Chapter 10
GIOCATORE
ZEKE
When I stumble into the living area on Saturday morning, everyone else is as hungover as I am.
Charlie’s draped on the white leather sofa, watching a concert called Download Festival, his Gyroscope T-shirt littered with Maccas hash brown wrappers.
Ahmed is on the opposite couch, eyes hidden by dark sunglasses as he sips a green juice that probably has kale in it.
The FIFO lodger I’ve only recently met, Rex, is out in the wooden-decked courtyard to the rear, visible through glass French doors.
He’s a big brute in his thirties: a heavy vehicle mechanic, nearly seven feet tall, built like a brick shithouse, thick black beard, skin so sunburnt his sleeve tattoos are faded into an angry blur.
His voice is deeper than Curtis’ but he almost never speaks.
Charlie said Ahmed once claimed Rex had done jail time for assault, but Charlie isn’t sure if Ahmed was telling the truth or spreading rumours.
Either way, Rex looks like a thug. He mostly sits in the courtyard smoking cigarettes and joints, and occasionally has a dude over.
One time in the corridor I overheard him in his room calling a dude ‘faggot’.
It would have scared me if it didn’t turn me on.
Rex looks tired from joining us at the Tool Shed’s opening night, but he’s gone hair of the dog, swigging from a can of Bundaberg rum.
‘You did a Maccas run without me?’ I ask Charlie, sliding into the armchair next to Ahmed. On the TV, some punk singer is climbing the stage’s metal scaffolding.
‘Calm your tits: I got you a McMuffin and a hash brown,’ Charlie says, hurling a Maccas bag at me.
‘Aw. Thank you, man,’ I say. Nice he thought of me when I wasn’t in the room.
‘Both of you stop talking,’ Ahmed says, sucking his green juice through a metal straw. ‘Some of us are past thirty. This hangover might be the one that kills me.’
‘Good thing you’re not melodramatic,’ Charlie mutters. ‘And you’re past forty.’
I eat my greasy Maccas. Outside in the courtyard, Rex rips a massive burp.
‘Gross,’ Ahmed whispers. ‘I know Curtis likes him, but it’s like living with a neanderthal.’
Rex is a gross neanderthal, and that makes me more attracted to him.
My phone vibrates. A text from Jack. Hey bro, missed u at footy training today – u not keen? If u wanna cum down next training, it’s Tuesday 5.30 pm at Coolbinia Reserve. Lemme know. Last nite was epic btw tell the owners we all had a good time.
I don’t know how to respond. I could ignore him and be glad I escaped being shown up as a fraud. And yet, I want to join him. Why?
Rex shuffles inside, reeking of Bundy and tobacco, and plops himself in the chair next to me before ripping a massive fart.
‘Pardon,’ Ahmed says, dramatically fanning the air around his face. ‘You say pardon when you do that, Rex.’
Rex grunts. He kicks Charlie’s sofa and jerks his head at the screen. ‘Who dis?’
‘Billy Talent,’ Charlie says.
‘Sick,’ Rex grunts.
Sick is one of the only words in Rex’s vocabulary. If something’s good, it’s sick. If it’s bad, it’s bollocks.
The side door opens from the garage. Curtis bursts into the house in a grey stringer tank drenched in sweat, his muscles dripping.
‘Woo!’ he booms. ‘The gym was bustlin’. Got a great pump.’
Curtis is the only one who isn’t hungover. I think he was so busy meeting people at the bar, having photos taken and being pulled pillar to post, that he didn’t have time to drink, even after closing, when the rest of us celebrated pretty hard.
‘You shoulda come to the gym, Rex,’ Curtis says.
Rex burps. ‘Nah. Too hungover. Tomorrow, chest day?’
‘Abso-fuckin-lutely,’ Curtis booms. ‘Chest day, best day.’
‘Settle down, meatheads, you’re bro-ing out too hard,’ Charlie mutters.
Curtis grabs one of the gigantic tubs of supplements on the marbled bench and sets to making himself a post-workout protein shake.
It’s unhinged how many different things he puts into his body – whey protein and creatine, thermogenic fat-burners and extreme-stimulant pre-workouts, turkesterone and diindolylmethane and L-carnitine – and that’s just the legal stuff.
Charlie told me he takes a bunch of steroid injections, too – testosterone being the only one I can pronounce.
I guess that’s how you get as huge as him.
Curtis raises an eyebrow as he shakes up his protein. ‘Charlie, do you hear that?’ He presses his ear to the shaker cup. ‘It’s the protein talking. It’s saying “Charlie! Come lift with Curtis! Get swole like Curtis!”’
Charlie balls up his Maccas wrapper and hurls it at Curtis. ‘Meathead.’
Curtis chortles. ‘You gotta give the supps what they want, son,’ he teases. ‘One day I’ll get you to lift weights with us. I’ll get my way.’
Charlie stares at the TV, disdainful. ‘Hard pass. Never gonna happen, dude.’
‘All five of us in one place is a miracle,’ Curtis observes, opening the fridge after sculling his shake. ‘We should celebrate last night. I’ll bust out the vagina cake.’
Curtis plates up slices of the pink-frosted pussy gateau from the lesbians. He passes the plates around before sliding onto the couch and kissing Ahmed.
‘Ew, you’re all sweaty,’ Ahmed says, but he accepts the kiss anyway.
Curtis looks at me. ‘Didn’t I hear you telling Jack you’d be at footy training today?’
My shoulders hunch, expecting mockery. My family would openly laugh at the idea of Little Zeke playing sports. Sabrina too.
I swallow some icing. ‘I missed it. Too hungover. He texted saying I could join on Tuesday. If I want.’
Curtis looks at me seriously. He hasn’t known me long, but he’s got this papa bear vibe. ‘Something holding you back?’
‘I think Jack got the impression I’m good at footy, and I’m not,’ I admit. ‘Charlie can vouch for that. I’m really bad at sports.’
Charlie turns to me, tattooed fingers drumming on the side of the couch. ‘I actually can’t, dude,’ he says. ‘I never saw you being shit at sports. I saw you run the other way, like you were too scared to try.’
Huh. He’s not wrong.
‘So you don’t think it’s ridiculous? For me to play footy?’
Charlie shrugs, licking a crumb of cake off his plate. ‘Dude, it’s your life,’ he says. ‘Do shit outside your comfort zone if you want. What do you want?’
The billion-dollar question I’ve been asking myself. I know I don’t want to live with Sabrina anymore. I know I don’t want to live with my parents. But I’m not so good at sussing what I do want. And when it comes to footy, I’m not just unsure but terrified.
‘If I could come in as a rookie, and everyone knew I was shit, and I could learn and not be made fun of or called a poofter … yes, I’d like it,’ I say.
‘That’s literally what Jack and Brick set the Perth Centurions up for,’ Curtis says. ‘It’s no pressure, just social, gay men welcome.’
‘Do you think I should do it, Curtis?’ I ask.
Curtis smiles. ‘Son, you always look to the biggest adult in the room for approval, did you notice?’ My cheeks scorch hot enough to burn the pussy cake. ‘You don’t need my approval to join a football team.’
I know it’s tough love but it’s embarrassing to be gently kicked up the arse in front of everyone. Curtis has seen right through me in a matter of days.
‘I still feel like a kid who’s gonna get in trouble if I make the wrong choice,’ I admit.
‘You’re not a kid anymore, son: you’re a grown-ass man,’ Curtis goes on, not unkindly.
‘You gotta act like a man, now. When I left New Orleans and moved to SF, I wanted a fresh start, a place where I could be myself. I don’t think you’ve ever had that.
Live the life you want. Otherwise, why did you even bother leaving your hometown? ’
Unlike my parents or Sabrina, Curtis’ tough love isn’t thinly disguised mockery; it’s meant to spur me on, like when you dig your heels into the flank of a horse.
‘Okay,’ I say, putting my cake down. ‘I’m gonna do it.’
I glance at Curtis automatically, and he’s already staring right back, dead in the eye.
‘What are you looking at me for, Zeke?’ he asks.
‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘I was looking at you to get your approval. Again!’
I can’t stop. I am an approval addict.
‘Listen,’ Curtis says. ‘I’m gonna give you nothin’. No approval either way. Do what you want.’
Charlie, Ahmed and Rex watch with vague interest. I’m getting live therapy with a studio audience.
I try not to think about them, or Sabrina giggling at my footy game on TV, or Dad and Robbie mocking me not knowing what a fifty-metre penalty was. I focus, instead, on Curtis’ words. Live the life you want. Otherwise, why did I even bother leaving Geraldton?
I tap out a reply to Jack and send it before I can change my mind.
‘Fuck,’ I say out loud.
‘Now, that’s growth,’ Curtis says. ‘You made a decision for yourself and stood on your own two feet. Football doesn’t make you a man. That does.’
For the rest of the day, I feel liberated.
I spend that night at the Tool Shed – as a patron. Saturday night is busy, but less intense than last night’s opening. I chill in the cruising lounge, phone charging while I drink my vodka soda and surf Grindr.
But the hookup never materialises. I end up talking with guys in the bar instead.
The first dude is a Tasmanian in his forties, in Perth for a holiday.
We end up playing pool, and then get challenged to a doubles game by two French backpackers.
Gradually we attract other guys who’ve come to the bar alone.
By ten, we’re a group of eight, all on the D-floor, drunk, laughing, singing to cheesy nineties house music. I’m even drunk enough to dance (terribly).
When I head to the dunnies, I discover one cubicle now has a fully functional glory hole. I alert Curtis, who says, ‘Goddamn, faggots are quick muthafuckas.’
Nobody has any idea who cut the glory hole, or when, or how they managed to do it without anyone noticing, but there it is.