Chapter 20 #2
My stomach knots itself with regret. Reyna was right.
Nothing was worth this. I wrote ‘Roof’ about the night me, Matt, Zeke and Hammer spent together once, as teenagers.
It was one of the most special moments of my life.
And now I’ve let it be perverted into Xander’s warped mockery of what gay liberation was meant to be.
I’ve soiled my music and my soul, all at once.
Worst of all, the comments popping up rapidly don’t even notice my song. I have a grand total of four new followers, and precisely one DM from a random gay guy who says, You have a nice voice kinda like a Temu Benson Boone but ur song is a bit basic sorry xx.
Everyone else in the comments is just venting their outrage at Curtis and Ahmed, praising Xander for being a leader, and confirming they’ve signed and shared. The post zooms towards a thousand likes.
Xander’s gaslighting of the public is some next-level narcissism. I am not cancelling anyone in the same breath as actively trying to cancel the bar permanently.
Anyone challenging Xander in the comments gets piled on.
People are blindly accepting his characterisation of Curtis and Ahmed as exclusionary, hateful bigots, either out of fear of Xander’s wrath, or because they believe his lies.
Curtis and Ahmed get called fascists, bootlickers, traitors, TERFs, queerphobes, misogynists, neo-Nazis – pretty much any mud that can be flung at them.
Nobody seems to care if there’s any truth to the insults or not.
Xander DMs me. Post is up, babe. How come you haven’t shared it yet?
There it is. Xander wanted to make sure I was completely painted into a corner before he turned on me.
I grab my phone and call an Uber. I need to get to the bar.
When I get to the Tool Shed, the word is out.
The Bears are in one corner, ranting about Xander; half the footy club is standing around a forgotten game of pool, similarly raging; a few younger cubs are muttering about police officers; and an older bloke from the AIDS Council is telling Vince at the bar he’s a lawyer and will represent Curtis if need be.
Vince raises his eyebrows at me as I walk in. ‘Crisis stations,’ he says. ‘Shit’s hit the fan, big time. Have you seen—?’
‘I’ve seen Xander’s post, dude,’ I interrupt him.
‘That’s … not what I was referring to,’ Vince says, his cheeks pink.
Vince leads me out to the back alley of the bar.
It turns out Xander’s open letter went viral in right-wing social media groups, who latched onto his comments about the bar being sexualised as proof that it’s a cesspit of moral depravity.
The Tool Shed – and Curtis and Ahmed – are being called perverts, fags, sodomites, groomers.
Homophobes are jumping on Xander’s bandwagon and signing his petition to get the bar shut down.
Their reasons for hating the bar are obviously different, but for a moment, they’re in lockstep with Xander about taking us out for good.
Which is what led to the hate crime in the alley.
When Vince shows me out the back through the smaller access door, two cops are getting back into their police car, finalising their conversation with Curtis and Ahmed.
Spray-paint on the brick wall beside the loading dock of the Tool Shed has two messages on it:
To the right, the old classic: AIDS – KILLS FAGS DEAD.
To the left, a new twist: EVEN FAGGITS DON’T WANT THIS SICK SHIT.
The two middle-aged cops seem genuinely sympathetic and promise Curtis and Ahmed they’ll seek out CCTV footage, but advise being realistic in our expectations, as these cases often don’t lead to charges if they can’t find the offender.
The cop car drives off, and Vince goes back to cover the bar.
Curtis, Ahmed and I slump on upturned milk crates in the back alley to commiserate. They both look as winded as I feel.
Nobody even asks why I’ve rocked up, because the one thing on everyone’s minds is the open letter – and the damage it’s caused.
‘This is out of control,’ Curtis says. ‘When I was growing up, they were hunting us. Cops. Right wingers. The accusation of homosexuality was dangerous. Clearly those same attitudes are still around.’ He gestures to the graffiti.
‘We’ve copped the homophobia before. I’m used to it.
I’ve expected it since we opened the bar.
What’s thrown me is copping the same witch hunt from our own kind.
With friends like Xander Sullivan, who needs enemies?
This is sixteenth-century Catholic behaviour dressed in a rainbow flag: a gay Spanish inquisition.
Are you the right kind of homosexual? Do you believe in our version of Jesus Christ? You don’t? Prepare to die.’
Curtis mimes pulling a dagger across his own throat.
‘Why does the scene suck when it’s meant to be good?’ I mutter. ‘The stuff they’re saying about you isn’t even true. It’s defamatory.’
‘I don’t get why it’s such a shitfight,’ Ahmed replies. His hand is rubbing Curtis’ shoulder. ‘We’re out here creating something for our customers. The space guys want and need. If you don’t like it, or it’s not for you, just don’t come. Why attack us?’
‘What are youse gonna do?’ I ask Curtis. ‘You’re not going to back down, are you?’
Curtis stands up. ‘Over my dead body,’ he says.
Curtis reaches out to Xander via DM on Insta, and offers a meeting. His plan is to implore Xander to be tolerant – to live and let live, let the bar carry on in peace, and stop fanning the flames for harassment of the bar in person and online.
It doesn’t work.
On Thursday morning, Xander declines the meeting, point-blank:
Inclusion isn’t up for conversation, Curtis. No to bigotry. Do better! Or you reap what you sow. xo
‘Okay, he’s just operating in bad faith,’ Curtis rants, aggressively scooping pre-workout into his shaker cup.
‘I hate him,’ Zeke blurts out.
He looks almost startled at his own anger spilling over; frankly, I am too.
What set him off, earlier this morning, was the article Xander Sullivan had published in The Guardian.
It was a stupid-arse take that got us all groaning at the table.
The title was: Are Gay Men Too Problematic to Remain in the Queer Community?
Xander’s article attacked homosexual men for being too promiscuous and hypersexual, full of male privilege, attracted to toxic masculinity and patriarchal norms, overrepresented in substance abuse and mental illness statistics, constantly taking our shirts off at bars, which promotes body shaming, and addicted to porn.
Which begs the question – do we really belong in the LGBTQIA+ community?
Xander concluded. We have to do better if we are going to be worthy of the company of our beautiful queer cousins.
The ‘related articles’ at the bottom of Xander’s piece included a link to an op-ed published on the same site by a straight woman a week ago, titled: Why Being Straight and Cisgender Doesn’t Make My Queerness Any Less Valid.
‘This is batshit insane,’ Zeke said flatly.
‘Completely unhinged,’ I said. ‘But so are his followers.’
‘This article hates us and shames us for what we are,’ Ahmed said. ‘Gross.’
‘The comments the bar’s been copping on our social media are tapped, too,’ Zeke reported, scanning them. ‘Everyone hates us for different reasons, but they all hate us. Homophobes and so-called progressives. Nobody’s got our backs.’
‘Don’t go all conservative on us,’ Ahmed said. ‘Plenty of good people out there still.’
‘I would never go conservative, yuck,’ Zeke said. ‘I’m saying both extremes are fucked, and we’re in the crosshairs of both, so we’re fucked, too.’
It does feel that way.
I’m reassured by a chat with Reyna later that morning, over coffees at Mooba in Wembley.
‘People do have your backs,’ Reyna assures me, choosing a sachet of raw sugar instead of white. ‘Normal people don’t care about gay-scene infighting. People don’t even know this is happening unless they’re chronically online. Trust me, common sense isn’t dead yet.’
I want to believe her, but it’s hard when everywhere you turn there seems to be another guillotine slicing at our necks.
When everyone else is out of the house, and I finally get an hour alone, I smash my guitar into pieces on the cement bird bath in the courtyard.
I never want to make music again.
DM #4
Bet you thought you’d gotten rid of me cos the pride game is over, didn’t ya, Big Dog?
It’s fun to see you crash and burn like you deserve. I’ve watched that TikTok of the Eagles fans booing you at open training about twelve times.
But I’m done playing. I gave you so many chances.
You’ve got 48 hours to tell the truth, or I will.
At Sunday’s game, you’ll be the first gay AFL player – in front of a whole stadium.
Your Worst Nightmare