I’m just here to leave a message.” Another of those narrow-eyed pauses. “What are you doing here?”
“House sitting.” It comes out automatically, and isn’t technically a lie. “The guy’s lost his key, wanted me to keep an eye on the place while he went to get a new one cut.”
“You’re playing guard dog? In your pyjamas?”
“He was in a hurry. And it’s not like I have anything to dress up for.”
Pete tuts, shaking his head at your lacklustre ensemble. “Yeah? What if I said I was going to whisk you away some place romantic and let you eat caviar off my nipples?”
You make a show of considering this, then, finally: “Well, in that case I would call you a cocksucking liar.”
Pete laughs. “Guilty on both. Not that you’re complaining, huh? Gonna let me in?”
You consider, very briefly, whether or not you know Gerard well enough to fuck on his couch. Whatever. He owes you, and the couch already has an unmistakable broken in feel to it. “Sure.”
*
It takes effort to have a conversation with Pete. His words are carefully coded to convey maximum meaning with the minimum of clarity. An example: When Pete says, “Have you got a job yet? No? That sucks, man. But I might be able to help you out. This guy I know, don’t think you’ve met him, but this guy has a studio, new place, and he needs tech support like you wouldn’t believe, total dreamer no idea what he’s doing, just wants in. I mean there are a couple of guys with some serious paperwork buzzing round him, but I figure I can get your foot in the door.” What he means is: “Jesus Bryar, you’re pathetic. Do you have any idea how much you need me? Yes, need. If I have the time (and if you make it worth my while) I may deign to drop your name with one of my many people because, pathetic as you are, I like you. Your inability to achieve in the most basic areas of life gives me a pleasing feeling of smug superiority. You also give pretty good head. Speaking of which…”
The worst of it is that you know this, you can tell what he’s thinking, but you don’t dare do anything about it. You don’t dare to say, haul off and punch him in his fucking mouth (and then fucking keep punching, because he’s an asshole for doing this and you’re an asshole for letting him) in case he’s actually telling you the truth. In case he says something remotely honest. Because you really, really want what he’s promising you.
Actually, no; the worst of it is the fact that he puts on this huge act at the end of it all. He’ll remember something important and run out on you while you can still taste him, and it’s not that you want him around, you just hate the way he never says, “Thanks. Here’s your cash. Til next time.” It’s always a fucking performance, always “Did you get that job? No? That sucks, man. Look, do you want me to spot you some until next time? Strictly a loan, right? Three hundred to tide you over?”
Or maybe the worst of it is just that you don’t just say yes, you fucking thank the bastard.
*
Gerard doesn’t seem surprised to see Pete. “Hey,” he calls, bright and clear as always. “Wow, you’re like, early. Don’s friend, right? He said you’d come and help out but I wasn’t expecting you til like, five minutes before the main event. This is totally sweet of you.”
“No,” Pete replies, looking (for the first time since you’ve known him) wrong-footed, less than completely sure of himself. “I’m Pete? I was just looking for Bob?”
“Oh, oh right. Okay. That makes a lot more sense. And Bob, dude, if you’re coming tonight you should go and start sprucing because, you know, we’re casual but we’re not at a nightwear level of relaxed.”
“Tonight?” Pete asks. You shrug.
“People. Alcohol. Together. You know how it goes,” Gerard says. “Weed at six, vodka at eight, an orgy by midnight. You’d totally enjoy it.”
Pete grins and starts out of the door. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
Gerard looks at him, the kind of square, steady look you’ve never been able to give Pete. The kind that puts you on the same footing as him. The kind that lets you judge him. “I don’t know,” is Gerard’s eventual conclusion. “You look kind of busy. You’ll have something more important to do.” You realise, perhaps before Pete does, that this is an instruction. You try not to smile too much until he’s gone.