Home Sweet Home | Gerard Way

1

THIS IS HOW THINGS look.
Summit, New Jersey. Red Oaks Apartments, six worn buildings pushed away from the world and off a minor highway. Across the dangerous intersection is a filthy strip mall with nail salons and a pawn store that has cheaply made commercials airing all the time. There's also a drugstore and tiny, foreign restaurants-where Gerard brings me to treat me to a meal or a new tube of lip gloss-even though every business opening and closing within a couple months.

Red Oaks is nice enough if you don't expect much. It is nice enough if it is all you can afford, too. The stairs are fragmented but stable, the washing machines always work, and management stays on track with picking up the trash at least once a week.

There are a group of mothers resting in fraying lawn chairs in front of their buildings, trailer-trash-mannered children running about. One dog lays in the shade, its tail jerking away whenever a child comes over to tug on it before running away, giggling.

The guy who lives in the furthest building, the "mechanic" guy, is outside, a pile of stolen or thrown-away parts spill all around his knees and palms. Phony mechanic guy has been here as long as I have. His name is Ray but I do not associate with men who are physically dirty. Black oil streaks on his forearms, filthy white T-shirt covered in stains that are beknoweth of the world.

Still, he huffs when he sees that one man, the one whose sister is quiet and, sadly, a little slow, parks into the space next to his? See how he observes the girl getting out of the car? She is a skinny thing. Boney legs with chopped up hair and evident healing injuries. Homeschooled-or was-because of how she is, how she thinks, or so I heard someone say once when I was washing some clothes. There are no secrets around here, not with everyone living so close together. The residents here are not afraid to talk bad about anyone.

"Gerard!" Ray waves. His eyes are squinted, sweat dripping from his brow.

Gerard does not react, he only nods.

Chills from the grocery store, from the dairy aisle I walked down to pick up the yogurt, from the frozen-foods aisle. Large cases filled with ice cream containers and thin, cold pizzas.

Chills, getting out of the truck, foot clinking over something metallic, a piece of car or bike lying on the ground.

Do not stop to look down. Do not stop to look at the man. Do not make eye contact. Keep walking and ignore.

Stepping up the chipped stairs, Gerard's footsteps right behind me. Listening to him pause, grinning at the one open apartment door, the African family on the second floor. The one where there are always children running in and out. Sometimes, their TV or radio turned up so loud at night Gerard must go down there and knock on the door. Say, could you possibly turn it down? Thank you so much.

"Was that guy in the parking lot looking at you?" Gerard questions when I walk into the living space. As soon as the door clinks closed he turned the locks, one, two, three. Better safe than sorry, he always says. Better safe than smart, he once told me. But that is not how he does things. That is not how things go on in his mind.

Shake my head no. No, no. Even if he did look, it would never be at me.

No one really looks at me.

Gerard puts the groceries away, yogurt in the fridge, his oatmeal in its single packets in the coffee grounds/filters cabinet. Five apples, one for each day when Gerard doesn't want oatmeal for breakfast. Five TV dinners that I will heat up every night for him unless he brings something home. Something only for him, not for me.

He comes over to the couch, holding out a glass of water so cold the side are blurry, ice cubes clinking inside. My palms facing up to the ceiling, waiting. Blisters and crusty, dead skin make small circles and blobs on my hands.