Like Ghosts in the Snow ▹ ▶︎ Gerard Way

▶︎ Cherilynn.

▶︎ Cherilynn.

August 4, 2002

Belleville, New Jersey

"The fuck are you going?"

"Work."

"Well, bust your ass a bit more. 'Cause we're two months behind on rent."

I didn't say anything.

He was drunk, anyway. Bet he'd forget I was even gone in the first place.

I disliked- no, hated Belleville with a burning passion. I despised every inch of the cracked pavement that collided against my busted sneakers, David- the shithead I had as a boyfriend, every rundown store that had turned into an illicit canvas for street artists, and the scowling people that shoved past me- I hated it all. But what I hated the most in this damn place was my job.

At only nineteen years of age, I'd already lost my "youthful shine," or whatever the fuck old ladies on TV call it, to Tucker's- the dingy old bar I worked at. Throughout the almost 3 years I'd been working there, I'd dealt with more puke, fights, and gross, old dudes than I'd like to admit. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to quit.

Over the years, I'd gained some odd sort of loyalty for that shitty place. Maybe it was because Tucker, my boss, was the only dude careless enough to hire a seventeen-year-old back when I first stumbled into his bar looking for a job. Or maybe it was because working there gave me an excuse to see Frank, my best friend- my only real friend- every day.

Frank was this tiny firecracker, not much taller than me, that always hung around and skated in this giant, abandoned parking lot in front of Tucker's. We met on my second day at the job. I got a little too distracted by my broken nail, and he got distracted by god-knows-what (knowing him, it could've been anything, really,) and he ended up skating directly into me.

Long story short, a bitching match, a few laughs, and some humorous flirting later, we became friends. And now I'd been keeping up with his shit and smuggling him alcohol from the backdoor of the bar for the last 2 years. But even if our friendship was based on illicit drinking and inappropriate jokes, it was pretty healthy, honestly. So as I walked through the heavy, rusted doors of the bar, all that kept me from turning on my heel and leaving was knowing I'd get to talk to Frank during my lunch break.

"Well, if it isn't my little star!" Tucker's booming voice overpowered the loud, drunken chatter- it made me subconsciously recoil. "How's my Charlie girl doing?"

2 years later, he still thought my name was Charlene. And I'd never really bothered to correct him because I didn't want an asshole who got uncomfortably touchy with girls less than half his age to call me by my real name. So as he slung his flabby arm over my shoulders and pulled me into an uncomfortable, unsolicited hug, I bit my tongue and went one more day without correcting him.

"Well, if it isn't Tucker's little bitch!"

Oh, great.

I couldn't even get two steps behind the bar before Amelia, this fire-hydrant redhead whose tits were faker than the little "innocent girl" act she put on to get more tips, started throwing shit at me. Since the first day I started working at Tucker's, she'd made it her duty to make my life impossible and to turn everyone else against me.

And I guess it worked since I couldn't even turn a corner without getting nasty looks from one of my co-workers, but it wasn't like I even cared. David was sickeningly jealous of all my friends, and keeping my friendship with Frank secret was stressful enough, so I really didn't need another person to hide from my boyfriend. I guess the isolation did bother me, at first, but I was used to it now.