Page 18 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Hey there, Joe!” the tall one called out.

Joe jumped up and waved them over. “Howie! Lenny! C’mere a minute. I want you to meet Ronnie!”

“I see you two found the hook,” Howie said as Lenny parked their caddie. “The most perfect spot. And now we get to make the acquaintance of the famous Ronnie! Joe has told us wonderful things. I’m Howie Fishbein and this is Lenny D’Amico.”

As Ronnie shook Lenny’s and Howie’s hands, he felt an uneasy tingling in the lower part of his stomach, just above his appendix scar. “Yeah, ’sup,” he said, lowering his voice and glowering. Something about the bigger guy instantly bothered him.

“Such a strong handshake,” Howie said. “Joe mentioned you have bartending skills. I sometimes arrange parties out here for my customers, and they’re always looking for handsome bartenders—generally shirtless, though. These men have no imagination. If you like, I can put you on my list.”

“Sure, thanks,” Ronnie said, distracted by how intently Howie was staring at him. It wasn’t the leer of other men, undressing him with their eyes. Howie’s eyes were scalpels dissecting his soul. “Is something on my face?” Ronnie snapped.

“You’re eyeballing him,” Lenny snarled. “How many times I gotta tell you not to—”

“You’re right,” Howie said. “Sorry. It’s just you look so … have we met before?”

“Nope,” Ronnie said. “Never.”

“Strange. I could have sworn we … well, in case I ever insulted you in this life or a previous one, I sincerely apologize.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ronnie sniffed, ignoring Joe’s eyes warning him to be nice.

“Oh, hey,” Joe said brightly. “Ronnie, you should see Howie and Lenny’s album and cassette collection. It’s seriously gargantuan.”

“Do you like dance music, Ronnie?” Howie asked. “We’re big fans.”

Ronnie shrugged. “New stuff is cool. Madonna, The B-52s … disco sucks, though.”

Howie and Lenny gasped as if they were silent movie actors. Joe just looked pissed.

“You don’t like any disco?” Lenny asked. “Not even Gloria? Donna? Vicki Sue?”

“Gag me.” Ronnie mockingly stomped his feet in a four-on-the-floor rhythm singing a Gibb-worthy ah-ah-ah tremolo. “It’s all the same song—”

“Ronnie’s being a dick today,” Joe said while giving Ronnie the side-eye. “And I’ve seen him dancing the Hustle at Kurt’s in Philly dozens of times.”

“I went to disco nights because I like to fuck hot, rich guys in their forties,” Ronnie sneered. “The music itself was painful as hell. I had to go home and listen to Kiss and AC/DC just to clear my head of that monotonous shit.”

“Monotonous shit, huh?” Lenny looked ready to fight.

“Perhaps you don’t yet fully comprehend its beauty,” Howie said gently. “The disco aesthetic is highly misunderstood. You know it all started in Manhattan’s Black and gay dance clubs? That’s why white straight men attacked it. Perhaps you can let us try and change your mind.”

Ronnie rolled his eyes despite Joe glaring at him.

“By the way”—Howie squinted at Ronnie—“has anyone ever told you that you have a very interesting aura? It’s all over the place, but with some striking flourishes of indigo—which represents insight.” A flash of pity passed over Howie’s face. “A very difficult time growing up, I suspect. But you’re a survivor.”

“You can tell all that, huh?” Ronnie scoffed, distancing himself from the fact that Howie’s obvious guess had landed a bull’s-eye.

“I believe so.” Howie did another disturbingly deep stare into Ronnie’s eyes.

“So I guess you think you’re psychic or something?” Ronnie bulged his eyes mockingly. “What else can you tell me about myself?”

While he believed in creative visualization and the power of positive thinking, Ronnie drew a hard line at bullshit like crystals, auras, and palm reading. Not that he hadn’t tried them—but ever since he’d wasted an entire week’s paycheck on a bus ticket out to New Mexico to witness the “Harmonic Convergence”—a huge cosmic turd—he had developed a deep disdain for the mumbo-jumbo branch of the New Age business.

“Not psychic at all.” Howie laughed. “Trust me, we’ve known some excellent clairvoyants. Our beloved friend Max reads souls like they’reReader’s Digest.”

“Doesn’t even use tea leaves or runes,” Lenny added.

“The best I can do,” Howie said, “besides my prescient indigestion, is see auras, but my eyes have gotten cloudy over the last few years. Although, for some odd reason, they’re extremely bright today. Probably sunspots.” He narrowed his eyes, his brow puzzled, before waving a hand through the air as if to wipe away the awkward conversation. “But enough of all this silly metaphysical talk. Look at you two handsome young men, working on Fire Island for your first summer. So exciting! If Ididhave the ability to see the future, I’d predict you two falling hopelessly in love with Fire Island and never leaving.”

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