A Total Eclipse Of The Heart: 2

You know what I fucking hate?

My alarm clock.

It's a bitch. I hate it so much that I named it Phil the D-Bag and now whenever I talk about it I call it D-Bag and people tend to stare at me like I'm an idiot. Then I have to go and explain to them that 'it's my alarm clock' and 'that's what I call it' which is a pain in the ass, and I just end up hating the damned thing even more.

So this morning Phil decided to just not go off. And you know what? He probably knew that I had to get up early for a very important reason and he deliberately didn't go off just to mess with me.

And if you think I'm crazy for talking about my Alarm Clock like it's a person, then screw off. I swear the things out to get me.

"You're late."

"You don't say, Mr. Captain of the Obvious," I mumbled sarcastically to my roommate as I stumbled out into the main room of our little apartment in a dress shirt and slacks. Our sorry excuse for a living room (which consisted of bean bag chairs, an old beat up PS3 and a tiny TV that sat on top of one of those folding chairs) was to my left, our little cramped kitchen to my right. The kitchen had an open counter coming up and boxing it off, which we put barstools in front of and turned into a makeshift table. Mikey, one of my two roommates, sat on the barstool closest to the living room, still in his pajamas (a Pumpkins hoodie and Power Ranger cotton pants), his toffee colored hair tousled, his laptop open in front of him, and a blue coffee mug clutched in his hands.

"Your interview started two minutes ago and it takes probably ten to rake the rails, but its Monday morning and the things gonna be packed. It's probably quicker to run." Mikey took a sip of his coffee, and continued to click away on his laptop.

"I am aware of this, Micheal," I said, slipping into the kitchen and popping toast into the toaster.

"Here." Mikey slid a second mug of coffee across the table towards me. I hadn't noticed it but Mikey had a little pile of things next to his laptop: a black leather wallet, a key ring, a belt, a red tie, dress shoes with socks tucked into each, and a manila folder full of papers. It was all my stuff.

"I fucking love you, Mikeyway," I said, sliding across the kitchen to grab the socks out of the shoes, and hopping on one foot, awkwardly trying to get them on.

"You know I don't swing that way dude." I looked up at him, his eyes still on the computer, the bright screen reflecting on his glasses. I laughed, shaking my head, and slipping on the other sock.

By the time I was done getting my shoes, belt and tie on, my wallet and keys in my pockets, and downing my coffee, Mikey had gotten up from his computer, popped my toast, buttered it, and wrapped it neatly in a paper towel.

Mikey was like my mother, I swear. He just knew everything, the way your parents do when you're a little kid. On top of that, he had the memory of an elephant and could recite all of my interview appointments for the past month in one go, he took care of me when I was sick (which happened a lot), and he made sure I had all of my things before I left. Sometimes it bugged me that he treated me sort of like I was a child and he was the mature adult, but then I would remember that I did act like a little kid and he was way more responsible than I was, so it all sort of balanced out.

Mikey handed me the paper towel, and I was about to dash out the door before he said "I checked the weather, its ten degrees outside." And then he hitched a thumb toward the closet where my jacket was. I thanked Mrs. Way's gene pool for Mikey's smarts and saving my sorry ass from freezing to death, and then ran over to the closet, slipping on my old black leather jacket.

"Be careful!" Mikey called as I slipped out the door.

"I will, Mom!" I yelled through a mouth full of toast, and left the warm little apartment, walking down the hall and exiting out the building's front door.

Mikey was right, it was cold. The wind picked up, making its way under my jacket and freezing my face. If I had had time to shower this morning, my still wet hair would have frozen solid.

And then I realized that I hadn't showered. "Ah fuck," I muttered, discreetly smelling myself. I nearly gagged. I smelled like a fucking trash bag. I cursed myself and my alarm clock out under my breath, clutching the manila folder to my chest, and hurrying down East 84th Street. Mikey, Vannessa (our other roommate) and I lived in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, two blocks down from Central Park. Our apartment was the cheapest one we could find and it was really junkie, but you gotta do what you gotta do and when you live in New York City, sometimes you have to do some pretty bad stuff.

I ran all the way down 84th, turning onto to 3rd Ave for a million blocks and then down 42nd St to 6th Ave, running for two blocks or so and then onto 40th street all the way down another two blocks. I skidded to a stop in front of the gigantic glass building that literally scraped the sky with its massive height. The structure was 52 stories tall, over a thousand feet, and had The New York Times labeled in big black letters on the front. I bent over and put my hands on my knees breathing hard for a few seconds and staring up at the all too familiar building and then standing back up straight and checking my watch. Three miles in 23 minutes. What can I say, I ran track in High School. Running was sort of my thing. Plus I knew the route like the back of my hand; I'd been here so many times.

I was very very lucky because outside the building was an older dark skinned guy with long dreads and graying stubble selling 'Name Brand Cologne' for wicked cheap. I grinned, running over to the dude. I told him I was a local and that I knew the cologne was fake, but I'd still buy his smallest one for half the price. I ended up scoring a tiny bottle of Ralph Lauren for ten bucks, giving myself an Italian shower really quick and running inside the big glass sky scraper.

"Sir, your interview was scheduled for forty minutes ago." The uptight desk lady said, removing her hand from her computer mouse and webbing her fingers together to form a little platform for her smooth oval chin. She was new. The usual desk lady, Carmen, was really nice, and I was sort of sad that she wasn't here today.

"Aw, fuck, really?"

The lady cleared her throat disapprovingly at my language. I smiled sheepishly. "Yes, and Mr. Bryar is in his office with another client. You'll have to go home now," she said with a sharp piercing voice, staring up at me with hard green eyes.

"But that's not-" I was about to throw some sort of hissy fit right then and there because I really needed this job, but a tall man with short reddish blond hair and wide shoulders came storming out of a door made of frosted glass and labeled with the name Robert Bryar. He held the door open angrily for a young guy with wide scared eyes who skidded out of the office and left as quickly as possible.

Mr. Bryar came up to the front desk, not noticing me. "Julia, schedule me a meeting with Mikayla Bennett. We need someone else to interview for Mind Freak Productions cover story next week," He said, angrily running a hand through his hair.

Julia typed something into her computer. "Sir, Bennett is booked up to the neck in reports, we can't dump another one-"

"I don't care! This is the most important story of the month! Maybe the whole year! Gerard Way is in New York City! And we are The New York Times! There is no way in bloody hell that we're not covering this story. And I want someone good to cover it."

"'Scuse me Mr. Bryar, sir?"

Blonde dude spun around to face me, his fists balled, his face a mask of anger. He looked so angry his ears could've started steaming. And when he saw me, he just got even angrier. "Oh not you again."

I opened my mouth to say something, but Julia cut me off. "Again?"

"Julia, meet Frank Iero." He said my name like I was a terrorist or a Nazi or something. "This kid has been coming here every week for the past two months to get a job." His sigh came out in a big huge bucket of air doused in rage and lit with annoyance.

"And I totally deserve one, because I'm a good journalist!" I argue, bouncing on the tips of my toes in my own frustration.

"You're an amateur! And you're annoying as hell-"

"-didn't even look at my resume! I have a lot of good stuff in there-"

"-don't just automatically get into The New York Times! You have to work for-"

"-have talent! Potential! Don't you have a fucking heart-"

We were talking, no scratch that yelling at each other like little kids, arguing at the tops of our lungs and not even listening to what the other was saying.

"Please! Please sir. I just… just one story. Please?"

"-and whatever you do Frank, don't beg." Mikey had told me before my first interview. Oops? I guess you have to go to great measures to get what you want sometimes.

"I don't have time for this." Bryar began walking away.

"Wait sir! Please. Please, all I've wanted for my whole life is to be able to write for the New York Times. Just… just one job. I don't care if I'm only working in the mail room. Hell, I'll be your coffee boy. Whatever. Just… please?" And the puppy eyes came out. When you know you have a weapon, you use it don't you? I made my eyes real big, letting water full up the rims, and puckered my lip the tiniest bit. I'd had a lot of practice using 'that look'. I just barely passed English my junior year of High School because of it. I had the cuteness factor down to a science.

"I don't drink coffee," was all he said. He didn't even turn to tell me that. He just kept on walking, opening the door to his office, and stepping inside.

I turned toward Julia, pleading with my eyes to try and get her to say something, but she stuck her nose in the air making this little 'Hmmph' noise. I mentally flipped her The Bird and left out the glass front door.

This was ridiculous! He didn't even look at my freaking file. Who says no to a Journalist when you have no idea how the hell they write? I mean c'mon? Didn't his mommy ever tell him not to judge a book by its goddamn cover?

The guy was missing out on my amazingness, that's for sure.

"Goddamn Robert Bryar." I turned my head to see the dude from inside, throwing a bunch of papers into the trash. He looked like he was crying. "I don't need The New York Times. Fuck that. I don't need anybody." The guy wiped his face and walked away from the trashcan, heading back into the enormous hell hole that was New York City.

I started to follow his lead and sulk back to my house when I realized something.

This guy had been fired and from what it looked like, Bryar had needed someone to do a case and fast. Put two and two together and this guy had been fired for screwing up that story. Which means he had the details of the story. But he wouldn't need them anymore. And he had just thrown some papers away talking about how much of an ass hat Robert Bryar was. Bingo.

I swiveled my head to make sure no one was looking and then made a mad dash for the trashcan. I felt sort of like a bum for digging through garbage, but this could lead me to working at The New York Fucking Times. Honestly, I'd sort of do anything to work there.

I peered into the garbage can, surveying the damage. Inside is a gigantic sack of assorted papers all wrapped in neat manila folders. It seems so perfect.  Too perfect.

"Aw man," I mumbled, leaning in and nudging the papers that were doused in someone's Strawberry smoothie. It was mostly the ones on the bottom that were smothered in pink and I crossed my fingers, hoping they weren't the ones I was looking for.

I dipped my arms into the can, almost falling in, and lugged out the heavy stack of papers, leaving the wet ones inside. I carried them to a stone bench off to the side and began to look through them.

And guess what I found.

A manila folder labeled Mind Freak Productions. It was all I could do to not squeal and jump around like a school girl.

"Who's the man?" I said, getting up and dumping the rest of the papers back into the trash. "I'm the man. Frank Iero is the fucking man." I grinned uncontrollably to myself, flipping through the manila folder.

There was stuff about people working at Mind Freak and some information about where the shows were being held and such. I finally found a name that seemed familiar. Gerard Way. I had heard of him before, he was that dude who did magic or whatever. Bryar had mentioned his name inside the building, something about him coming to New York and it being the story of the year.

I knew what I had to do.

I had to write this paper, make it the best thing I'd ever written, and turn it into Bryar by next week. I had to blow his goddamn mind. And then maybe he'd start liking coffee.

But first I had to find Gerard Way.