Page 32 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

18.The Graveyard Girls

“When not dancing, practice your twirling, make love, read books, nap, have your best friend over to bake cookies and try on outfits.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #79

The Fire Island Pines Muscle-Up Gym was set on the large outdoor patio between the Flotel Motel and the back of the Promethean dance club. Half-rusted exercise equipment lay jumbled across the concrete as if it was the detritus from Jack LaLanne’s flooded basement. Joe lay on a bench finishing a second set of grueling chest presses while Ronnie stood over him like a drill sergeant.

“Okay, let’s go—one more set!” Ronnie barked. “No pain! No gain!”

“Come on!” Joe said, huffing and puffing. “Just give me a break for, like, five minutes.”

“No way. I’ll give you forty-five seconds.”

“Okay. Great,” Joe said, figuring how he might stretch the break longer. “By the way, I wanted to ask you how your plan to get revenge on Vince is going. What did you say a couple of weeks ago? Oh, right, you said, ‘I’m going to give him the lay of his life and then ignore him.’ If I’m not mistaken, you two have been sleeping together almost every night since.”

“Yo, keep it down.” Ronnie lowered his voice. “You’re the only one who knows about us, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Why? You seem to really like each other. And he’s been in a heck of a better mood since you two started dating.” Joe thought about how Vince had stopped yelling at Joe every time he hadn’t cut up enough lemons, and how Joe had even heard Vince humming a Lionel Richie song while wiping down the speed rack.

“We’renotdating,” Ronnie spat. “I already told you. Yes, Vince iswayhot. But, face it: he’s gonna spend the rest of his life on this fucking island, scraping together some half-assed existence like the rest of the poor working slobs out here. That’s not who I’m looking for.” He then sped through his list of creative visualization on the topic ofman of his dreams, including his age, height, penis size, and minimum annual income. “He’ll also inspire me and finance my motivational speaker business, and we will live together happily until he dies peacefully in my arms, after which I’ll meet someone else wonderful.” Ronnie gasped for air. “One thing is certain—come September I’ll have a deluxe one-way ticket off this island with a hot, rich daddy. If and when I set foot in the Pines again, it’s gonna be because I’ll be owning a house, not cleaning one.”

Joe scrunched his brow. “But what about Vince? Is he cool with keeping it casual?”

“Yes. We agreed—great sex, no emotional connection, and …” Ronnie trailed off, narrowing his eyes. “Wait a minute. I see what you’re doing. Think you’re so smart, huh?” He put on his drill sergeant voice again. “Back to work, wimp! Time to muscle up! Last set! Let’s go! One! Two!”

Joe rolled his eyes, grunted, and struggled the bar up and down six times until he let it slam back down into the rack with a groan. “That’s it. I’m done. This shit is too hard.”

“Come on!” Ronnie shouted. “Are you serious about this or not, Joe? Jesus Christ!”

“Did someone call my name?” a nasally voice droned loudly.

Looking over, Joe saw three men in dark sunglasses and dark club wear (clearly from the night before), standing at the gym entrance. One, the source of the voice, was a tall, large-boned man in his thirties, with dark curly hair and a cigarette clenched betweenhis fingers, like an old-timey movie star. All three had grayish skin and were sweating profusely and chewing gum maniacally. The cigarette-smoking man gestured to his two companions, who followed him across the gym floor like zombie handmaids.

“Your day can get started now!” the chubby tall man announced. “The Graveyard Girls have arrived!”

Ronnie threw his bulging arms around the man and his silent companions. “Joe! This is Thursty, he manages all the bars for Scotty Black, and these two handsome gents here are his boys, they do everything at the Promethean, from bartending to running the lights and sound. They call them the Graveyard Girls because they work harder than anyone out here.”

“Something like that,” Thursty mumbled.

Joe offered his hand to shake, but the men appeared not to notice. He surmised the Graveyard Girls’ moniker might owe to the fact that the three men, completely clad in black, were the sort who stayed up all night getting high on coke and Special K and looked more like corpses than the staff of a beach resort.

“Man, oh man, these guys live the life, Joey,” Ronnie effused. “Every winter they work in South Beach or Key West and then spend summers up here working for Scotty Black. They save beaucoup cash since they never need to pay for a permanent place to live, and get to party for free!”

“Wow. That’s great,” Joe said, trying to fake excitement at what, in actuality, sounded a bit like drug-induced indentured servitude.

“We’re just a tribe of wandering gay Bedouins,” Thursty droned before dragging on his cigarette. “Although our caftans—when we wear them—are far more colorful.” The other two Graveyard Girls started to laugh, but no sound emerged from their gaping mouths, as if they were sealed behind an invisible pane of glass, which Joe found very unsettling.

Thursty removed his sunglasses, revealing disturbingly bugged-out eyes that raked across Joe’s body. “Mmm. Where did Scotty find this swarthy little sausage? Rounds? The Townhouse?”

“Huh?” Joe had never been to those notorious Manhattan hustler bars but still understood Thursty’s intimation. “Nobodyfoundme anywhere. And I don’t work for Scotty Black. I work for Dory and Vince over at Asylum Harbor.”

“Oh, soyou’reFalafel Crotch.” He and the other Graveyard Girls did another round of their creepy silent laughter while gawking at the front of Joe’s shorts.

“The name is Joe,” he said firmly, grabbing his towel as if to wipe his sweat, but letting it fall so the Graveyard Girls would stop staring at his bottom half.

“Whatever,” Thursty said. “I know Asylum Harbor doesn’t provide housing, so where are you living on those shitty tips? You should talk to Scotty and see if he has any work. It’s cold at night, sleeping on the beach.”

Joe clenched his jaw, but before he could snap out a response, Ronnie gave him a cautionary eyebrow raise. “Joe’s found a temporary place to stay for cheap. Unfortunately, it’s with these weird old house cleaners over on Picketty Ruff.”

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