Chapter 1 Stanza Buia #3
There’s more I could tell him about my life.
How I have a part-time job in the uni’s call centre as a student adviser.
How I should be looking for a better job now I’m graduating, but it’s hard to be optimistic about anything with the planet crumbling into decline and chaos while we all pretend it isn’t.
How my family still want me to marry a woman.
How I daydream of my own bachelor pad but can’t afford a rental in a housing crisis.
How being unable to host hasn’t stopped me going through the men of Perth like water, because unbridled hedonism is the only thing that makes me feel alive.
But Charlie’s lukewarm expression tells me he wants me to wrap it up.
‘What about you, then?’ I ask, and my shoulders relax as I turn the microscope on him instead. ‘Still doing the music thing?’
Charlie’s eyes light up. ‘Doing it? Dude, I’m living it.’
The longer Charlie goes on, the more I realise he isn’t living his dream either.
He’s reeling off the same lines from years ago about his puny Soundcloud, his lacklustre Spotify, his failed attempts at Triple J Unearthed.
What’s new is his TikTok, where he’s had a few videos go low-grade viral but not lead to any real increase in streams; his new songs, with titles like ‘Penetration’, ‘Cannibal’ and ‘Cocksucker’; and how he’s occasionally playing guitar for a band called Hectic Lettuce he seems convinced is famous, but I’ve never heard of.
Charlie plans to record an album but needs more cash, so he’s working at some new bar that opens next week.
My nods get more enthusiastic the longer he speaks. I realise he needs to imagine his dream is going somewhere. When he’s talking in circles and I can’t stand to hear the word ‘streaming’ one more time, I say, ‘Do you ever run into the old crew? From our hostel days?’
Charlie looks almost relieved to be interrupted, like he was a record needle stuck in a vinyl rut he needed to be jolted out of. ‘Yeah, nah dude, hardly any of ’em,’ he says. ‘Most were international backpackers. Few of the locals I still see around.’
‘You ever see Marshy?’
‘Man! Marshy. Yeah, once or twice. Saw him at a Gyroscope gig once at Lucy’s. Fucken loose unit he was.’
‘The loosest unit. What about Josie and her crew? And Big Fred?’
We sort through names I haven’t uttered for years, removing the weight of their absence from my body, like I am recovering the lost life I could have had if I’d stayed in Perth with Charlie.
I take a step further back. ‘Have you ever seen Hammer again?’
Charlie’s eyes bulge, like he was hoping I’d bring this up. ‘You mean, apart from every week on the news?’
Kade ‘Hammer’ Hammersmith was the most athletic guy in our class, and a bully: to Charlie, once he came out; and to me, even though I was closeted.
He once mockingly offered to titty-fuck my man boobs.
I hated him until I realised he was bicurious, and suddenly I had a crush on my own bully.
Hammer was the first man I ever had sex with and after that, like every confused straight guy in history, he acted like it never happened.
Which suits him fine, because Kade Hammersmith is now a famous football player.
The most lauded Eagles full-forward since Josh Kennedy, Hammer was drafted into the AFL right after high school.
He’s so obnoxiously good at footy he’s crowed about in the sports pages of The West every week.
Being treated like God’s gift has only made his cocky attitude worse.
He’s been in hot water in the media once or twice for dumbarse comments and always gets out of it scot-free.
I swear Hammer could murder Bluey in broad daylight, and everyone would mumble that yes, on one hand, he’s a killer and she was a beloved cartoon puppy, but on the other, he’s a gun full-forward.
Two bags of sand that weigh the same on the scales of justice in this country.
You can be a dick to the power of infinity, but if you’re good at footy, that’s all that matters.
And after we fucked, he was a dick to the power of infinity to me, specifically.
Once I came back to Gero, Hammer managed to never interact with me.
We’d sometimes pass in the corridors at school and it was like he didn’t see me: like I’d stopped existing to him.
For the rest of year eleven and year twelve, I went from his crush and fuckbuddy to being totally ghosted.
Not a single word. Not even eye contact.
I’m not bitter or anything.
‘Apart from in the news, yeah,’ I confirm to Charlie. ‘Ever run into him?’
Charlie shakes his head. ‘Haven’t seen him since Robbie’s wedding. And I don’t want to. He’d be so deep in denial now. Imagine if he came out. The first gay AFL player. It’d be massive. Hell, imagine if we leaked it. We’re the only ones who know.’
‘Hammer would literally die before he ever came out,’ I say. ‘Honest to God, he’s one of those guys who equates his heterosexuality with his masculinity. He’d probably kill himself before he publicly admitted he was gay.’
Charlie’s face crumples in front of me, while I wish desperately I could cram those stupid words back into my head.
Because there was once a third person who knew about Hammer.
Charlie’s ex-boyfriend, Matt.
Who couldn’t publicly admit he was gay. And killed himself.
‘Charlie – shit – I’m so sorry – you know I didn’t mean Matt,’ I say.
Charlie tries to shrug it off, which makes me feel even worse, since it means he is absolutely not okay. ‘All good, dude, all good,’ he says. He stands up, takes his cigarette pack and lighter and abandons his Heineken. ‘Forgot I have work. Better head off.’
‘Charlie, don’t go,’ I say. Dammit.
‘It’s cool,’ Charlie says. ‘It’s not like last time. We’re not leaving on a fight. But I gotta go.’
He heads back into the lounge.
‘Charlie!’ I call out. ‘Wait!’
He turns, but not far enough for me to see his face.
‘I don’t want to go seven years without seeing you again,’ I admit.
My words hang there, flaccid and unanswered for too long. The grey-haired daddies in the corner look at us like they’re watching TV.
‘Tell you what: my new bar has its opening night next Friday,’ Charlie says. ‘I’ll unblock you and DM you the details, okay?’
He leaves without waiting to hear if it is okay or not.
The silver daddies in the corner are checking me out. ‘You alright, buddy?’ one asks.
I tell him I’m fine, and ask both daddies if they’d like to rail me in a cubicle.
We go back into the sauna, one of them making out with me while I shove the bottle of Jungle Juice to my nose, the other one fingering my hole.
Am I alright? That’s the question, isn’t it?
As long as you’re happy. That would be the answer, and now I know it isn’t.
I headed into Steam Works today to distract myself from how I have no idea what to do after graduation.
How, after I shake the chancellor’s hand, I’ll be staring into a meaningless abyss that could swallow me, like a planet being eaten by a black hole.
How school and uni provided this fake structure my whole life, buttressed by columns of deadlines and pillars of High Distinctions, and now that imaginary edifice is about to crumble.
If you strip my shiny academic accolades from me, all that’s left is a broken boy who once split himself into two and never recovered.
I learned in high school that the brighter you shine on the outside, the darker you burn within.
Since then, I’ve shone so brightly I might spontaneously combust. The public Zeke Calogero is an award-winning academic; a diligent employee; a responsible roommate; a good, honest son, brother and uncle; and most importantly, a massive fucking lie.
The private Zeke Calogero is the burnout, the hedonist, the Aussie Jack Kerouac, the free-spirited man currently spreading his hole for a daddy to eat in a bathhouse.
Every day for seven years, the two Zekes have gotten further apart, to the point where I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put myself back together. I honestly don’t know which one is really me anymore; which one to keep and which one to kill.
And if I don’t choose soon, I think I may kill us both.