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Gerard’s been working at the diner for about four months now and the free coffee and stale bagels still haven’t gotten old yet, the jukebox in the corner that keeps playing Elvis records like it’s all they want to hear for the rest of their lives has though.
He tried fixing it, jimmying it open with a too big screwdriver, only to end up with an invisible bruise on the back of his head (that hurt really fucking badly for a week) when his skates got all twisted up in the wires, almost setting him on fire, and Bob smacked him upside the head for being so stupid. After that he just unplugged it, let Bob turn the radio in the kitchen all the way up, and listened to static-y college radio stations that played nothing but Black Sabbath and Motley Crue and Led Zeppelin on good days. On bad days, little old ladies who try reclaiming their youth by staying up late and watching movies at the refurbished theater downtown come by at around one, clucking their tongues and shaking their heads until Gerard plugged the jukebox back in and Elvis’ voice came crooning out.
If Gerard’s honest, he really doesn’t mind the old bats. Most of them remind him of his family with their loud voices, big hair, and interesting fashion choices. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to get your cheeks pinched a few times a month with a “it’s a good thing you’re cute, kid” or a “nuh-uh, too skinny, we need to fatten you up” thrown into the mix.
He’s not really sure about the skinny comments though; after caving in and eating the days’ leftover desserts with Bob while waiting for Polly, the waitress who works the shift after him, to show up he’s without a doubt gained a few pounds. He’s trying to ignore that in favor of debating whether or not skating from one end of the room to the next a few dozen times a day counts as exercise (it totally does).
As far as Gerard’s concerned, if it causes physical pain it counts as exercise…and Gerard is in a lot of pain. His feet fucking ache. You try wearing roller skates for eight hours a night and not get blisters that hurt like a mother of a cocksucking bitch. His hips kind of hurt too but that’s probably just from banging into the countertop over and over and over again like an imbecile.
It’s all worth it in the end though, all of his parents’ “how long have you been working there, now”’s and Mikey’s “just make sure all your paychecks are on time, dude”’s and Lindsey’s “do you always smell like this?”. To answer her question, no, Gerard does not always smell like a deep fried tube sock…it just depends on when she’s asking.
Gerard gets home at around five thirty AM every day and falls into bed, skates sometimes still on, and sleeps for a few hours. When he wakes up he trudges to his bathroom, filling up the tub with hot water and the bath salts his mom bought him as a housewarming gift and then as a Christmas gift and then as a birthday gift, and soaks for an hour, sometimes falling asleep sometimes staring at the ceiling imagining that all the cracks spell out something important. Other times Lindsey will break in (“it’s not breaking in if I have a key” she’d say) and lean back against the side of the tub while Gerard sinks just a bit lower, practicing her bass.
They’d met in art school, they’d fucked in art school, and they came out in art school. It’s only natural that they’d be lost without each other.
It’s not so bad though, working the graveyard shift that is, from nine to five Gerard thrives. It’s been this way since he was a kid - staying up late with a flashlight in one hand and a comic book in the other. Another great thing about his hours is the lack of work he has to do. This, on its own, severely decreases the chances of Gerard skating up to a table, platter in each hand, tripping over his own two feet and going flying, maybe smashing his nose on the table in the process.
Gerard’s gotten his fill of falling in public back in high school and he’s pretty sure blood stains are hard to get out, he wouldn’t know – his mom did all of his laundry back then.
His nights mostly consist of banging out sketches of unsuspecting customers and playing poker with Bob at three and skating around the diner at four when it’s always completely empty. It’s all so easy. He doesn’t even have to worry about uniforms! He met the owners, an elderly couple with south Philly accents, once when he first applied for the job and that was it. They’re somewhere in south Florida playing golf and drinking lemonade (if Gerard was a happily married elderly person retired in Florida that’s what he’d do…thank god he’s never moving out of the tri-state area); they’re alive and that’s all Gerard cares about because it means that, yes, they are aware that they have dirt poor artists fresh out of art school working for them.
The diner is ugly and old with its patterned linoleum floors, peeling wallpaper, and booths that look like someone took a switchblade to them, which doesn’t do much for the whole ‘loyal customers’ aspect. Not to say that they don’t have a few loyal customers; there are the old women, four college punks who meet here once a week at eleven, and then there’s Frank.
Frank’s… Frank’s the kind of guy every boy in art school wanted to be like: handsome (pretty), dangerous (can drive a motorcycle without killing himself), and has a reason to be up this late that doesn’t involve a Star Wars marathon (bartending). Or, okay, maybe Frank’s the kind of guy Gerard couldn’t decide if he wanted to be or fuck in art school. Right now though? He’s leaning pretty heavily towards the fuck side of things.
They’re kind of – they don’t – they have a thing. This thing involves Gerard drawing a fuck load of sketches of Frank, some of which are given to said boy, and free milkshakes and a whole hell of a lot of Gerard waiting around for Frank to show up at two. It involves a lot of crooked smiles and cheesy winks and several interruptions from Bob in the form of, “is this guy bothering you, Gee”.
And then everything changes when Frank corners him, trapping him against the counter, and kisses him. Frank’s kisses are fast and greedy and they make Gerard's knees wobble which makes him lose his balance on his skates and if he falls right now he's going to have to murder someone. Frank laughs against his lips and wraps his arms around Gerard's waist, pulling him in close with a soft sigh. He says, "You know, you kind of suck at roller skating."
If this were any other time those would be fighting words, but Frank tastes like apple pie and cigarettes and something else that Gerard can't quite put his finger on, but is probably never going to forget so he's more than happy to let it slide, for now.
"Gerard," Bob groans, and Gerard doesn't have to turn around to see the way he's pinching the bridge of his nose in mock annoyance. He doesn't really give a shit though, nowhere in his employee manual did it say "no, Gerard, you are not allowed to make out with hot customers" so he flips him off and nips at Frank's bottom lip.
Yeah, working at the diner has its cons, but when the pros are being kissed by a tattooed, motorcycle driving, sweet-tooth having punk Gerard's pretty sure it's all worth it in the end.