It’s brutal to hear myself described as not successful, even when it’s patently true.
‘Pretty much,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to break through as a musician. Nearly impossible.’
As occasionally thick as Mason can be, he’ll also have these random, super-insightful moments of poignant lucidity.
‘But if being punk is doing what you want, aren’t you doing that already?’ he asks. ‘Shouldn’t just making music make you happy, even if you never get rich and famous?’
Hot damn, Firetruck. Buy me a drink before you fuck me like that.
I splutter some face-savey words about distribution and airplay, coming off like a music snob to make myself feel better, because Mason Shaw just sussed me out in one date.
I look, talk and sneer like a punk, sure. But it’s been a long time since I could truly say I didn’t give a fuck. I hold my tongue on everything. My music is safe and mid, since saying anything edgy gets you cancelled. ‘Roof’ was the softest song I’ve ever done, because radio wouldn’t play my harder tracks. I won’t let myself grow up cos I’m still stuck in a moment from when I was a teenager. Worst of all, I hate Xander Sullivan – the embodiment of gentrified gloss – and yet I am fatally envious of him. I want his popularity, his fame, his money, his aura of success, the way people stare when he walks into a bar.
Charlie Roth is no punk. I am a sellout and a fame whore.
Mason goes on to tell me about his footy team and what they’re planning for their trip away to Lancelin. Despite remembering my promise to Zeke to listen more attentively, I fuzz in and out of the convo. The punk discussion really upset me, and it shows on my face.
Nino brings our meals and tells usbuon appetito.
After he leaves, Mason asks me, ‘You okay? Did I say something wrong?’
I’m not crying, but my face is wobbly and sad and I can’t fix it. How embarrassing. ‘It’s nothing you said, dude,’ I mutter, unable to look at him. ‘Lots of stuff just hit me at once.’
I feel a callused hand touch my knuckles. Mason intertwines his fingers with mine and locks his hand into mine, tightly.
‘Never be sorry for being sad,’ he says gently.
Mason’s staring at me, his big dumb eyes brimming with concern. Our hands are knotted together beside the salt and pepper shakers.
Nino bustles over to our table at that moment, carrying a china bowl of parmesan. Instinctively, I go to yank my hand away from Mason’s. It’s an impulse – we shouldn’t be seen holding hands in public by a traditional old straight man.
But Mason doesn’t let my hand go. He tightens his grip, then swivels his head to nod confidently at Nino. ‘Thanks for the cheese, mate.’
Nino puts the bowl down and looks at us like we’re his long-lost sons. His gaze falls on our intertwined hands and he smiles. ‘Nice-a boys,’ he tells us. ‘Very nice-a boys.’
Nino bails, and Mason says, ‘How cool was that? Wouldn’t expect it from an old guy, would you?’
‘Pretty cool,’ I admit. Nino’s kindness was a good distraction; I squeeze Mason’s hand then disengage. ‘Look, sorry for that, just now. Some old trauma, I guess.’
Mason twirls his fork around some olive oil–drenched spaghetti, shoves it in his gob and thickly grunts, ‘You wanna talk about it?’
My first instinct isnotto talk about it. I should do whatever I can to salvage this date, power through it, possibly let him root me at the end, then change my name and move to Azerbaijan so I never have to see him again. I hear Baku is a nice city.
‘You struck a nerve, earlier,’ I admit. ‘That thing about being rich and famous.’
Mason scarfs down spaghetti like a human vacuum cleaner, olive oil dribbling down his chin and onto his flanno shirt. Put this in the dumb-as-a-plank column: he’s a total slob with no table manners.
‘Nuffin’ wrong with wanting to be rich and famous,’ he says. ‘My folks got a bit of money, I was raised okay, but don’t have much now I’m out on my own. I’d never wanna be famous, but. All the media attention we got after leavers years ago made me never want people to know my name. I’d happily live a quiet, simple life. And be filthy rich, of course, but without any fuckers knowing about it, ha!’
I feel exposed, but after he held my hand, safe enough to tell him the truth. ‘I’ve had this drive to become a big rock star since I was a kid,’ I tell him. ‘I wanted to leave Gero, make it huge, and come back and rub it in everyone’s faces. Look at me, I’m famous and important now, I’m bigger than all of you. I know that makes me sound like a dick, but it’s true. I felt like a superhero when I left. But you’re right. I’m not successful. I’m not rich or famous. I don’t think I ever will be. I think this is it. I’m like every other wannabe muso in Australia who tried and failed and now plays pub gigs and works at a bar. I thought I was special and I’m not.’
‘Oof,’ Mason says. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You are special, mate.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’m nothing.’
I’m such an idiot for believing I would ever be famous. The lure of success kept me going. I pictured my future self and I loved him. Without fame, what am I? Just a white trash faggot from Geraldton who everyone kinda hates.
‘You think if you’re not famous, you’re worthless?’ Mason asks through pasta.
