I shit you not, he links me to the Wikipedia page of Imagine Dragons, but I don’t care.
Mason listened to my Spotify.
I think I might love him.
On Tuesday arvo, I’m in Reyna’s garage jamming with her and Hectic Lettuce again.
‘Sucks you couldn’t make it to the Ratsalad gig at Metro’s on the weekend, Chucky Boy,’ Reyna says, when we take a break and Jesse and Yannick head out the back to smoke.
‘Been too hectic,’ I say. ‘Like a lettuce, ba-doom-tish. New bar job’s keeping me busy.’
Reyna raids her garage fridge – plastered with band stickers and posters. ‘Oh yeah, what was all that drama about on social media? You said you’d bring me up to speed the other day but you never did.’
I fill Reyna in on all the ruckus Xander kicked up about the Tool Shed, although thankfully he seems to be more focused on Hammer than us currently.
‘See, I hate this shit. People have no idea how hard it is to make a venue work,’ Reyna says, ripping the twist top off a beer and flicking it at her amp. ‘Curtis did nothing wrong. Way I see it, there should be gay bars, lesbian bars, trans and non-binary bars, and bars for all of youse together. Everyone votes with their feet. Venues that build a community last. The ones with nothing behind them fizzle out.’
‘Exactly!’ I say. ‘We’re on the same page.’
‘You guys should be focusing on becoming financially viable,’ Reyna notes. ‘Not fighting off douchebags swinging a wrecking ball through you like fucking Miley Cyrus.’
‘Timely reference,’ I smirk. Reyna pulls her finger at me as she chugs her cold beer. ‘But yeah, if people don’t like it, don’t come to our bar. The problem resolves itself.’
‘Christ, that’s better,’ Reyna says, wiping her mouth. ‘You know, I used to fight every battle I saw on social media. But now we’re slaves to the outrage. I get bigoted shit served into my feed because the algorithm knows I’ll interact furiously with it. Being angry is how we’re manipulated. But it never directs our rage at the right targets, have you noticed? We crucify randos for silly shit instead of governments and corporations. I’m sick of being manipulated into having opinions on dumb shit I’d never ordinarily give a rat’s arse about.’
‘Dude, say that online and you’ll get cancelled for being a fence-sitter,’ I tell her.
Reyna shrugs. ‘Meh, let ’em cancel me. Punks are born to be pioneers. I’m not scared. I’m ahead of the curve. I’m sick of being medieval, told to take up my pitchfork against my fellow villagers. Fuck them. I’ll hug the villagers instead.’
‘Your version of punk sounds more like being a hippie,’ I say, sliding my guitar strap over my shoulder and playing a bit of ‘Peace Train’ by Cat Stevens.
Reyna snorts. ‘Punks and hippies are drawn from the same well,’ she says. ‘All outcasts.’ She picks up her guitar. ‘So, has thisXander guy left you alone and moved on to attack a puppy farm or something?’
It’s hard to know. After Xander’s video about the Tool Shed, we lost fifty followers. I was a coward. I didn’t tell Xander he was out of line or defend my mates, but I didn’t like his video either. I was the twitchy barman in an old-school western movie: diving behind the bar of the saloon to avoid the shootout. I suspected Xander might DM me, so I announced I was taking a social media break and haven’t posted anything since.
I’m not sure I can run from this forever, but. Especially if anything else kicks off.
The real-world impact of Xander’s video has seemed limited. The bar felt quieter for a couple of days. Curtis was bullish about it, even though his façade cracked that night at dinner. Ahmed was more worried, saying, ‘A bitch like Xander doesn’t just take a loss. It’s too quiet. Something’s coming.’
The weekend seemed to prove Ahmed wrong. We were back to a steady rhythm. Guys playing pool and having quiet pints and filling the dance floor.
Maybe Curtis’ approach of giving it no oxygen was the right one.
When we finish jamming around five, I check my phone and see a message from Mason.Hey man, you wanna hang out tonight? I’m hungry.
I’m meant to be hitting the Wembley to see an indie band, so I invite Mason to join me for a pub feed.
It’s not food I’m hungry for, Mason replies, adding the peach emoji.
Oh fuck yeah.
I go to Mason’s house. He throws me onto his bed, lifts my ankles to my ears and luxuriates in eating my arse for what feels like the most satisfying hour of my life.
I’m curled up in Mason’s bed, nestled into the crook of his neck, enjoying the afterglow, when suddenly he bursts into tears.
Despite telling me not to be sorry for being sad at the restaurant, he’s clearly embarrassed by it. Mason’s thumbs knead the corners of his eyes as if he’s trying to rip his tear ducts out, like the roots of a weed.
It’s not until he says, ‘Can you hug me, man?’ that I realise I haven’t been holding him, just staring uselessly.
