Chapter 14 Heavensent #2
‘Like, I know Blink-182 and Green Day from the radio, and I know there’s more hardcore punk cos my friend Kaiya listens to it,’ he starts. ‘But the way you talk about it is so serious. Like, what does “punk” mean?’
We are in such different orbits. How can you not have a clue what punk rock is? Mason’s just driving his big Yankee monster truck, smashing Red Bull and beef jerky with ‘All The Small Things’ cranked up, burping and farting his way through life, isn’t he?
I paraphrase my favourite definition of punk I saw given by The Offspring guitarist, Noodles, in an interview once.
‘Punk is trying to defy convention,’ I say.
‘When someone says you can’t do something, you say, “Why the fuck can’t I?
” It’s not just music or an aesthetic. It’s an attitude, a way of life.
We rebel against conformity, what’s on trend.
We do what we want, say what we want. Or, like Pennywise said, “Fuck Authority”. ’
I tell Mason about my music, how I’m trying to break through and haven’t quite made it yet.
‘So, you’re not successful yet, so you’re not happy?’ he asks.
It’s brutal to hear myself described as not successful, even when it’s patently true.
‘Pretty much,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to break through as a musician. Nearly impossible.’
As occasionally thick as Mason can be, he’ll also have these random, super-insightful moments of poignant lucidity.
‘But if being punk is doing what you want, aren’t you doing that already?’ he asks. ‘Shouldn’t just making music make you happy, even if you never get rich and famous?’
Hot damn, Firetruck. Buy me a drink before you fuck me like that.
I splutter some face-savey words about distribution and airplay, coming off like a music snob to make myself feel better, because Mason Shaw just sussed me out in one date.
I look, talk and sneer like a punk, sure.
But it’s been a long time since I could truly say I didn’t give a fuck.
I hold my tongue on everything. My music is safe and mid, since saying anything edgy gets you cancelled.
‘Roof’ was the softest song I’ve ever done, because radio wouldn’t play my harder tracks.
I won’t let myself grow up cos I’m still stuck in a moment from when I was a teenager.
Worst of all, I hate Xander Sullivan – the embodiment of gentrified gloss – and yet I am fatally envious of him.
I want his popularity, his fame, his money, his aura of success, the way people stare when he walks into a bar.
Charlie Roth is no punk. I am a sellout and a fame whore.
Mason goes on to tell me about his footy team and what they’re planning for their trip away to Lancelin. Despite remembering my promise to Zeke to listen more attentively, I fuzz in and out of the convo. The punk discussion really upset me, and it shows on my face.
Nino brings our meals and tells us buon appetito.
After he leaves, Mason asks me, ‘You okay? Did I say something wrong?’
I’m not crying, but my face is wobbly and sad and I can’t fix it. How embarrassing. ‘It’s nothing you said, dude,’ I mutter, unable to look at him. ‘Lots of stuff just hit me at once.’
I feel a callused hand touch my knuckles. Mason intertwines his fingers with mine and locks his hand into mine, tightly.
‘Never be sorry for being sad,’ he says gently.
Mason’s staring at me, his big dumb eyes brimming with concern. Our hands are knotted together beside the salt and pepper shakers.
Nino bustles over to our table at that moment, carrying a china bowl of parmesan. Instinctively, I go to yank my hand away from Mason’s. It’s an impulse – we shouldn’t be seen holding hands in public by a traditional old straight man.
But Mason doesn’t let my hand go. He tightens his grip, then swivels his head to nod confidently at Nino. ‘Thanks for the cheese, mate.’
Nino puts the bowl down and looks at us like we’re his long-lost sons. His gaze falls on our intertwined hands and he smiles. ‘Nice-a boys,’ he tells us. ‘Very nice-a boys.’
Nino bails, and Mason says, ‘How cool was that? Wouldn’t expect it from an old guy, would you?’
‘Pretty cool,’ I admit. Nino’s kindness was a good distraction; I squeeze Mason’s hand then disengage. ‘Look, sorry for that, just now. Some old trauma, I guess.’
Mason twirls his fork around some olive oil–drenched spaghetti, shoves it in his gob and thickly grunts, ‘You wanna talk about it?’
My first instinct is not to talk about it. I should do whatever I can to salvage this date, power through it, possibly let him root me at the end, then change my name and move to Azerbaijan so I never have to see him again. I hear Baku is a nice city.
‘You struck a nerve, earlier,’ I admit. ‘That thing about being rich and famous.’
Mason scarfs down spaghetti like a human vacuum cleaner, olive oil dribbling down his chin and onto his flanno shirt. Put this in the dumb-as-a-plank column: he’s a total slob with no table manners.
‘Nuffin’ wrong with wanting to be rich and famous,’ he says.
‘My folks got a bit of money, I was raised okay, but don’t have much now I’m out on my own.
I’d never wanna be famous, but. All the media attention we got after leavers years ago made me never want people to know my name.
I’d happily live a quiet, simple life. And be filthy rich, of course, but without any fuckers knowing about it, ha! ’
I feel exposed, but after he held my hand, safe enough to tell him the truth.
‘I’ve had this drive to become a big rock star since I was a kid,’ I tell him.
‘I wanted to leave Gero, make it huge, and come back and rub it in everyone’s faces.
Look at me, I’m famous and important now, I’m bigger than all of you.
I know that makes me sound like a dick, but it’s true.
I felt like a superhero when I left. But you’re right.
I’m not successful. I’m not rich or famous.
I don’t think I ever will be. I think this is it.
I’m like every other wannabe muso in Australia who tried and failed and now plays pub gigs and works at a bar. I thought I was special and I’m not.’
‘Oof,’ Mason says. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You are special, mate.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’m nothing.’
I’m such an idiot for believing I would ever be famous. The lure of success kept me going. I pictured my future self and I loved him. Without fame, what am I? Just a white trash faggot from Geraldton who everyone kinda hates.
‘You think if you’re not famous, you’re worthless?’ Mason asks through pasta.
‘Yeah,’ I admit. ‘If this is all life has for me, it wouldn’t matter if I existed or not. When I die, it won’t mean anything. Nobody will remember me.’
Mason smirks. ‘You know there are, like, a bazillion ways to have a happy life other than being famous, right?’
‘Does not compute,’ I say, in a jokey robot voice. ‘Explain.’
‘Well, my life is awesome,’ Mason says. ‘I work with people I like. Live with a mate. Play footy. Go to the gym. I don’t let bad stuff in.
Simple. After what I went through, life’s too short.
You can die at any moment. I could choke on this spaghetti.
You could fall into that fishpond and hit your head.
Life’s. Too. Short. The world needs more happy homos. ’
I make vague noises of agreement, but I hide how utterly beautiful I find his worldview. I’ve never wanted a simple life. I chased glory. I never considered being happy.
I imagine leaving my life behind and riding alongside Mason in his monster truck on a road trip, him smashing his Red Bull, me smashing my Monster, both of us singing badly to ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’.
Two bees, nuzzling and making honey.
When we finish, Mason asks if I wanna go to his place. He reassures me Brayden’s gone out to a party. At least Brayden managed to do something right.
I say yes.
In his darkened bedroom, Mason fucks me on a double bed with yellowed, uncovered pillows that smell like his BO.
He doesn’t seem to know you’re meant to put a towel on the bed before anal sex.
He tries to use his spit as lube and I insist on real lube, so he has to raid Brayden’s room for a slimy, used tube of Wet Stuff.
His rough trucker fingers scratch my hole as he lubes me up with a finger.
I tell him my arse is nothing special. I’m so self-conscious of how bony and small it is compared to the big bubble butts I see in porn.
I tell Mason to slow down, and he does. He pushes inside me slowly, and looks me in the eye. He is gentle, careful, making sure nothing he does, no movement, hurts me in any way. I feel myself relaxing, opening up to take him in deep.
Once he is all the way in, before he starts thrusting, Mason folds his beefy body on top of me, his hairy, strong pecs pressing against my hairless, concave rib cage. He presses his mouth against mine, kissing me long and slow, his whiskers roughing up my skin.
When he pulls away, he says to me softly, ‘Don’t say a bad word about your arse ever again. Your arse is beautiful, just like you.’