The storm happens five minutes later, when four women from the protest walk into the bar, Xander beside them.
I realise, too late, why Xander agreed to come here.
‘Sorry, ladies, this is a gay men’s bar,’ Ahmed calls, as cheerfully as you can when you’re telling someone to get the fuck out.
Not one of the women looks surprised by this, but they all procure an identical mask of indignation, which is dwarfed by Xander Sullivan’s thunderous face.
‘You havegotto be kidding me!’ Xander cries. ‘These women, several of them queer, have just been told by the entire AFL system they aren’t welcome, and they’ve come to a queer venue for support, and you’re saying they’re not welcome here, either?’ He exchanges a look of incandescent rage with the women. ‘Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Us?’
It’s calculated. Cold-blooded. Premeditated. Xander knows exactly what he’s doing. Just like Brayden said.
Everyone in the bar has stopped and is watching the scene play out. The pint glass Zeke was filling from the tap is overflowing. Fergus is frozen, pool cue in hand, about to take a shot. If this was a movie there’d be a record scratch and silence. But this is real life in a gay dive bar: the soundtrack to Xander’s revenge is Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’ blaring over the speakers while a four-man Bound Gods muscle-orgy porno plays on the TV screens.
Curtis emerges from under the table he was fixing, and walks right up to Xander, towering over him and putting his face close enough to Xander that he could headbutt him. ‘This is a male-only bar, by approved government exemption, and you already know that, son,’ he says, deathly quiet. ‘I think you’re out to cause trouble.’
Xander stumbles backwards dramatically, falling into the women behind him as if Curtis pushed him. ‘You’re being physically aggressive!’ he shouts. ‘I feel threatened!’
It would be comical if he weren’t so dangerous at weaponising his victimhood.
‘Apart from marginalising queer women, making a bar for men excludes so many other queer identities,’ a woman with an asymmetrical haircut says. She steps towards Curtis and makes a sweeping gesture with her arm as she talks, as if she imaginesshe’s delivering a TED Talk. ‘How can you live with yourself, making trans men feel unwelcome here? And bisexual men? Shame on you!’
Vince, our sailor-tattooed and quiffed barman, leaps down from one of the window stools. ‘Um, you’re wrong,’ he says. ‘I’m a trans dude, and I’m gay. I work here and Curtis has always made me feel welcome for being who I am. You’re talking nonsense.’
‘And uh, I’m bi,’ our mulleted glassy, Noah, chimes in, plucking two empty pint glasses off the bar.
I didn’t know this. I suspected Noah was straight and needed a job; I never had any inkling Vince was trans. Takes guts to come out in a conflict situation. I remind myself to buy them each a beer once this is over.
What happens next is so revealing. Instead of the woman looking relieved the bar is inclusive, her mouth drops: she’s disappointed. She knew randomly flinging out accusations of something-phobia is a 2020s activism trump card to inflict major damage on someone’s reputation. Now that’s disproven, she’s lost a weapon in her arsenal. She couldn’t care less about Vince or Noah or guys like them.
‘I acceptallsame-sex-attracted men and I always have,’ Curtis adds, nodding with gratitude to Vince and Noah. ‘Guys like us need spaces where we can be ourselves, discreetly, and know our identity will be safe.’
This seems to get Xander riled up again. ‘If you’re talking about guys who are closeted, I think you’re misjudging how problematic that behaviour is,’ he says swiftly. ‘It’s 2025. If a guy doesn’t come out, he’s not a victim, he’s a coward.’
I think immediately of Matt, and feel a surge of hatred for Xander. He had the easiest ride with his sexuality and he has no clue what closeted guys go through. How dare he judge a guy for struggling and having it harder than he did? Those guys are not cowards. They are human beings doing their best to cope.
Unfortunately, this thought explodes from my mouth as a loud, embarrassing, ‘Pah!’
Xander’s eyes fly to me. I want to duck behind the counter, but it’s too late.
‘Charlie!’ Xander calls. ‘Surely you don’t agree? It would be career suicide to support someone as blatantly queerphobic as Curtis Levesque.’
All eyes go to me and I freeze. I’m going to have to pick a side in front of everyone.
I’m saved from having to, because in response to Xander calling him queerphobic, Curtis roars, ‘THAT’S IT!’
I flinch. When a big, tatted, roided-up bloke like him yells, you listen.
‘I’ve been through more shit in my life than a lily-ass white boy fromDalkeithcould ever start to comprehend,’ Curtis snarls. ‘Real shit. Abuse. Violence. Cops coming around and throwing my friends in jail. I left my family. I was homeless. I watched my friends drop dead from a deadly virus, while the government did sweet fuck all, while everyone treated us like freakin’ lepers. I bore the brunt of bigotry when it was illegal and dangerous. Where were you then, boy? Still locked up tight in your daddy’s nutsack, weren’t you? Safe and snug. I’ve worked hard to build something for my boys,and I did it. Over and over, I did it, I’m doing it, I’ll do it forever. What have you ever done? Got your bussy out on Insta and the cover of some trashy-ass magazine and decidedthatmade you an activist? Wore a pin and a T-shirt in an era where doing that gets you thousands of followers instead of followed by the cops? You’re no activist. You’re an attention whore and a narcissist, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you call mequeerphobicin the place I built. Get the hell out of my bar before I throw you out.’
‘OUT!’ Ahmed shrieks.
Xander flinches, and turns to the women. One of them whispers to him, but he shakes his head and backs away fromCurtis. ‘Not a good look,’ he says as he retreats to the door. ‘Not a good look at all.’
Curtis’s arms are flexed by his sides, the veins almost fighting their way through his skin as he stands guard over the bar, watching Xander and the women slink out the door.
‘Ahmed,’ Curtis barks, ‘give me the paint that mural artist left behind.’
Ahmed lobs a can of black spray-paint to Curtis, who stalks out the front of the Tool Shed and sprays over the white wall beside the hot tradie mural:
