There’s never anyone actually interesting in these chats.
There’s me, who actually wants to discuss music, the way it feels, the lyrics’ poetic meanings, the way the drums crash like they’re my own heartbeat. And then there’s guys who might want to discuss that, but are probably here for the other occupants of the forum: girls obsessed with band members. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against them, and I fully understand geeking out over Pete Wentz (although I’ve always been more of a Stump girl) or Gerard Way or even Chester Bennington. I just keep having to switch to new forums when it’s clear that no one else wants to talk about the music, but instead have guys who claim to look like Adam Lazarra scam the email addresses and photos off those girls.
Which brings me here, to another new forum chat, scrolling through older posts about who drums harder: Travis Barker or Mike Kinsella, as the chat scrolls by on the right side of the screen. I was mindlessly scrolling, mentally agreeing or disparaging the opinions of other posters, too scared to comment. This site was pretty neat, and the account I’d had to create to post comments and chat had spaces for a list of my favorites, which I’d happily included. It also had a little bio, which I’d filled in with my name and age, as well as one of my favorite lyrics.
I kept one eye on the chat as it went, keeping up with the current discussion of how best to cut your bangs. I typed up a quick note that the best way to cut your bangs was to see a local hairdresser so you didn’t end up with Buffy season three bangs instead of the side-sweep you wanted.
Emo-ward: But is it really, truly in the spirit of punk rock if you don’t cut them yourself?
HellsBells: I think to be a real punk, you’d probably need to like different bands. To be alt, you can visit a salon or resign yourself to botched hair.
Emo-ward: Seems like the majority is going to choose the second option.
HellsBells: Well, sometimes we must suffer for the cause.
Emo-Ward wants to send you a private message. Accept. Decline.
I was stunned. No one ever requested me. My cursor hovered over “Accept”, my finger twitching. My mother, as scattered as she was, had always warned me about being too open online. What if this was like, a forty-five year old man who preyed on kids in chat rooms? What if it was a serial killer? What if it was someone from school trying to humiliate me? What if it was a kid from school who wanted to humiliate me and also did a little serial killing on the side?
Okay, I was being ridiculous. I knew nothing about this person. Hell, I hadn’t even looked at their profile. So I right-clicked the name in the chat and opened another window to his profile. Like mine, the profile had no picture, and instead had a graphic. It was Gerard Way but his hair had been edited to be bright green. I snorted, remembering my own, which was Britney Spears edited with a scene girl haircut that this chick in my Western Civ class had emailed to me as a joke after seeing the Ataris CD in my portable player. The name listed was Edward, the age as 16, and he had a lyric on his profile too.
“Watching from the floor.”
I recognized it, small as it was. It was from “Dear Maria, Count Me In”. I was a little surprised. Great song choice.
It seemed he wasn’t too sketchy.
I went back to the original page, steeled my nerves and hit “Accept.”
Emo-ward: Do you really have time in your veins?
My tongue pressed to the inside of my cheek. If this really was a sixteen-year-old boy, I was in trouble. He had just referenced the lyric in my bio, (from “Understanding In A Car Crash”: “It starts and stops and starts and stops again.”) and made it a joke. I had to one-up him.
HellsBells: Yes. I am also a pen.
Emo-ward: Where are you from, girl with time in her veins who is somehow also a pen?
I smiled at my screen. I couldn’t help it. He was kind of funny.
HellsBells: Forgive me, sir, if I’m not very specific. I’m from the Southwest. You?
Emo-ward: Well, miss, I will follow suit. I’m from the Northwest.
There was something about the way he wrote that made me want to trust him. Maybe it was that we had similar chat styles. Although… My mother had always said I talked like I was sixty. What if he was sixty?! Edward is an old man's name.
HellsBells: You kind of talk like an old guy, you know that, right?
Emo-ward: That’s because I’m 104.
HellsBells: Wow. You use the internet pretty well for a senior citizen.
Emo-ward: They had us take a class. So, what’s your favorite album right now?
I smiled. Funny, and hopefully not an old guy.
HellsBells: Will you stop talking to me if I say Take This to Your Grave?
Emo-ward: Only if you stop talking to me for saying mine is Meteora.
HellsBells: Only if you tell me your favorite song off the album is Numb. That’s where I draw the line.
Emo-ward: While that song isn’t my favorite, it’s pretty good. Anyway, the actual favorite is Somewhere I Belong.
I thought about that for a minute. I liked that song, but I hadn’t listened to it a lot. I’d have to give it another go. I had Meteora around here somewhere. I found the album in my bookshelf, put it in my portable player, and put the headphones on. I skipped to the right track, and let it play while I answered.
HellsBells: Not that you asked, but mine is Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes.
Emo-ward: Aggressive. I like it.
I burst out laughing. Out loud. In my house. On a school night. At eleven.
“Bella?” my mom called from across the hall. “Are you on the computer?”
I heard Mom start giggling. “Go to bed, kid!”
“Okay!” I grimaced at the screen. No way I was ever going to hear from this guy again. But… I had to try, right? He was funny, and he had great taste in music.
HellsBells: Well, grandpa, if you can get the orderlies at the nursing home to let you use the computer on Friday, I’ll be here. Until then, I’m not an adult and have to deal with things like school nights.
Emo-ward: I’m sorry about that. I never sleep, so my school nights are exactly like regular nights. I’ll be here.
I shook my head at that, holding in a giant smile. You know what, fuck it, I let the smile loose. It wasn’t like he could see me. And I let “Somewhere I Belong” play on repeat until I fell asleep.
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