Page 38 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“By the way,” Howie asked, “was there anyone special you were planning to meet out dancing tonight?”

Lenny clicked his tongue and winked. “Like that bearded hunk you told us about?”

“No,” Joe said flatly, then got up from the table and deposited his breakfast dish in the sink, never once looking directly at the men. “I’m just going alone.”

Howie shook his head at Lenny and shrugged. Even if Joe wasn’t the chosen one, there were so many other dangers young men likehim might still face on Fire Island. It was a disco witch’s obligation to watch out for all the innocents, not just those who had been singled out by the Great Goddess Mother.

“You know, Joseph,” Howie said, “I suspect you must be very overwhelmed. I mean, with the new bartending job and summer exploding, like some adolescent Mormon seeing his first JC Penny underwear ad. What I’m trying to say is, it’s not surprising that you’re acting a little strangely.”

“Meacting strangely?” Joe scoffed petulantly, his voice rising with anger. “If you ask me, I’m the least strange person in this room right now.” Howie glanced at Lenny with a “what-the-hell-is-going on?” expression. Remorse filled Joe’s face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. It’s just my leg hurts and … and it’s like you think you know things … I mean, when things aren’t what you think they are … that people are hiding things—never mind. I’m just a little tired with all the work, I guess.”

Lenny gave a mild harrumph, while Howie was befuddled by the shear breadth of Joe’s emotional muddle. It was like a swirling spiritual milkshake made of fear, anger, heartbreak, dishonesty, longing, confusion, and the sour milk of regret.

“Joseph …” Howie touched Joe gently on his shoulder. “I want you to know you can always talk to Lenny and me about anything. We have a lot of experience out here. And not everyone is cut out to deal with the strange passions and … um … dynamic personalities that fill this island. If there is anyone or anything that confuses or scares you, please come to us. There was a time when—”

“I’m late.” The chill had returned to Joe’s voice. “I might not be home tonight. Don’t wait up.” A moment later, the screen door slammed.

Howie looked at Lenny’s face, which reflected his own deep concern. “Something’s definitely up. He must have gotten into the crawl space.”

“Thanks a lot, Ophelia Obvious,” Lenny droned. “You got anything more specific?”

Howie sighed. “Nothing. At least we don’t need to worry about any friggin’ egregore anymore—at least for him. But let’s still keep an extra careful watch tonight.”

23.Saturday Night

“There’s a time to watch and a time to dance!”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #58

Thanks to Dory’s poultice, the wound on Joe’s leg didn’t hurt at all despite him having been on his feet bartending for over five hours. By ten pm the bulk of the customers at Asylum Harbor started to head out to eat a late dinner, shower, maybe douche, don their sexiest butch drag, and return to the harbor for a night out dancing at the Promethean. It would be the start of a pattern for most of the summer people that would repeat like clockwork until September: beach, low tea, high tea, hopefully Asylum Harbor, dinner, Promethean, hook up or hit the Meat Rack, bed. Rinse, wash, repeat. Fun, fun, fun, and … more fun. Or that’s what it looked like on the outside.

Joe wished he had their same ability to access so much casual joy. But he was stymied by the specter of his great sadness, his fear of the virus, and his more recent rumination on what he had seen (or thought he had seen) in the crawl space and in Howie’s room. And what about that thing Lenny had said about a hex? And the way Howie was always staring at him like he did? And the potions and the club in Rehoboth? And had all three of them really needed to check him for ticks? He should have just confronted them. But what exactlywould he have said? That he suspected that they were members of a potentially murderous coven of gay psychopathic witches? Confess that he’d broken into their crawl space and found photos of the hunk whom he’d been obsessing about, who might be a latter-day Dorian Gray on steroids? Or a ghost? Or a gay vampire?

Have you completely lost your mind?Joe thought to himself.You don’t even believe in horoscopes!There had to be some logical explanation. He just needed to find someone to talk to about it without sounding like a crazy man.

“Hey, Joe!” Ronnie’s voice called out from the edge of the bar. “You daydreaming or something?”

Joe’s body jolted at sound of his name being called, and he quickly smiled to cover his reaction. “Wow, look at you,” he said, noting how dressed-up Ronnie was. “Did someone beat you with an LL Bean catalog? Where’s your usual ‘muscle jock’ clubbing outfit?”

As long as Joe had known Ronnie, he’d always worn the same outfit when they went out dancing: a Phillies T-shirt with the sleeves and midriff cut off and extra short shorts to emphasize his massive quadriceps. His lion’s mane of blonde hair would always be unleashed to his shoulders, in case he wanted to whip it on some unsuspecting daddy bear to start a conversation. But that night Ronnie had slicked back his hair into a more conservative ponytail and wore his black Fred Perry polo shirt tucked into his dress-up Levi’s 501s like some born-again preppy.

“Not tonight,” Ronnie whispered. He furtively glanced over at Vince who was busy moving the empty cases of beer out to the back landing. “Look, Joey, I’m sorry, but there’s been a change of plans. I can’t do the Promethean with you tonight.”

“Are you serious?” Joe groaned. “Why?”

“Hey.” Ronnie widened his eyes. “Keep it down, okay? It’s just I got a last-minute invite to a fancy dinner party. It’s a great opportunity, and I don’t wanna miss it.”

“What about after?” Joe lowered his voice. “It’s just I need to talk to you. I saw something at Howie and Lenny’s. It’s pretty hard to believe, and I know it doesn’t make sense but—”

“Look, buddy, I really want to hear all about your housemates’ newest weirdness, but”—Ronnie leaned in and curled his lips likehe was trying to prevent an even bigger smile from tearing his cheeks apart—“I just gotta tell you something.”

“Go ahead,” Joe said, not having seen Ronnie this excited since he first convinced Joe to go out to Fire Island.

“I think I methim,” Ronnie whispered.

“Who?”

“Him! The whole reason I came out here? The life partner I’ve been creatively envisioning every day for the last two years? His real name is Hogarth Miles Winkle the Third. Did you hear that?! The third! He’s a third generation of something! He goes by the name Trey. Trey Winkle! He’s perfect! He’s got salt-and-pepper hair and only comes to about here on me.” Ronnie indicated a height just below his ear. “Perfect size! Perfect age, like ten years older than me. He’s class from head to toe. We’re talking Ralph Lauren, Hermès cologne, a Cartier watch. Not to mention Gucci loafers I know were going for at least three hundred and fifty bucks at Wanamaker’s.”

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