Tank gives me a nod. ‘Season over, brosef. Piss up in Kingy and Sniper’s hotel room, don’t tell Roo. Come with?’
Of all the things, this is what gets me: lodges in my throat, strikes a nerve. This was the shoe I was always waiting to drop if anyone knew about me – that I’d be tolerated at footy, but outside playing obligations, the invitations would dry up and the group chats would fall silent and I’d be subtly but thunderously expelled from fraternity. I wouldn’t be one of the boys anymore once they knew I liked men.
But they’re here. My boys are still here. They’re still mine and I’m still theirs.
‘Yeah, mate,’ I say. ‘Keen.’
We head out of the rooms towards the team bus. The Melbourne rain claps my face as Kingy claps me on the back.
‘Oi, Big Dog,’ he says. ‘You wanna go halves in a slab?’
33
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 theBOYS ONLYgraffiti 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 giveHammer 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.
