Page 15 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

Joe walked over to the stool nearer to Vince. “Okay to put my shirt back on?”

“Not yet,” Vince said, leaning his tatted forearms onto the bar. His face came so close that his hot whiskey and Marlboros breath blew up Joe’s nose.

Why is this asshole so sexy?As soon as the thought popped into Joe’s mind, Vince grabbed him by the back of his head and crushed his mouth onto his. Vince’s lips and tongue, like two small fists, beat Joe’s mouth into submission, sucking and biting his lips. For an anxious moment Joe worried that he had tasted blood, and squirmed, his mind sifting through all he had read or heard about whether one could or couldn’t contract the virus from an openwound in the mouth.Stop him!his brain shouted. But the erection in Joe’s pants didn’t want Vince to stop.

Then, trying to approximate the sexy, whispery growl of the Irishman, Joe pulled away slightly and whispered, “You want me to do that bite thing to your lips now?” And just like that, Vince released Joe’s head and gently but firmly pushed him back down onto the customer’s side of the bar. “Wait … did I do something wrong?” Joe asked.

“Not at all.” Vince wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like he had just eaten something rotten. “I needed to get any sexual tension out of the way, lad. It can cause problems between bartenders. Let me be crystal clear: as cute as you are, I have no interest in fucking people with whom I work. Are we understood?”

“Um … of course,” Joe said, though he didn’t fully.

“Also, I need you to follow some other rules. While you work at this bar, I expect you to flirt your ass off with customers, but no going home with any. If you do, they’ll lose interest and stop coming. Hear me? And drill this into your squishy, wee pate: no matter how much they seem to be in love with you,they will never date you.They’ll take you to bed and then talk about you like you’re nothing more than a red-faced Sunday morning brag. Got it?”

Joe nodded.

“And another thing—no cruising the Meat Rack.”

“Whatisthe Meat Rack exactly?” Joe asked. “Dory mentioned it.”

Vince shook his head. “How wet behind the ears are you, lad? Have you not been to the Grove yet?”

Joe knew “the Grove” meant Cherry Grove, the original gay community on Fire Island, which had its own ferry from Sayville. Ronnie had told him the Grove was cheaper and more “artsy” than the Pines, with way more lesbians per square foot. He also said since that demographic “didn’t fit the agenda” (meaning Ronnie’s quest for a hot, rich husband), it made the most sense for Joe and him to stick to the Pines.

“Not yet. Is the Meat Rack in the Grove?” Joe asked.

“No. The Meat Rack is the beach forest between the Pines and the Grove. It’s this giant maze of trees, rolling dunes, and swampthat makes it a pain in the arse to get from one town to the other—much to the satisfaction of both, I’d say. They call it the Meat Rack since it’s filled with all sorts of hiding spots where all the lads and pensioners go to get their rocks off al fresco.”

“No way,” Joe said, smiling at the thought. “Out in the open? Daytime too?”

“Whenever. Used to be even more of a scene before this feckin’ plague that’s killing everybody. And while doing the dirty in the Rack sounds grand, as soon as an island bartender sets foot in there, all the gay hens will be on the phone clucking their heads off. Best for us bartenders to keep ourselves a mystery. Are we clear?”

“Um … yeah. I guess,” Joe said. “Now, can I put my shirt on?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass, but here, take this.”

Ronnie tossed a small red and black book at Joe, which he caught.

“Mr. Boston Official Bartender’s Guide,” Joe read out loud. “Great. This will be helpful.”

“Helpful?” Vince scoffed. “You’re to have it memorized by your first shift Friday night. I’ll also need ya that morning for load-in.”

Joe flipped through the hundreds of drinks in the book. “When you say ‘memorize,’ what do youreallymean?”

“Memorizethe damned thing! Every blasted drink. If we’re to get this bar in shape, it’s no playing around. And join the gym next door. I want us both sporting cantaloupe biceps by the Invasion.”

Joe nodded his head enthusiastically but then stammered. “Um … what exactly are we invading?”

“Nothing, Attila the Hun. That’s just the name of one of the big weekends out here. The point is, you need to become a first-class bartender so we can keep this bar open. Got me?”

A thousand anxious bumblebees swarmed Joe’s brain. He took a deep breath and then shook Vince’s hand. “You can count on me.”

8.The Long-Distance Mini-Boogie

“To get home, Disco Witches often go in the completely wrong direction.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #26

Howie and Lenny were standing in the dining room at the end of the long, lemon-yellow, twirly kitchen telephone cord. While Howie held the receiver slightly away from his ear, Lenny leaned in close to hear the weak, rattling voice of their beloved friend and mentor, Max De Laguna.

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