Time’s up for exclusion. Do better.
Xander Sullivan
The song playing over this post, while I read it in horror, is my own song, ‘Roof’. There’s a caption at the end of Xander’s open letter saying, ‘Song: Charlie Roth – “Roof” – local queer singer-songwriter’. And he’s not just tagged me, but invited me to be a collaborator on the post.
My stomach knots itself with regret. Reyna was right. Nothing was worth this. I wrote ‘Roof’ about the night me, Matt, Zeke and Hammer spent together once, as teenagers. It was one of the most special moments of my life. And now I’ve let it be perverted into Xander’s warped mockery of what gay liberation was meant to be.
I’ve soiled my music and my soul, all at once.
Worst of all, the comments popping up rapidly don’t even notice my song. I have a grand total of four new followers, and precisely one DM from a random gay guy who says,You have a nice voice kinda like a Temu Benson Boone but ur song is a bit basic sorry xx.
Everyone else in the comments is just venting their outrage at Curtis and Ahmed, praising Xander for being a leader, and confirming they’ve signed and shared. The post zooms towards a thousand likes.
Xander’s gaslighting of the public is some next-level narcissism.I am not cancelling anyonein the same breath as actively trying to cancel the bar permanently.
Anyone challenging Xander in the comments gets piled on. People are blindly accepting his characterisation of Curtis and Ahmed as exclusionary, hateful bigots, either out of fear of Xander’s wrath, or because they believe his lies. Curtis and Ahmed get called fascists, bootlickers, traitors, TERFs, queerphobes, misogynists, neo-Nazis – pretty much any mud that can be flung at them. Nobody seems to care if there’s any truth to the insults or not.
Xander DMs me.Post is up, babe. How come you haven’t shared it yet?
There it is. Xander wanted to make sure I was completely painted into a corner before he turned on me.
I grab my phone and call an Uber. I need to get to the bar.
When I get to the Tool Shed, the word is out. The Bears are in one corner, ranting about Xander; half the footy club is standing around a forgotten game of pool, similarly raging; a few younger cubs are muttering about police officers; and an older bloke from the AIDS Council is telling Vince at the bar he’s a lawyer and will represent Curtis if need be.
Vince raises his eyebrows at me as I walk in. ‘Crisis stations,’ he says. ‘Shit’s hit the fan, big time. Have you seen—?’
‘I’ve seen Xander’s post, dude,’ I interrupt him.
‘That’s … not what I was referring to,’ Vince says, his cheeks pink.
Vince leads me out to the back alley of the bar.
It turns out Xander’s open letter went viral in right-wing social media groups, who latched onto his comments about the bar being sexualised as proof that it’s a cesspit of moral depravity. The Tool Shed – and Curtis and Ahmed – are being called perverts, fags, sodomites, groomers. Homophobes are jumping on Xander’s bandwagon and signing his petition to get the bar shut down. Their reasons for hating the bar are obviously different, but for a moment, they’re in lockstep with Xander about taking us out for good.
Which is what led to the hate crime in the alley.
When Vince shows me out the back through the smaller access door, two cops are getting back into their police car, finalising their conversation with Curtis and Ahmed.
Spray-paint on the brick wall beside the loading dock of the Tool Shed has two messages on it:
To the right, the old classic:AIDS – KILLS FAGS DEAD.
To the left, a new twist:EVEN FAGGITS DON’T WANT THIS SICK SHIT.
The two middle-aged cops seem genuinely sympathetic and promise Curtis and Ahmed they’ll seek out CCTV footage, but advise being realistic in our expectations, as these cases often don’t lead to charges if they can’t find the offender.
The cop car drives off, and Vince goes back to cover the bar.
Curtis, Ahmed and I slump on upturned milk crates in the back alley to commiserate. They both look as winded as I feel.
Nobody even asks why I’ve rocked up, because the one thing on everyone’s minds is the open letter – and the damage it’s caused.
‘This is out of control,’ Curtis says. ‘When I was growing up, they were hunting us. Cops. Right wingers. The accusation of homosexuality was dangerous. Clearly those same attitudes are still around.’ He gestures to the graffiti. ‘We’ve copped the homophobia before. I’m used to it. I’ve expected it since we opened the bar. What’s thrown me is copping the same witch hunt from our own kind. With friends like Xander Sullivan, who needs enemies? This is sixteenth-century Catholic behaviour dressed in a rainbow flag: a gay Spanish inquisition. Are you the right kind of homosexual? Do you believe in our version of Jesus Christ? You don’t? Prepare to die.’
Curtis mimes pulling a dagger across his own throat.
‘Why does the scene suck when it’s meant to be good?’ I mutter. ‘The stuff they’re saying about you isn’t even true. It’s defamatory.’
