Frank Iero and the Meaning of Life

Chapter One - Are You There, God? It's Me, Frank

I hate my fucking job.

Life ain't fair, is it? One day, you're rocking out on your guitar like a punk tornado, and the next, you're out of a job. If there's one thing that my sorry ass should take away from this tragic tale, it's that I should always expect even the closest of friends to stab me right in the back.

I work a part-time job at a Jersey Mike's tucked away in the gutters of Newark. And considering that the entirety of Newark is a glorified gutter (which I still love very much), that sure as hell is saying something. I had recently got kicked out of my new apartment, because my stupid ass decided to move into something a bit more luxury when 2013 rolled around the corner.

If only I had better foresight to realize that I would have no chance to pay off the mortgage.

The restaurant was a pile of rancid garbage. For instance, the lights only worked when they felt like it. Not to mention that the soda machine occasionally spewed out a mystery concoction that looked like vomit and smelled like rock bottom. It didn't matter too much anyway, because I was too damn short to reach the thing.

Customers that came slinking in usually looked like they had just snorted a mountain of crack before they showed up; you'd never know just who the hell would come lumbering through the door.

Oh, and did I mention that I occasionally worked the oh-so-exciting night shift? During particularly slow nights, me and my coworker Rubin would listen to the vague pops of guns in the middle of the night to entertain ourselves. We even made up a game called "was that a firework, or a drive-by?"

And the name of the goddamn place.

Mike.

As if the universe wasn't mocking my pitiful existence enough, fate also decided to put me within the walls of a place that reminded me of my past life. Every time I shot a glance at the dimly-lit sign outside, I felt a part of my soul scream in anguish. To make things even better, I got to have an even better view of it during lunch breaks. Every single time I read the word Mike, I'd grasp my sandwich as if I was strangling the life out of the entire world.

It was a perilously frigid January, the time of year in which the fun ends and the hangovers begin. Piles of slushy snow caked the corners of the polluted streets, and the smell of smog carried itself along the brisk blades of wind. Melted rivers of trash and piss glistened in the sun; stepping in such a stream would surely spell doom for your shoes. Getting out of the car was a goddamn feat in it of itself; without a proper jacket, the windchill could easily burrow underneath your skin and choke the heat out of you in seconds.

That day, in the midst of lunch rush, a scraggly stoner wandered into our shotgun shack of a restaurant. I couldn't tell if the guy was 12 or 92 years old, but either way, he reeked of weed. He stumbled up to the counter and pointed at the ingredients as if he didn't even have the balls to talk out loud. I understood exactly what he wanted, so I promptly snapped on a new rubber glove as if I were about to give a prostate exam.

But then, the guy actually had the nerve to speak.

"No, I want the lettuce...on the side," he said.

I stared at the guy in pure confusion for a few seconds, so I dumped the lettuce into a separate sandwich package.

"No. On the side."

I narrowed my eyes. I got out a sauce cup and dumped some lettuce in there.

"Man, you don't get it...on the side."

I was about ready to rip my own nuts off. I put it on the side of the actual sandwich itself.

"That's more like it..."