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Jersey, Frank thinks in his less charitable moments, is nothing but asphalt and strip malls.
He's probably eaten at every diner along the highway between Newark and Trenton by the time he's sixteen.
Most weekends he's on the road with his dad, sitting in his ancient station wagon, the back filled with pieces of at least three different drum kits. The cymbals chime softly whenever they hit a pothole.
It's Jersey; there are a lot of potholes.
They stop at the Dunkin' Donuts before they get on the Parkway; coffee for his dad, hot chocolate for him. When Frank's older, it's coffee for both of them, black and sweet.
The towns they pass along the way become a familiar litany in his head, like beads on his grandmother's rosary: Newark, Elizabeth, Woodbridge, Edison, Princeton, West Windsor, Trenton. The trip only takes an hour and a half, but it's early on a Saturday morning, and neither Frank nor his father are awake enough for conversation.
It's a comfortable silence.
Sometimes Frank stares out the window at the urban landscape, Styrofoam cup warming his hands. It's stores and strip malls and fast food joints, punctuated by the occasional diner and outlet mall. Pathmark, Union Car Wash, Wawa, Monster Mini Golf, 24 Hour Fitness. Most businesses are still closed, storefronts dim and quiet.
It's like a glimpse into the secret heart of Jersey, something that feels strangely intimate somehow, like catching a beautiful girl half-dressed, buttons undone, bra strap slipping off one shoulder.
Sometimes Frank spends the trip flipping through his dad's date book, fingers tracing over the entries in cramped printing. Scheduled gigs, practices, lessons, studio time, all the minutiae of his father's life as a musician. There's a dozen business cards scattered throughout the pages, for clubs and community centers and banquet halls, for other musicians' day jobs.
Music and Jersey are inescapably entwined in Frank's head. When he thinks of either, the memories of endless hours spent in the back of smoky clubs come flooding back. What he remembers most is the sound of laughter, and old couples dancing like they were young again.
It's magical, and Frank wants that for himself.
Frank hustles for his band.
Jamia helps, too. She makes fliers for Pencey, creating awesome art that's punky and creepy, and takes them to her shit job at an office supply store. She makes copies of them when no one's looking, and then spends hours hanging them up around town.
Frank's got contacts through his father and grandfather, though a lot of those are for further south, Trenton and Camden, and Philly, or north in the city. His cousin books shows in Newark, and Pencey gets a handful of gigs through him: a VFW in Kearney, a bar mitzvah in East Orange, and at an afterschool program at the Our Lady of Fatima church. Frank's not sure about the last one, but a show is a show.
All in all, they barely make any money from the bookings, but it's not about the money. It's not, no matter what Hambone says. It's about the music, and the experience, and building up their fanbase.
Neil keeps talking about all of them moving to the city. His aunt's sister-in-law knows of a studio apartment in Brooklyn they can sublet for dirt cheap. Hambone and Tim are tempted, Frank can tell.
They go into the city to check it out and Frank knows there's no way. It's worse than a dump; there's hookers in the lobby and crack deals happening in the dark stairwell that absolutely reeks of piss.
It'll be a cold day in hell when his parents let him move into this shitty place.
The inside is worse—it's just one space, with a sheet hanging from the ceiling to partition off the 'bedroom' and 'living room.' The whole thing is about as big as his bedroom at home. There's not even a separate bathroom, just a toilet and ancient bathtub shoved into a corner with a sheet of plywood nailed haphazardly to the wall, creating a tiny measure of privacy.
Frank is careful not to touch anything, and he desperately wants a bucket of hand sanitizer.
"$1500 a month," says Neil's aunt's sister-in-law, lighting a cigarette. "Plus first and last months' rent. No deposit."
Shaun rolls his eyes at Tim while Neil and Hambone poke around the place, asking questions about the neighborhood, like there's actually a fucking chance they're moving in.
Something scuttles across the floor, too fast for Frank to identify, but it doesn't matter, Frank's out the door and down the stairs in a flash. He doesn't stop until he's in the sunlight again. He lights a cigarette and tries to ignore the way his skin is crawling.
The rest of the band exits the building a few minutes later.
"Well, that wasn't as bad as it could have been," says Hambone.
Shaun exchanges an incredulous look with Frank. "Dude, I'm willing to suffer for my art, but I don't wanna suffer like that," he says while Frank nods in vigorous agreement.
"But the rent's dirt cheap," Neil points out.
Tim chimes in with, "Really cheap."
"Motherfucker, you can't pay me to live in that shithole. Did you see the size of that rat?" Frank holds his hands about two feet apart. "Just. No."
They take the subway to the WTC station, then hop on the PATH train heading for Newark. It's a long journey, and Frank lets himself be lulled by the rhythmic click clack of the train, forehead resting against the glass of the window as the cityscape flies by.
The rest of the band talks about their options. Hambone is really pushing for them to move to the city, and Frank understands that. It's a smart decision in a lot of ways, and would give them better access to fans and to venues. Pencey could really take off.
It feels like a betrayal, though.
"The thing is," he says, his voice soft. "People always put Jersey down, because it's not New York. They act like Jersey is New York's fucking white trash little cousin that gets drunk at every party and everyone pretends not to know. But I love the place, the good and the bad, and moving to the city feels like we're giving up on Jersey, like we're selling out."
The remainder of the trip is quiet.
Jamia picks Frank up from his mom's house, bundling him into her car, and they hit the road.
It's fucking cold outside, March in Jersey, and the heat in her piece of shit car takes fucking forever to start working, but she's fiercely protective about her car, so he doesn't complain. Much. She bought it herself after scrimping and saving all through high school, working at Pathmark and babysitting her younger cousins and working at least four other minimum wage shit jobs over the years.
It's hers.
Frank pops in the cassette tape that's resting in the slot on the dashboard and the Boss' gravelly voice fills the car,
And everything dies, baby that's a fact,
But maybe everything that dies, someday comes back.
He ejects the cassette and looks at the label. Jersey Mix - For Frank, printed in blue marker.
"Jamia—" He's at a loss for words; she knows how much he digs local music.
She shrugs a little.
Frank pushes the tape back in and hunches a little in his jacket, shivering and closing his eyes as the song wraps around him.
Jamia merges onto the Parkway, heading south. "Where are we going?"
She slants a smile at him. "You'll see." She takes his hand in hers, threads their fingers together and squeezes.
The next song is some old school 80's punk, buzzing guitars and chanted hey hey heys.
"Public Disturbance, 1983," she says.
One of the many amazing things about Jamia is her ability to ferret out punk bands that even Frank has never heard of. Keeping with the Jersey theme of the mix tape, she found bands he's never heard of from Jersey.
It makes Frank think that maybe Jamia is the one.
Frank instantly recognizes the next song; he's been a Misfits fanboy for years. Later, it's Bon Jovi's rough-and-tumble ode to blue collar life. Jamia starts singing along, and there's no way that Frank can resist that, grinning at her as he joins in on the whoa ohs.
She laughs, and takes exit 102 Route 66: Asbury Ave / Asbury Park.
"Jamia, you're kidding me. The Shore? It's fucking March."
"Trust me," she says.
Asbury Park is deserted this time of year, and is just starting to recover from decades of economic depression. There's still a lot of boarded up buildings, but there's signs of growth, too: a diner, an art gallery, a coffee shop. Jamia parks near the Convention Hall and Frank feeds quarters into the meter.
It's really fucking cold. There's a breeze coming in off the ocean, and it cuts right through Frank's layers of two tee shirts, sweatshirt, hoodie and jacket. It's grey and dismal, overcast, and the water looks rough.
They walk down the deserted boardwalk. Between the wind and the waves, and the screeching of the seagulls, it's impossible to carry on a conversation, but Jamia doesn't seem to be interested in talking, anyway. He shrugs to himself, content to wait her out.
There's one dude on the beach, flying a bright red kite. It's high up in the sky, swooping and darting, buffeted by the wind. Frank thinks it's crazy, it's March, for fuck's sake, but the guy has a big grin on his face when he waves to them.
Jamia sits down at a wooden bench and stares out at the ocean. The wind's died down a little, but it's still frigid. "I want you to remember this," she says loudly.
Frank can't feel his cheeks anymore, and his eyes are watering. He's worried about his eyelashes freezing together and maybe getting frostbite. He's pretty sure he's going to lose his toes if they stay out much longer. "You want me to remember dying of hypothermia at the Shore?" he asks slowly. "Because you coulda just killed me at home, where it's warm."
Jamia laughs, shakes her head. "No, Frank. I want you to remember this." She sweeps her arm around, indicating the Convention Hall, at the line of storefronts closed for the season, the grey sky, the ocean, the empty benches along the boardwalk, the beach. "This is the heart of Jersey. And I don't want you to forget how much you love it."
"I won't—"
She barrels right over his protest. "You will. You're gonna leave Jersey eventually, you know it's going to happen. Pencey's got a bunch of songs done, and it won't be long before there's an album, and then touring—"
The wind blows her hair around, obscuring her features for a moment, but not before Frank notices the tear that streaks down her cheek. "Are you crying?" Jamia never cries.
"Fuck you, no, I'm not," she says fiercely, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. "I just don't want you to forget about Jersey, okay?"
There's a tangle of emotions in his chest for this girl that he doesn't think he's ever going to be able to straighten out. He touches the corner of her mouth, presses a kiss to her cold lips. "All right, J."
"Damn straight," she says.
They listen to the rest of the mix tape on the drive home, songs from Lifetime, the Souls, Mucky Pup, NJ Bloodline and others. "Fucking rad," he says, and means it.
There's a crack in the asphalt and a bit of greenery is struggling to grow. He recognizes the weeds as dandelions from the summers he spent mowing lawns for cash.
The flowers are bright yellow, and Frank picks one.
She loves me, she loves me not.
The flower is bedraggled, wilting, and Frank tries not to think about how homesick he is as he pulls the petals off, one by one.
She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me.
Later, when they're sitting under an awning, selling merch, Frank opens the care package he's gotten from his family. Cookies from Aunt Sarah, a little worse for wear, but still perfectly edible. Not one, but two packs of new underwear.
Frank waves the plastic packages at Gerard, taunting him. Gerard flips him off, adjusts his sunglasses and takes another sip of his coffee. To his everlasting regret, Frank knows from personal experience that Gerard ran out of underwear a week ago.
There's a phone card with a Post-It note, call me! written in his mom's spiky handwriting. An assortment of cold medicine, the good, name-brand stuff, and a couple of paperback books he's been wanting to read. At the very bottom of the box is a new guitar strap, a plain white one.
His current guitar strap is sweat-stained and grungy, gross in ways that he tries not to think too much about.
He stows the box under his rickety lawn chair and grabs a Sharpie from the pile on the table. Mikey's busy texting, Gerard's communing with his coffee, and Otter's fucked off to who-knows-where, so in between selling tee shirts and talking to fans, he doodles a heart onto the new strap.
The heart is a bit boxy, because the cotton material is stiff and doesn't take readily to curves. The ink bleeds a little, but Frank still manages to put a squarish J in the middle of the heart. Further down the strap, below the buckle, he inks the letters N and J.
He sits back and admires his handiwork. It feels right, to have Jamia and Jersey so near his heart.
Frank gets a lot of ribbing about it, but he doesn't even care.
Warped is a lot like Jersey, except for how it's not. Endless parking lots, the smell of hot asphalt, the stink of exhaust.
It doesn't feel like home, though. Frank bounces back and forth between homesick and sick sick; he's had the same fucking cold three times now, and he's really, really over it.
He crawls into his bunk and curls around his pillow, sniffling. His pillow doesn't smell like Jamia anymore, he's washed it too many times, and that makes him feel even worse.
They've pretty much been touring non-stop since they got out of the studio, gearing up for the album drop, and now that Three Cheers is out there, the pressure is on for them to prove themselves.
"Hey, Frankie, you okay?" Gerard asks, shoving at Frank and climbing into the bunk with him. The bunks aren't really designed for two people, even if one of those people is Frank. Gerard reeks, sour sweat and stale cigarettes and fresh booze, but it's familiar in its Gerard-ness.
Frank shrugs. There's nothing wrong, but there's nothing right, either. "Wanna go home," he mumbles into his pillow.
"I know," Gerard says. He squirms, wrapping his arms around Frank's waist and throwing his leg over Frank's. He holds tight to Frank and for a little while, it doesn't hurt so much.
New beginnings, he thinks.
It's the first set of shows, real shows, after Matt's gone, after Gerard's gotten sober. Philly, Pittsburgh, Boston, all in quick succession. Then Jersey, where they open for Coheed and Cambria the same day they play in Boston. After that, it's New York, Buffalo and onward.
It's absolutely terrifying, because Gerard hasn't played a show sober in years, and Bob hasn't played with them at all, except for the few super short rehearsals they get.
He doesn't have time to worry about it, because he has a limited amount of time in the area, and there's too many people he needs to see. Jamia, his parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, some of his near-age cousins, a handful of close friends.
Frank writes down meeting times and places in a date book his dad gave him for Christmas last year, and he gets a little thrill when he does that.
Philly's less than an hour away from Trenton, so he meets up with a huge chunk of his family. He hears all the family gossip: who's graduated, who's been fired, who's gotten married, who's having a baby. He tells stories about life on the road, rolls his eyes when Uncle Geno asks him when he's getting a 'real' job, laughs when his grandfather talks about almost running over Frank Sinatra. He's heard the story a hundred times before, but the way his grandfather tells it, booming voice and expansive gestures, always makes him smile.
He lets himself cling to each hug a little more than normal, because he's missed them so fucking much.
Frank's had about four hours of sleep over the last three days, and he's feeling a little punchy, but that's okay. He'll sleep when he's dead.
Hambone and some friends meet him in the city, and it's impulse that makes them detour into a tattoo shop. It's early on a Saturday afternoon and the shop is empty, and fuck yes, the artist is taking walk-ins. When they leave a couple of hours later, they have matching tattoos, a grey anchor tattooed onto their biceps, the letters N and J flanking the shank. The artist did an amazing job with the shading, and Frank loves it.
"Jersey for life, baby," Hambone crows as they leave the shop. "Jersey for life."
Later, after the tattoo heals, Frank traces over the dark lines when he misses home. It's a connection, a reminder, and it eases the ache a little.
Frank wakes one rainy morning, the tires of the bus humming on the road and thinks, I want a house.
When he talks to Jamia, there's a long, pregnant pause from her end of the phone. He fidgets and bites at his lip, trying to keep the words from tumbling out.
"We haven't talked about this," she says, which is her way of saying she's surprised.
Something twists in Frank's stomach. "You're right, you know what, never mind, it was a dumb idea—"
"Shut up, Frank," she says, and Frank stumbles to a halt. He wishes that he'd waited until he was home to bring this up, because he can't see her face and she's giving nothing away with her voice.
The silence stretches out again, and he can hear the sound of her breathing. He can't keep quiet. "I just want you—want us to have a home."
Jamia sighs. "Home is wherever you are," she says simply.
He has to swallow past the lump in his throat. "I know. I just want someplace that's ours."
"All right," she finally says, and the tension melts out of his shoulders.
His family wants them closer to Trenton, hers wants them to stay near Newark. Frank dreams of a place in the country, somewhere their future kids can raise pigs and goats, running barefoot through green fields and getting dirty.
Jamia doesn't laugh outright at him, but just barely. "Yeah, no."
A couple of days later, she calls him back.
"How about Rumson? It's close to the Shore, nice area, good schools."
The name is vaguely familiar. "What's in Rumson?"
"Bruce Springsteen," Jamia says, a touch of reverence in her voice. "Also, Jon Bon Jovi."
Frank laughs, because that's pretty awesome. He can't imagine rubbing shoulders with either the Boss or Bon Jovi, running into them at the local Pathmark, but he entertains the fantasy for a moment. "Maybe."
There's the sound of pages being flipped in the background. "Or how about Alpine? There's this big stone clock thing, they call it the Devil's Tower. Supposed to be haunted. And Joe Piscopo lives there."
"Is he still alive?"
"Apparently. Who knew? What about Ho-Ho-Kus?"
Frank shudders. "No." Every time he passes the exit for Ho-Ho-Kus, he makes fun of it. His curiosity is piqued, though. "Do you have a list?"
Jamia rattles some papers. "New Jersey Monthly has an annual 'top places to live in New Jersey' issue; this is from a couple of years ago, but I figured it was a good place to start."
"You've been saving it until now?"
"Well, yeah." She sounds surprised. "I was just waiting for you to decide it was time to look for a house."
The amount of certainty in her voice is daunting, because Frank's never felt like he deserves that, the faith Jamia has in him. "Jamia—" he says helplessly.
"Don't be an idiot," she says.
"Okay." What else can he say?
It's four in the morning when Frank gets home. He's exhausted, filthy, and hyped on too much fucking coffee. He drops his bags in the foyer, kicks off his shoes and stumbles through the house.
He's missed his girls so fucking much, a physical ache that never goes away. He only has two days before he has to catch another flight out of JFK to meet up with his band, but there was no way he was going to pass up a chance to come home and see his ladies.
He looks in on Jamia; she's sound asleep in their big comfortable bed, and Frank can't wait to crawl under the covers and spoon up behind her, breathing in her scent, stealing her warmth. They fit together perfectly, always have.
But first he heads down the hall to the nursery. The night light is barely bright enough to make out their tiny shapes; Frank is dumbfounded at how much they've grown in the last three weeks. He stands over them and watches them sleep.
Which is probably creepy, but he can't help himself.
He carefully pets the fuzz on Cherry's head, then Lily's. "Hey, ladies," he whispers. He touches Lily's tiny hand with his finger, smiling when she tries to grab hold. Her eyes flutter open and she makes an unhappy sound, fretful. "Oh, hey, no, none of that. Your sister and mom are sleeping."
She snuffles loudly enough that it wakes Cherry, who blinks sleepily, and then Lily starts crying.
"Fuck," Frank hisses softly, and he picks her up and starts rocking her gently in his arms. She quickly settles, still fractious, and Frank does what he's been doing by phone pretty much every night since he's been away from home: he starts singing.
His voice is a little croaky, and it wavers because he's fucking exhausted, but neither Lily nor Cherry seem to care. He thinks it's because his daughters have great taste in music.
Down the shore everything's all right
You and your baby on a Saturday night
You know all my dreams come true
When I'm walking down the street with you
He looks down at the tiny human in his arms, and it takes his breath away, the realization that he and Jamia somehow managed to create not one, but two perfect little people. It's a joy, and a terrible burden, and he wonders why Jamia went along with the whole crazy idea. She's usually the sane one, the one who slams on the brakes when Frank steers them toward the cliff—
Lily tearfully hiccups, and Frank concentrates on keeping his voice soft.
Sing sha la la la, sha la la la, sha la la la
Sha la la la I'm in love with a Jersey girl
Sha la la la, sha la la la, sha la la la
Lily yawns, and when Frank looks at Cherry, she's already fast asleep again. He tucks Lily back into her crib, rubbing her little tummy.
"Come to bed, Frank," Jamia says softly, and she's in the doorway, looking so beautiful in her old ratty bathrobe that it hurts.
He goes.
There's nothing like a hometown show.
Well, it's not exactly his hometown, but he's played the Starland so many times, seen so many shows there over the years, that it's close enough.
There's something about being back in Jersey, an electric feeling in the air, like a thunderstorm about to happen. It starts when they pass the 'Welcome to New Jersey' sign after they cross the Delaware River, and continues to build once they're on the Turnpike.
Frank looks out the window, watches the scenery zoom by, and there's an easing of the tension in his shoulders, across his chest. It's like he can breathe again.
Tomorrow they're in Lancaster, which is close enough that he can spend the night with his family, and then it's another three weeks or so on the road. It's hard, being away, and he does his best to take advantage of every moment he does have with them.
There's a great crowd at the Starland. Frank's shit with names, but he remembers their faces, the way they smile and laugh and cry.
He's got his whole family here; they pretty much take up all of the side stage, and he's so excited that his kids are here, too. The girls are finally old enough that he thinks they'd like to see him performing on stage, and Jamia agrees.
Miles is just happy to be up past his bedtime.
He coaxes the kids out on stage, and the girls are a little shy, but when he lowers the mic, Miles doesn't hesitate, just grabs hold. Frank's down on his knees, still a little taller than Cherry and Lily, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Jamia, a tiny smile on her face.
The twins dance a little, mostly mesmerized by the sea of people in front of them, but Miles is a born performer, sharing the mic with him and singing, not the words to joyriding, of course, but it's the thought that counts.
Evan and Rob are making faces at the kids, and Frank presses a kiss to Miles’ head. Lily sidles closer, sharing the mic with Miles, and the happiness on her face just stuns him. He's smiling so much that it's difficult to sing.
Cherry's staring out at the crowd, and he rubs his sweaty face against the back of her arm; it surprises her and when she turns around, he can see her 'ew' face and she's laughing, laughing and the joy he's feeling makes the world seem like a better, brighter place.
"Thank you, New Jersey, and goodnight!"