‘Punks are tough sons of bitches,’ Curtis says. ‘They had to fight a lot in their lives. Not afraid to throw down. No time for pretend shit. Proud to be weirdos. To dress different, sound different, be different. You are definitely a punk, my boy.’
‘Then what’s your point?’
‘That every punk I ever knew was a hurt little kid inside,’ Curtis goes on. ‘The world’s brutal, so they got more brutal so it didn’t kill ’em.’
I don’t know how to answer. Eventually I burp and say, ‘Yeah, I’m a punk.’
Then I tell Curtis, at last, how I fell in love with a farm boy who loved me back but then topped himself. I would never have told him if I wasn’t drunk. Or if he hadn’t called me a romantic fool. Curtis sees me the way nobody else does, and I want him to know me, too.
When I’m finished, Curtis sweeps me into a bear hug and holds me for a long time. ‘Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me this, son,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘I’m thinkin’ you’ll feel better if you face it, instead of pretending it never happened.’
I try to kiss him on the mouth, and he flinches.
‘Charlie, no,’ he says, gently. He rubs my back to make the rejection land more softly. ‘Not while you’re living with us. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Sorry, Dad,’ I say sullenly.
‘Go to bed and sleep it off,’ Curtis says, thumping me more firmly on the back to signal that soft time is over. I think I made him uncomfortable. ‘We can talk more tomorrow.’
I nod, dozy and foggy-headed. I sit in catatonia on the couch for a bit, while Curtis taps feverishly at his laptop.
‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ I ask. ‘It’s late.’
‘Stress,’ Curtis says. ‘Seven days until opening. There’s so much to do.’
‘I’ll help,’ I offer.
‘I’m goddamn countin’ on it,’ Curtis says, with a wheeze. ‘For the next week, you, me and Ahmed eat, breathe and sleep the bar. Nothing else matters. We have to make this work.’
‘It’ll work,’ I assure him. ‘It’ll be a hit.’
Curtis removes his reading glasses and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Do you really think so?’ he asks. ‘You’re young. I’m old. This is my dream, you know, to build what I had in my heyday. Those circuit parties, those cruising lounges. They were for us and only us. I think it’s so important. Then I see your generation enjoying mainstream acceptance and everyone mixed in together, boys and girls, straights and gays. Maybe I’m out of date. Maybe I’m trying to resurrect a subculture that doesn’t exist anymore. The world has moved on. Maybe your generation doesn’t need a place like this, you know?’
I’ve never heard even a whisper of doubt in his voice before.
‘We need it,’ I say. ‘Tonight, I saw how much. Those bars aren’t ours anymore.’
Curtis nods. ‘Right. Right. I know that in my gut. Last-minute jitters, I guess …’
‘A place like the Tool Shed would’ve saved Matt’s life,’ I blurt out.
Curtis freezes. ‘That’s a big claim, son.’
‘He wrote these letters,’ I explain. ‘More ramblings. He was upset. Confused. He couldn’t get his head around being a normal, masc guyandbeing into dudes. His brain short-circuited. He couldn’t see it anywhere around him. If Matt’d had the Tool Shed, maybe he would’ve found his way.’
‘That’s big stuff,’ Curtis says. ‘You overestimate the power of a bar, though.’
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘You underestimate it.’
6
SEND IT
HAMMER
Someone knows.
It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I got the DM on Thursday.
