Chapter 20
THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD
CHARLIE
The day after I break up with Mason, I take a day off from the bar: it’s my turn for a Flop Day with Reyna.
Ahmed saw what a mess I was yesterday. He made me chicken soup and wrapped me in a blanket, as if I’d been rescued off a capsized yacht. I loved him for that.
Curtis tried to counsel me about how I handled things with Mason. He knows what I’m like. I told him I wasn’t in the mood, and he gave me a this-isn’t-over mm-hmm.
I’m not a monster. I sent Mason a text saying how sorry I am. I told him I’m messed up. He texted back saying he still doesn’t understand what happened. He wants to know if we’re broken up or still together. I haven’t had the courage to reply yet.
Reyna’s there for me the way I was there for her last week with Ben, but the downside of her having no time for anyone’s shit is that she also has no time for mine.
‘If this was an “Am I the Asshole” post, then yes, Chucky, you’re the asshole of the piece,’ Reyna says, swirling her oversized glass of rosé at me judgementally. ‘The guy you’re dating showed some actual emotion, and you left him hanging. Not cool, dudeski.’
I watch the video for Courtney Love’s ‘Mono’: she grabs her guitar and dives into the folds of a sofa, disappearing into another dimension. I have the fleeting thought of diving into Curtis’ white leather couch to escape Reyna’s wrath.
‘It just happened,’ I mutter into my Heineken.
‘Bullshit it just happened,’ Reyna snaps.
‘I love you, but that’s the Charlie Roth MO.
Every guy you’ve ever gone out with. Even your mate, Zeke.
Hell, even the Mongrels. One thing goes wrong, and you throw all your toys out of the pram and end the relationship forever.
It’s a pattern of behaviour. I know you like to think it means you’re edgy or hard to handle, but it’s not punk, Chucky. You’re being a toddler.’
‘I’m putting something else on,’ I mutter, as Courtney Love screams into a glass coffin.
‘Sick avoidance.’ Reyna smirks.
I frown at the YouTube recommended videos, trying to find something edgy that will match my mood. I’m annoyed by Reyna’s bluntness but I must like hearing it, or I wouldn’t have invited her over. I really did like Mason. A lot. Why did I bail like that?
‘I don’t wanna sound emo,’ I start to explain. ‘And don’t make fun of me for using this word. But I reckon I was like, triggered or whatever.’
‘As if I won’t make fun of you for saying triggered,’ Reyna snorts. ‘You needy little Gen Z, you.’ She turns to me, tying her hair back off her face. ‘But, look, I’m not going to be the arsehole of this situation, so – try me. What triggered you?’
‘You know how I told you I had that bad break-up in Gero, years ago,’ I say.
‘Your first love,’ Reyna nods. ‘You never did tell me his name.’
‘Still won’t,’ I say firmly. ‘But the way it ended wasn’t just bad. It was catastrophic.’
‘Oh, damn. Did he key your car? Take a dump on your front porch?’
‘He couldn’t handle being gay. He killed himself, Reyna.’
Reyna’s facade breaks immediately, and so does mine. A tear escapes my eye and I wipe it angrily, managing to choke any other emotion down in my throat.
Reyna wraps me into a crushing hug, spilling rosé on my shoulder as she whispers in my ear, ‘Oh my God, Chucky. I had no idea. I am so, so sorry that happened to you. That’s truly awful.’
I don’t let myself cry more than that first tear, but it’s nice to have her hug me.
‘I was never touchy-feely to begin with,’ I say. ‘People always called me prickly or whatever. But since him – I can never let myself get close to a guy. The moment it starts to get real, I’m sure he’s gonna leave me, so I leave first. Every time.’
‘That makes sense,’ Reyna admits. ‘I wish you’d told me this sooner. I just thought you were being a little shit.’
‘I mean, I usually am.’
The moment between us is broken as a door creaks open somewhere in the house, and suddenly Rex appears in the living room, his eyes so bloodshot he might have fallen asleep with his face over his bong. Which isn’t beyond the realm of possibility.
‘Have you been here this whole time?’ I ask. ‘I thought you were out.’
Rex scratches his bare chest and nods vaguely at Reyna. ‘Pretty sure I’m here,’ he mutters, spaced out to buggery.
Reyna stands up abruptly, wiping her face. ‘Yuck, I cried in front of someone,’ she mutters. ‘Be right back.’
She flees to the bathroom.
Rex bodyslams the couch, staring open-mouthed at the TV screen.
‘Wait, aren’t you meant to be up on the mines this week?’ I prod.
Rex grunts. ‘Nah. Failed my drug screening. Cunts fired me. Fuck ’em, I got another job startin’ soon, different mine, pays way better.’ He shrugs. ‘What we watchin’?’
I put on a Metallica concert. Rex starts bopping his skull in a wacked-out limp fish attempt at a headbang.
Metallica chug out a newer thrash metal song called ‘Lux AEterna’ which I’ve been blasting in the car a lot lately.
A tattooed, all-in-black James Hetfield struts around a stadium stage before a sea of bouncing devil-horn hands from the crowd.
Goddamn. What I’d give to perform on a stage like that.
To have that many adoring faces think I was hot shit.
While me and Rex are vibing to Metallica, my phone pings with a notification.
Xander Sullivan.
‘What now?’ I sigh, opening Insta and half-expecting another call-out video.
Instead, it’s a DM.
Hey babe, you said you were a muso … do you have any tracks released? I’m putting up a new post on Insta and wanted to soundtrack it with a Perth queer songwriter out of solidarity. Let me know! xx
‘Shit yeah,’ I say.
Despite everything he’s done, I’m elated.
Xander has a fuckton of connected, influential followers: my music could be in front of more people than ever.
This could be the big break I’ve been waiting for.
Showbiz documentaries are full of stories like this – one chance encounter and a song that was flopping blows up the charts.
‘Dude, this is awesome,’ I say, telling Rex the situation.
Rex replies with a resonant, moist fart, before saying, ‘Isn’t this the shithead giving Curtis a hard time?’
‘Yeah,’ I admit.
‘Bro, no, don’t do it,’ Rex drawls. ‘You’d be a sellout. Is this what Metallica would do?’
‘Everyone did call Metallica sellouts when they made it big,’ I point out. ‘My songs are out there: Xander can use them whether I give permission or not. It’s not like I’m supporting his crusade against the Tool Shed. I’d be cutting my nose off to spite my face, right?’
Reyna comes back from the bathroom with no sign on her face she’s ever emoted. I tell her about Xander’s proposal.
Reyna’s not having a bar of it either. ‘As in the douche who’s trying to Miley Cyrus your bar?!’ she cries. ‘You can’t support him!’
‘I’m not supporting him,’ I argue. ‘Just letting him use my song. I mean, he can use it without my permission. What would you do? If an opportunity like this came up?’
Reyna glug-pours a fresh glass of rosé. ‘If this happened when Hectic Lettuce was starting out, I’d say yes – anything for exposure,’ she admits. ‘But now? No way in hell. I know exposure is fleeting and almost meaningless, but guilt for compromising your ethics is forever.’
Rex whistles. ‘Oof.’
I bristle. ‘Well, that’s the difference between us, Reyna. I’ve never had what you have. And I want it.’
I tap out a grateful reply to Xander, linking him to my Spotify and telling him ‘Roof’ is available as a song for use on Insta.
Xander love-hearts the message, and that’s when everything goes the way it was always destined to the moment he got involved.
It all comes crashing down a few hours later, when Reyna’s left and me and Rex are rotting on the sofas. I check my socials and see I was tagged in an Insta post a few hours ago. It’s a photo of Xander, standing in front of the Tool Shed with a rainbow flag cape behind him. The caption reads:
OPEN LETTER TO THE TOOL SHED BAR
As a member of Perth’s LGBTQIA+ community, I am writing this open letter to call for accountability from the Tool Shed.
This bar has been called out by multiple queer activists since opening.
It has a policy of only allowing male-identifying patrons through its doors, which flies in the face of the inclusion myself and other activists have fought for.
The venue is gratuitously sexualised, with reports of public sex acts (illegal!), porn on the screens and even a glory hole, which all reinforce harmful stereotypes that queer men are only obsessed with sex.
This is a letter I do not want to write.
As a queer influencer I would NEVER attack a queer venue or a queer person, and I am not ‘cancelling’ anyone (cancel culture doesn’t exist!).
Curtis Levesque and Ahmed Hassan have a chance to do the right thing by Perth’s queer community.
Open your establishment to all of us, clean it up and make it a respectable venue for everyone. There is no G without the LBTQIA+.
I am today calling for a boycott of the Tool Shed. Please sign and share this open letter to show your solidarity with the boycott.
If the Tool Shed does not change its policies in response to this boycott, I will lodge a formal complaint with the anti-discrimination commissioner to get this bar shut down permanently. You reap what you sow.
Please sign this open letter – link in bio – and share with your contacts far and wide.
Time’s up for exclusion. Do better.
Xander Sullivan
The song playing over this post, while I read it in horror, is my own song, ‘Roof’. There’s a caption at the end of Xander’s open letter saying, ‘Song: Charlie Roth – “Roof” – local queer singer-songwriter’. And he’s not just tagged me, but invited me to be a collaborator on the post.