Chapter 33 Street Spirit （Fade Out）
STREET SPIRIT (FADE OUT)
CHARLIE
We bury Curtis two weeks later, in September, the month when spring grips my Midwest homeland and washes it in multi-coloured wildflowers opening up to the promise of warmth.
What strikes me about the funeral chapel at Pinnaroo Valley Memorial Park isn’t how full it is. It’s that the people Curtis touched with his life were not his blood relatives. He fled his family years ago: only one sister and two nephews make the flight here to farewell him.
But still, the chapel is overflowing.
The community turned out in droves. Older guys, younger guys.
The Bears. The footy boys. The sports teams. Booksellers, restaurateurs, photographers, journalists, models, tradies, business owners, activists, some MPs.
Curtis ran bars and sex shops for years.
The conversations I overhear as people greet each other, and kiss, and cry, are all so similar.
Curtis helped me so much when I was coming out.
Curtis always checked in on how I was doing.
Curtis was always there for me if I needed anything.
Curtis loved so much, and he was loved in return, more than I think he was ever told.
My voice breaks when I deliver Curtis’ eulogy. Ahmed was insistent I do it because I’m comfortable addressing a crowd, and Curtis liked the way I spoke. I manage to hold it together, although when I mention how devoted he was to Ahmed, I get teary.
Once the eulogy is over, a slideshow of Curtis’ life plays on the projector, to the backing of his favourite Madonna song, a little-known track called ‘Intervention’.
That’s when I cry properly. Zeke rubs my back and Mason holds my hand while we watch photos of a young Curtis winning a bodybuilding competition; flexing next to Arnold Schwarzenegger in Gold’s Gym; partying in the Castro district of San Francisco; marching for same-sex marriage in New York; kissing Ahmed on their wedding day in Central Park; standing, hands in pockets, beside the BOYS ONLY graffiti he painted on the Tool Shed’s entrance.
When the ceremony is over, the celebrant hands over to the funeral director, who asks the six pallbearers to come forward. It’s me, Zeke, Rex, Ahmed’s brother-in-law, Joel, and two of Curtis’ gym bro mates.
Curtis is in a sturdy, shiny rosewood coffin.
He is heavy. We carry him for his final minutes on the surface of the planet, into the back of a hearse.
We walk alongside the slow-driving hearse to his burial site, where we reassemble and settle him onto a metal apparatus that sits on top of the open grave like a steel skeleton.
It’s an extra deep grave: Ahmed will be buried with him when he dies.
I think about the last conversation I had with Curtis. He wanted to shield us all, take every bullet, protect us. He was a good man.
I’m glad I’m wearing black sunglasses as the celebrant gives a final blessing at the gravesite, commending Curtis to a peaceful repose.
When I can’t handle looking at the coffin, with its photograph of Curtis balanced on top, I look away, over the heads of the mourners.
In the distance, I see a guy hanging back from the crowd, leaning against a tree.
He’s in footy shorts and a Mad Hueys hoodie, face obscured but build unmistakable.
I give Hammer a tiny nod. He returns it, puts his earbuds in, and keeps jogging.
The funeral director instructs us pallbearers how to use the ropes to lower Curtis into his grave. My muscles strain against Curtis’ weight as we return him to the earth. He always used to tell me I should hit the gym and lift weights like him to make my muscles bigger.
I smile, despite myself. His last act on earth was to make me lift. He got his way.
The Tool Shed has been closed since Curtis’ death, but it’s full to the brim for the private wake. People are hitting the buffet, hitting the sauce, telling their Curtis stories.
At some point, as afternoon blackens into night and the crowd thins, I am on the couches with Ahmed, Zeke, Rex, Vince, Noah and Mason, nursing my umpteenth Heineken.
‘I’ve made my decision,’ Ahmed says. ‘I’m not shutting down. We’ll stay open.’
We’re all drunk, and we cheer more than circumstances warrant.
‘Hell yeah,’ I say.
‘Curtis wanted this place to work,’ Ahmed says. ‘If we shutter it, it’s like denying him his biggest wish. I won’t do that. Fuck the haters. I’m riding this pony all the way, hell or high water.’ He looks at us. ‘Will you boys stay on? Despite the backlash?’
‘Absolutely,’ Vince says. ‘Curtis was always good to me. I work here cos I want to.’
‘Hear hear,’ Noah adds.
I think about all those guys at Curtis’ funeral, and I wonder what this place becomes without him. If Curtis isn’t here, there will be nobody to protect the new generations of guys fleeing the country frightened and lost, arriving in the big city, hoping to find their place.
Except that’s not quite true. Curtis was a leader, and a leader never dies if there are people who carry on his mission.
On that couch, one hand on my Heineken and one hand on Mason’s thigh, I realise Curtis had the glory I’ve always wanted, not Xander.
Glory is not fame or fortune: it is purpose.
Curtis found his at a young age, grabbed it between his bulldog teeth and never let go, and his example made thousands of other guys like him believe in themselves, too.
He made me believe I had something to offer.
He made me want to keep moving. He gave me hope.
He showed me what courage and determination and hard work can do.
That spark: that is the glory I’ve wanted my whole life.
And now I have a place I care about enough to fight for and defend and build.
‘Think of me like the glory hole in the dunnies, Ahmed,’ I say, raising my Heineken to him in a salute. ‘I’m part of this place whether you like it or not.’
When the crowd dwindles to just the core of us, I end up with my legs on Mason’s lap as he knocks back another pint.
‘I meant what I said before,’ he tells me, drunk. ‘Your eulogy was beautiful. I was no good giving the eulogy for Jared. I kept crying. Yours was spot on.’
Mason tells me he snuck off after Curtis’ burial and paid a visit to Jared’s gravesite: he’s at Pinnaroo, too.
‘It helps me, to visit him,’ Mason says. ‘Do you ever visit Matt?’
I opened up to Mason after Jumanji. About Matt. About my father. About everything.
‘Actually, no,’ I admit. ‘I couldn’t be at his funeral, cos he was closeted, and I was the most infamous homo in the Midwest. I’ve never …’ I pause. ‘I never said goodbye to him.’
‘Memorials aren’t just for the dead – they’re for those of us left behind, to have closure,’ Mason says, draining his pint. ‘Don’t you think you’d feel better if you did?’
Less than two weeks later, I am in the Northampton Cemetery at the foot of Matt Jones’ grave.
It’s been a big day. On the way, I stopped at the Geraldton Cemetery to visit my father’s grave, too. I brought him one of my guitar picks from home, and a fresh cold king brown of Emu Export – his favourite – from a Gero bottle-o.
It was hard to see his photo (scruffy, grinning after a Powderfinger concert) in the cheap headstone that read Caleb Roth, 1981–2016.
Even harder to see the words below that – loving husband of Nadine, devoted father of Charlie – and know only one of those was true (thankfully, the one that mattered).
Hardest still to thank him for leaving money to send me to a decent school, and tell him how I miss him and think of him when I see Orion’s Belt.
I told Dad I love him, and thanked him for loving me.
After all, he didn’t have to. Zeke’s dad was cruel to him and Hammer’s dad was indifferent and Matt’s dad hated gays.
Their dads are still alive and mine is gone.
But I was the lucky one, because my dad loved me loud as a guitar riff.
All my strength, all my confidence, comes from him.
We thought about staying back in the old haunt longer, both of us.
We both had family we could visit in Gero, even spend the night.
We both dismissed the idea. Zeke seemed resolute on having some space from his parents.
As for me, I’m not sure if I’ll ever want to reconnect with my mother, or make peace with Hannah and Rocky, or go give Father Mulroney a proper jump scare by wandering back into the school grounds and flipping him the bird, double-barrel, in the middle of a school assembly.
But if I ever do build up the courage to do that, it won’t be on the same trip I see Matt and my father. This is for them.
When we get to the Northampton Cemetery, Zeke stands beside me as I examine Matt’s headstone.
Matt’s family were farmers, and they had more money than I realised.
Matt’s headstone is expensive and shiny: black composite marble with flecks of gold leaf.
The photo of Matt built into the headstone is of him in his cricket whites, his buck teeth visible, making his smile disarming and cute.
Someone still visits his grave regularly: there’s a shiny new cricket bat resting on the headstone and a wreath of still-alive flowers.
The words engraved in the headstone read:
Vale Matthew Warwick Jones, 1998–2018.
Top batsman, top bloke.
I lay a bunch of flowers in the crevice where the headstone meets the grave. They’re a mix of wildflowers and weeds I picked from the side of the road on the way here.
I ask Zeke for a moment alone, and he steps back a few metres, making the sign of the cross out of respect to Matt.
I look at Matt’s photo smiling back at me from the headstone: his eyes there were bright and alive.
I press my lips to the palm of my hand, firmly, then touch the palm of my hand to Matt’s face in the photo.
‘There you go, Matty,’ I tell him. ‘I kissed you back. It’s all okay now. You’re okay now.’
I bow my head, my eyes raining on Matt’s grave. Then I take an envelope from my jeans pocket. The envelope with a badly-drawn love heart on it.
I keep only one letter in the envelope – the last one Matt wrote to me, with the xo at the end. This I’ll keep forever.
I take the rest out – the thick wad of letterbombs he gave me before he died, and the reply I’ve written him, seven years too late, which I read to him aloud.
When I’m done, I grab all the letterbombs, flick my lighter, and set fire to them.
LETTERBOMB #7
Matt I don’t write letters with pen and paper either so we have that in common I’m like you with your first letterbomb hunting the right words best words cos I know this bomb is goodbye I’ve tried the formal letter the sappy letter even a funny letter (too soon, still) and there’s nothing honest coming out of me I am emotionally constipated so here I am having another crack tonight Zeke’s in the shower and Ahmed’s cooking soup while watching Nigella and Rex is smoking outside and I’m at the dining table where Curtis sat and it’s just hit me why a letter won’t work cos in a letter you only write what you want the other person to know and that’s not what you left me with you gave me all the shit you never planned anyone to know about you cut your chest open in front of me and let me see your heart and every artery I know you the way nobody ever will and a little letter to you will never do that the only way I can say goodbye is to show you what you showed me: here are my arteries in return Matt here is me
first off I’m not mad at you, could never be, I am just sad forever that me wrecking us also wrecked you it was my fault I was being a little shit and you were having the life crushed out of you and I didn’t know and I’m so fucken sorry I miss you every day and think all the time what our life could’ve been like if I could rewind and cram those words back into my mouth like a fistful of dirt I would do it to save you even if we still broke up I would eat that fucking dirt so stupid of me not to see the signs I should’ve asked you ‘what do you mean you wouldn’t survive coming out?
’ but like you were the older guy and dude I thought you had your shit together I only had a scooter and you had a car and hell I was looking to you to be my saviour that night at the wharf it never occurred to me I could be your saviour and I know that’s emo but it’s like the lyric I wrote: if I could’ve been I would’ve been your roof forever
you wanted me to play a romantic song for you and you hoped I’d make it big I did only one of those I wrote this song called ‘Roof’ and if you’d been out I’d dedicate it to you every time I play it maybe I’ll try some crafty way to dedicate it to you anyway you were good at sneaking around and still having fun with me you cooked and you drank and we held each other and that summer was the happiest of my life and it fell apart and yeah I didn’t make it big but I tried and at least I never lost the little green army man you gave me and even though I did lose Zeke and Hammer I got them back like you wanted
I dunno what happens after death either if we’ll be reincarnated together one day or if it’s silence personally I hope there’s something (otherwise what, we suffer for nothing?
!) and the older I get the less I think the reality is important and the more I think our imagination is all that matters so I imagine you’re in a place where you can play cricket and ride your dirt bike and sink froffies and be you and God how could you feel so bad about your teeth Matt you are a beautiful man you are hot your teeth were so fine as they were
I kept your letterbombs never told your parents about them your secret is safe but I’m going to burn them my letterbomb will set your letterbombs on fire all that poison will be gone from both of us cos you worried you’d come across ‘mental’ but you don’t you come across like a man in unbearable pain and I’ve carried that pain and I know you wouldn’t want me to so I’m letting go of it for both of us and the only one I’m keeping is that last letter you wrote me with the xo at the end I love you so much for that you have no idea you felt sad you never said the word out loud to me but it’s okay love isn’t a word love is what we felt what we did what we made and I love you too Matt I’ll love you everlong
Charlie xo