XOXO// Frank Iero

Two

Kit

Friday

The sun beat down on Trenton that afternoon like nothing I'd seen before. A heatwave, they were calling it. Sounds about right. I wore my Bad Religion T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts that Marlowe let me borrow for the day. Joey was letting me off at 7, because I had a gig to get to in Rockwood at 7:30, a date for my fake ID and me.

I sat down on my spinning chair behind the counter and prepared myself for an hour of nothing to do. Luckily for me, Joey had a turntable, and I was welcome to play any of the records from behind the counter that I wished; however, the selection was poor, the best of them being something by Generation X, which was my usual choice.

Looking under the counter, I saw that nobody had come to claim the diary. If I wasn't the only person below the age of 40 working in that shop, then maybe I would consider that it belonged to a co-worker of mine. I picked it up where I left off the night before.

Dear Diary.
Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I love what I see. Sometimes. More often than not, I see an ugly, unloved motherfucker who's a punching bag for the people who should love him. I let Dad and Marina treat me like crap, but I take it out on people who I actually care about, like my bandmates and my friends in school. I keep getting into fights at school, and I get in way too deep, but I just fucking love how it makes me feel. Last week, I kicked the shit out of Harry Moore after we argued over something dumb, and he was bloody-nosed, black-eyed, and everything. I guess that's why being in a punk band suits me so well. I can go to a gig and thrash my fucking guitar around or jump in a mosh pit and just fucking bash off of anyone that I please. Maybe that's a bit cocky of me, considering I'm kind of short as fuck, but I've never seen anyone throw it down harder than me in a mosh pit, so maybe not. Sometimes I wish I could be gentle. I wish I could hold someone and be sweet and quiet, but I feel like that guy from that book, Of Mice and Men, who kills everything he touches. Or maybe I just don't deserve to be loved. 
XOXO- Me

I sighed and put the diary away. Holy fucking shit, this guy has some deep-seated problems. I felt for him, though. It wasn't like I could relate to all of that—maybe the metaphorical idea of being a punching bag for someone—but he didn't mean it metaphorically; he was actually a punching bag for this Marina girl.

He said he was in a punk band. I've seen every punk band in Jersey at this point; I probably even met the dude who owns this. I ran through all the options in my head for who it could be. It made me nauseatingly sad, because then I really started to think that whoever was writing this was actually a real person, and if I ever did meet him, I didn't know what he was going through. In fact, I never know what anyone is going through.


Four people came in during my hour-long shift. I sold a copy of the Nirvana live album and also a David Bowie compilation. In my time at Joey's, I never sold a single guitar or bass, and I wish I could've. I always practiced helping someone pick one out. I don't play guitar or bass, but I've been to so many gigs and hung out with so many musicians that I know all about them.

At 7, I officially closed up shop and met Marlowe, who was outside waiting for me. The air was still warm outside, and I smiled as I felt the breeze on my bare legs.

"Marlowe!" I embrace the shorter girl, squealing as we see each other.

Marlowe was wearing a pink tartan print skirt and fishnet tights, paired with a white Black Flag top I loaned her when we were sophomores that was yet to be returned to me. We were juniors in high school at that point. She just accepted it as hers now, which I planned to do with her denim shorts.

Walking to the venue, we talked about how excited we were for this gig, Heckle were headlining, with two opening bands.

Sycamore Street was filled with young punks and metalheads scattered around outside Rockwood with drinks in their hands, talking, and smoking. You could vaguely hear the band upstairs sound-checking. Marlowe and I made our way inside and ordered ourselves something to drink.

As Marlowe and I navigated through the bustling crowd, my attention was momentarily diverted by a sudden collision. I felt a jolt as someone bumped into me, causing me to stumble and spill my drink.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" I exclaimed, annoyance creeping into my voice as I glanced at the person who'd just bumped into me.

The guy was small, maybe an inch shorter than me, with an expression just as annoyed as mine plastered on his face.

"Watch where I'm going?!" He scoffed, "You walked into me!"

I rolled my eyes at the black-haired guy. I would've guessed he was my age, barring a few tattoos on his neck and arms, so maybe 18
or 19. He wore an Against Me! T-shirt that, under any other circumstance, would've received a compliment from me. I'm sure he felt the same about my Bad Religion shirt.

"I didn't fucking walk in to you; my drink is all over the floor, not yours!"

"Oh, fuck off!" He rolled his eyes.

Before the argument could escalate any further, a man appeared beside me, his presence commanding attention. He looked between us with a furrowed brow, clearly sensing the tension in the air.

"Here, leave her alone, buddy." He shook off the guy who knocked my drink. "I'll get you another." He directed his attention to me.

"Your scorpion tattoo only has 7 legs, dipshit!" I shouted as the guy who spilled my drink walked away.

The man, who I'd guess was in his mid-forties, bought me another drink, one for Marlowe too, and on any other day I would've said no, but not this time. He told me his name was Ed, and he was the promoter who was putting on tonight's gig, and the guy who had spilled my drink was in one of the opening bands. That's why he ran away so fast at the sight of him.

"I really like this venue." I said to Ed, putting a straw in my lemonade. "I want to see Lagwagon here. They're playing on my birthday, but the tickets are all sold out." I frowned.

Ed nodded. "You know what? I'm actually the promoter putting on the Lagwagon show."

My eyes widened in surprise. "No way! That's awesome!"

He grinned. "Yeah, it's going to be a killer show. Tell you what, since you're such big fans, how about I put you and your friend here on the guest list? Consider it an early birthday present."

My jaw dropped in disbelief. "Seriously? That would be incredible!"

Marlowe's eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh my god, thank you so much, Ed! You're the best!"

Ed waved off our thanks with a modest smile. "No problem at all. Just make sure you rock out extra hard for me, alright?"

Once everything started upstairs, I watched the guy who spilled my drink's band from the bar. They were called Pencey Prep, and unfortunately, they were great. Drink-Boy was the singer, and he played rhythm guitar.

Marlowe danced, and I, too petty, refused to dance or even nod my head.

"This song is called Yesterday."

And god. It was a fucking good song.