Chapter 17 Kick Him When He’s Down
KICK HIM WHEN HE’S DOWN
CHARLIE
After our first date, Mason texts me every day.
Some days he’ll send a hot thirst trap of his beefy bear-cub rig after a shower, or a selfie with his hard hat on while he’s driving his truck at the quarry.
I find myself smiling more often than not, and start sending back selfies of me working at the bar or jamming in the courtyard.
I’m on record as telling Brayden excessive texting after a first date is a red flag, so I’ll put my hand up and say I was talking out of my arse. Cos now that it’s happening to me, I am frothing it.
Every dating situation I’ve ever been in, I’ve always been the one putting myself out there and then hanging out for a reply.
Hours, days, waiting for a guy to get back to me.
Now I’ve stumbled on the dating jackpot: Mason responds!
He heart-reacts to my selfies. He lets me know when he’s too busy to get back to me, and then always does later.
When I tell him what’s going on with me, he engages with what I said; and when I ask him how he’s feeling about something, he tells me. A big bogan beefcake with a heart.
Mason acts like he enjoys my company and my attention, like he wants more of it. He already fucked me and got what he wanted but he still wants to be sweet to me. No games, no aloofness, no bullshit. Just warmth. Like I matter to him.
I love it.
One day, Mason asks me to send him my songs so he can listen to them.
I link him to my Spotify, expecting the same stony silence that followed the release of my Cocksucker EP or the meagre congratulations after ‘Roof’. People like to mildly support artists but they don’t actually want to listen to our shit.
But Mason throws me a loop: he sends me a message later that day giving me a track-by-track rundown on his favourite songs of mine:
I love Penetration bro (haha). It’s your best song, all fast and killer guitars.
Roof is real sad too, for a slow song.
I dig Good Boys too, it kinda reminded me of this band, have you heard of them? Are they punk or just rock?
I shit you not, he links me to the Wikipedia page of Imagine Dragons, but I don’t care.
Mason listened to my Spotify.
I think I might love him.
On Tuesday arvo, I’m in Reyna’s garage jamming with her and Hectic Lettuce again.
‘Sucks you couldn’t make it to the Ratsalad gig at Metro’s on the weekend, Chucky Boy,’ Reyna says, when we take a break and Jesse and Yannick head out the back to smoke.
‘Been too hectic,’ I say. ‘Like a lettuce, ba-doom-tish. New bar job’s keeping me busy.’
Reyna raids her garage fridge – plastered with band stickers and posters. ‘Oh yeah, what was all that drama about on social media? You said you’d bring me up to speed the other day but you never did.’
I fill Reyna in on all the ruckus Xander kicked up about the Tool Shed, although thankfully he seems to be more focused on Hammer than us currently.
‘See, I hate this shit. People have no idea how hard it is to make a venue work,’ Reyna says, ripping the twist top off a beer and flicking it at her amp.
‘Curtis did nothing wrong. Way I see it, there should be gay bars, lesbian bars, trans and non-binary bars, and bars for all of youse together. Everyone votes with their feet. Venues that build a community last. The ones with nothing behind them fizzle out.’
‘Exactly!’ I say. ‘We’re on the same page.’
‘You guys should be focusing on becoming financially viable,’ Reyna notes. ‘Not fighting off douchebags swinging a wrecking ball through you like fucking Miley Cyrus.’
‘Timely reference,’ I smirk. Reyna pulls her finger at me as she chugs her cold beer. ‘But yeah, if people don’t like it, don’t come to our bar. The problem resolves itself.’
‘Christ, that’s better,’ Reyna says, wiping her mouth.
‘You know, I used to fight every battle I saw on social media. But now we’re slaves to the outrage.
I get bigoted shit served into my feed because the algorithm knows I’ll interact furiously with it.
Being angry is how we’re manipulated. But it never directs our rage at the right targets, have you noticed?
We crucify randos for silly shit instead of governments and corporations.
I’m sick of being manipulated into having opinions on dumb shit I’d never ordinarily give a rat’s arse about. ’
‘Dude, say that online and you’ll get cancelled for being a fence-sitter,’ I tell her.
Reyna shrugs. ‘Meh, let ’em cancel me. Punks are born to be pioneers. I’m not scared. I’m ahead of the curve. I’m sick of being medieval, told to take up my pitchfork against my fellow villagers. Fuck them. I’ll hug the villagers instead.’
‘Your version of punk sounds more like being a hippie,’ I say, sliding my guitar strap over my shoulder and playing a bit of ‘Peace Train’ by Cat Stevens.
Reyna snorts. ‘Punks and hippies are drawn from the same well,’ she says. ‘All outcasts.’ She picks up her guitar. ‘So, has this Xander guy left you alone and moved on to attack a puppy farm or something?’
It’s hard to know. After Xander’s video about the Tool Shed, we lost fifty followers.
I was a coward. I didn’t tell Xander he was out of line or defend my mates, but I didn’t like his video either.
I was the twitchy barman in an old-school western movie: diving behind the bar of the saloon to avoid the shootout.
I suspected Xander might DM me, so I announced I was taking a social media break and haven’t posted anything since.
I’m not sure I can run from this forever, but. Especially if anything else kicks off.
The real-world impact of Xander’s video has seemed limited.
The bar felt quieter for a couple of days.
Curtis was bullish about it, even though his facade cracked that night at dinner.
Ahmed was more worried, saying, ‘A bitch like Xander doesn’t just take a loss. It’s too quiet. Something’s coming.’
The weekend seemed to prove Ahmed wrong. We were back to a steady rhythm. Guys playing pool and having quiet pints and filling the dance floor.
Maybe Curtis’ approach of giving it no oxygen was the right one.
When we finish jamming around five, I check my phone and see a message from Mason. Hey man, you wanna hang out tonight? I’m hungry.
I’m meant to be hitting the Wembley to see an indie band, so I invite Mason to join me for a pub feed.
It’s not food I’m hungry for, Mason replies, adding the peach emoji.
Oh fuck yeah.
I go to Mason’s house. He throws me onto his bed, lifts my ankles to my ears and luxuriates in eating my arse for what feels like the most satisfying hour of my life.
I’m curled up in Mason’s bed, nestled into the crook of his neck, enjoying the afterglow, when suddenly he bursts into tears.
Despite telling me not to be sorry for being sad at the restaurant, he’s clearly embarrassed by it. Mason’s thumbs knead the corners of his eyes as if he’s trying to rip his tear ducts out, like the roots of a weed.
It’s not until he says, ‘Can you hug me, man?’ that I realise I haven’t been holding him, just staring uselessly.
I don’t know how to handle this. I’m not a hugger or a comforter. He’s bigger than me. And he’s the top. What gives?
I put my arms around him, sure they must seem thin compared to his. Mason latches onto me and sobs his guts out.
I pat his back until he calms down.
‘What’s brought this on?’ I ask. ‘You okay?’
Mason puts his head on my bony rib cage – no cushiony comfort to be found there – and tells me what’s up. At his footy trip, he told his teammates about his best mate from high school, Jared, who died on their leavers trip, which kicked up old traumatic memories.
‘Then today, my mate Nick invited me to his birthday,’ Mason tells me. ‘Nick was on that trip, too. Brings it all back up. Some days it’s so far in the past I don’t think about it. And days like this, it’s like it just happened. Do you get what I mean?’
I can’t help it. My whole body freezes into an iceberg.
More than you know, Firetruck.
I pat Mason’s back, my stomach a cave of stalactites. I’m thinking of a bouquet of weeds and wildflowers and the bucktoothed farm boy who never got to hear me tell him I loved him.
‘Charlie, um,’ Mason says. ‘You haven’t said anything. Are you okay?’
I stare at his ceiling fan, slowly hypnotised by it. My fuses are blown. Mason’s grief has rattled the bars of the cage where I keep my own pain. I can’t lose it again, not after our first date. He’ll think I’m an unstable lunatic. And he might not be that wrong.
‘Charlie, you okay?’ Mason asks. ‘I was crying, man. You can just say something nice and give me a cuddle … no need to go cold on me.’
‘I’m not going cold,’ I say, in a treacherously frigid voice. For my own survival. ‘I – um – I’m sorry, Mason, I can’t handle this right now …’
‘Handle what?’
‘This type of rel—Uh, I thought you just wanted to hook up – I didn’t know we were diving right into being boyfriends … I dunno if I’m ready for that commitment …’
‘What commitment?’ Mason asks, sitting up sharply. ‘Charlie, what are you on about? You’re being so distant. Did I say something wrong?’
I hold up my hands in surrender. I am such a coward. ‘This is too much for me,’ I say. ‘All of it. Sorry. I don’t think I’m ready for something this serious. I’m really sorry, okay?’
I stand up and pull my jeans back on.
‘Wait, are you – you’re not seriously – are you dumping me?’ Mason cries. ‘Because I cried in front of you? Are you for real? What the fuck, man?’
I can barely see Mason’s heartbroken face through a shimmer of memory.
Matt’s face is grinning back at me as he fries kangaroo sausages and opens the windows for more ventilation.
Why couldn’t he tell me he was sad? Why couldn’t he cry in front of me?
I would have held him. I would have saved him if he’d let me in.
How dare Mason be more emotionally available than Matt?
I know I’m the dickhead here, but it’s not enough to stop me bailing from Mason’s house and leaving him high and dry.