Page 3 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“I’m not sure I wanna be that far from Philly,” Joe said, squirming in his chair as he poked at the crusts of his discarded cheesesteak roll. “My mom’s getting older and—”

“Stop being a drama queen. Your mom is a big girl and wants you to be happy. She told me so. Look, my adorable little Armenian, you need to start having some F-U-N fast, or your heart and dick could get stuck in a sad, dark place. You don’t wanna end up dead and alone in some studio in Fishtown with a cat named Little Sheba, do you?”

Ronnie had a point. Like many young men who had lost lovers to AIDS, Joe felt both like a frightened toddler and old beyond his years. It was his widowed mother, Evelyn, who had originally encouraged him to drive into Philly to meet new gay friends.

“Don’t we have to interview or anything?” Joe asked Ronnie.

“Nope. Scotty said the jobs are basically ours if we want ’em. We’re in like Flynn!”

“I don’t know …” Joe scrunched his eyebrows.

“What have we got to lose?” Ronnie said. “I’ve slept with everybody worth sleeping with in Philly. Just think, an entire island of hot, rich gay men looking for love. Also there’s no cars or even bikes allowed, so it’s really safe—especially if you’re gay. You can just walk down the boardwalk in your Speedo, holding hands and kissing in public, and no one’s gonna beat the shit out of you or set your house on fire. It’s Gaytopia!”

Gaytopia? Could any place feel that safe or free? How many nights had Joe pretended to be straight as he walked home from the bars while groups of hetero assholes shouted threats at the more obvious gays? How many times had he wished he could have held Elliot’s hand as they walked South Street without worrying some Philly lug-head might mutter under his breath, “AIDS carriers”?

“That all sounds amazing, but how about we do it next year?”

“Enough with the stalling!” Ronnie shouted over Madonna’s new hit “Live to Tell,” which was blasting from the sound system. “Listen to Madonna! She’s telling us to do itnow! You turn twenty-four in March! I turn thirty-five in September. We only get to stay at the top of the homo-food chain for a short time—and that’s the best-case scenario. Look what happened to Elliot. Look what’s happening to nearly fifty percent of our friends over thirty. Who knows when any of us are gonna bite the big bad dick of death!”

“Jesus, Ronnie. Keep it down!”

“You know I’m telling the truth.”

Maybe it was the third beer Joe drank that night, or maybe it was his finally acknowledging how small his life had become, or maybe it was the eight tons of despair clogging his stomach (along with the Jim’s cheesesteak with Whiz), but he looked up at Ronnie and said, “Fuck it. I’m in!”

2.Land Ho!

“Life will surprise you. Let it.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #83

May 3, 1989 … twenty-one minutes later

Peter Gabriel was singing “Kiss of Life” into Joe’s ears as Joe zipped up his raincoat and climbed the slippery stairway to the ferry’s upper deck. It was all so peaceful: the ferry’s vrooming engine, the seagull’s call, the shush shush of the parting water. He pressed “Fast Forward” on his Walkman. The mixtape whirred past Peter, past Joni, past Ricki Lee, until it hit the perfect song—Bonnie Raitt’s slow, bluesy “Opening Farewell.” Joe closed his eyes and listened to Bonnie’s raspy alto. The spray of the Great South Bay gently stung his face.It’s a baptism,he thought.A cleansing of what had been, and a welcoming of what might be.

“Ah-ha ha ha!” The barrage of loud laughter shoved Bonnie over the railing of Joe’s serenity. He clicked off his Walkman and saw the two deckhands wearing yellow rain slickers, leaning against the captain’s cabin and staring at him.

Were they laughing at him? He knew their type from high school—the sort that would play on the lacrosse team and snap wet towels at bare backsides. One was thick, a pimply-faced teenager, the same height as Joe. The other one was taller and lean, with astubbly face that bore the flush of a young man who spent his life outside. Handsome—for a straight guy. He looked around the same age as Joe—or rather the same age Joe lied about being—early twenties. Even from across the boat, Joe was stunned by the incandescent blue of the man’s eyes. The deckhand clocked Joe looking at him and whispered something to his coworker, then … more laughter.

Straight assholes. So much for this place being Gaytopia.

He wished Ronnie and he could have at least traveled out to the island together. Instead, Ronnie had arrived a week before, to make sure everything was set up, while Joe had to finish his last week at Friends Hospital in Philly.

Joe was about to head downstairs when he saw it—the fog was lifting, and Fire Island appeared like a long inky brushstroke across the horizon. As the ferry moved closer to the coastline, mansions emerged from the trees.They have to be worth millions!Joe’s heart drummed excitedly. He recalled all that Ronnie had told him—the parties, the men, the feeling of nonstop wealth and hedonism. But then, as the ferry slowly sloshed its way into the harbor, disappointment overcame him. The totality of the business district was nothing more than a handful of squarish buildings with nautical decorations haphazardly slapped onto their cinderblock surfaces—a total contrast to the mansions he’d seen along the coast. Worst of all, only a handful of people were waiting for the ferry, tugging small red wagons filled with groceries or pots of flowers like old people play-acting children. It was like a gay ghost town.

And there was no sign of Ronnie. He checked the other side of the boat, looking off toward the eastern end of the harbor. It was just more gray emptiness except for a single sunbeam splitting the clouds and shooting a natural spotlight onto the very middle of the far dock. Into that illuminated patch of dock walked the most gorgeous hunk of man Joe had ever seen.

Who in the hell … ?

The man had to be six foot four at least, with broad shoulders. His bulging pectorals pushed against the word “Titans” on his damp gray sweatshirt. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties to early forties, with dark, close-cropped hair and a perfect salt-and-pepperbeard that emphasized the squareness of his jaw. He looked like aColt Menmagazine model or one of those buff actors wearing a leather thong in a 1960s Italian gladiator movie.

Then it happened: the man turned his head just slightly, and despite the distance, he appeared to be staring directly at Joe with an expression of both desire and danger. Or perhaps sexual hunger and mortal threat? Whatever it was, Joe’s skin began to vibrate at the thought of being touched by him. Then the Gladiator Man began to wave.

Joe nervously lifted his arm to wave back, his heart drummingBoléroagainst his ribs. Then, just as he flashed one of his glowing Armenian American smiles, a large yacht pulled between him and the Gladiator Man. When it finally cleared the view, the Gladiator Man had vanished.

Dammit,Joe thought. As his eyes scanned the far side of the harbor in hopes of seeing him again, he felt the ferry bump into the dock. The deckhands flew into action—ropes tied, gangplank set, passenger door slid open. Joe hurried below and was last in line to disembark. All the other passengers had someone waiting ashore with a red wagon and a hug. Soon, they’d all been whisked off down tree-covered walkways.

Joe stood alone with his duffel, on the lookout for Ronnie (and for that Gladiator Man). Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. Still no sight of either of them. Every so often the two annoying deckhands would look over. Not wanting to appear as if he’d been abandoned (even if he had been), Joe walked over to the small strip of gray wooden shops, waiting for the deckhands to lose interest. They didn’t. The taller one, who had remarkably blue eyes, wouldn’t look away. Trying to gay-bait him, no doubt. Joe considered wandering off down one of the walkways and risking getting lost. But how far was he supposed to take the charade? Did he really need to prove to some good-looking, homophobic straight guy that he hadn’t been pathetically forgotten by his only best friend? A “best friend” he had only known for six months before following him to an island he knew nothing about.

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