Page 41 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

Elena burst into laughter, hugging Joe like he was a slightly drunk twelve-year-old. When he realized she didn’t believe him, his heart sank, and once again he felt totally alone.

“Joe, who told you that? Those four old queens and my grandmother are the nicest people this side ofMr. Rogers’s Neighborhood. Someone actually said they burned down a club?” Again, Elena covered her mouth to hold in her guffaws.

Joe’s face flushed. “But have you seen how they used to dress? There are pictures—”

Elena patted Joe’s hand. “Shh. Honey, I’ve looked at Dory’s shelves of photo albums ever since I was a baby. Everybody used to dress up like that to go to the disco dancing back in the day. It was like church for them. They aren’t actual witches.” She sputtered into another round of giggles. “Oh my God, baby, island fever has gotten you.”

Elena’s words made some sense, but they didn’t explain what he’d heard in Howie’s room and what he had seen in the crawl space.

“But you don’t understand, I heard things, saw things …” Again he looked around for any hint of his roommates. “I snuck into this locked storage space in the attic. It’s where they keep all their supplies and … it doesn’t matter. There’re these photos in there; theywere on the walls when I first saw the attic, and then, for some reason, Howie and Lenny hid them in the crawl space. I swear!”

“Hid them?” Elena tilted her head. “Okay, so, what was in the photos?”

Should he really tell her everything? She might call 911 or refer him to a psychiatrist. But who else could he tell?

“Well, when I looked at them—I mean looked really closely—I recognized this guy I’ve been seeing out here. He’s in the background of at least five of the photos they’ve hidden, but—here’s the thing—the photos are really old, and he hasn’t aged at all. I mean he looks exactly the same after ten, twenty, thirty years.”

Elena’s smile dropped. She looked concerned. “You think they’re hiding photos of a guy whose appearance didn’t change over thirty years?”

“Yes!” Joe said.

“Describe him to me.”

“Well, he’s about six four with short, dark hair and this sexy, salt-and-pepper beard … crazy handsome and built huge, like one of those guys in those old gladiator movies. You know the dubbed ones where everyone talks with a British accent, but they’re supposed to be Romans?”

“Mm-hmm. So, you saw this gladiator guy’s face up close in photos and in real life?”

Joe thought about it. No. He hadn’t seen his face closer than thirty feet. And except for the one clear photo, the Gladiator Man was always in the background, with his face partially obscured …

Joe’s memory started to blur. His face felt hot and sweaty. “It really looked like him, I swear.”

“Joey, baby,” Elena said kindly, “I hate to say this, but all gay guys look alike.”

“No they don’t!” Joe protested.

“They do. You just can’t see it, honey.”

Joe gestured to a smooth blond body builder, in a spaghetti-strap tank top, walking next to a short, thin Latin guy in biker shorts. “You’re telling me they look alike to you?”

“Of course they don’t look alike,” she said. “I’m not comparing the bears with the twinks or leather clones.” Elena impressed Joewith her knowledge of the taxonomical variations in gay male archetypes. “I’m saying just look within those categories—the guys look so much alike they could form their own sixties girl group. What’s that expression? Oh, right: ‘There are only six gay men in Manhattan, and the rest are done with mirrors.’ ” She pointed to the stream of men heading into the club. “Just use your eyes.”

When Joe actually looked over at the specific brands of gay men standing in line, the similarity became starkly evident. Bears, twinks, muscleheads, silver foxes, lumberjacks, trolls, clones, wolves, chickens … it was like an illustrated gayGrimms’ Fairy Tales. Even the “regular-guy” gays were allregularin exactly the same way.

“I guess we do all look alike,” Joe admitted.

“If you get up close and add a personality, everyone is unique,” Elena said. “But from a distance, it’s like looking at dozens of G.I. Joe dolls on the shelf at F.A.O. Schwartz. It’s the same with fashion models. Just squint and, other than our race and hair color, we’re basically carbon copies. It makes sense that you thought you saw the same guy in all those old photos. Sounds like this guy you saw is one of those Tom of Finland muscle clones.”

“Ugh,” Joe said, realizing the impact of the insanity of his early summer—the move from Philly, the sadness, the unrelenting schedule, the heat of his attic room. “I feel like such an idiot.”

Elena hugged him tightly. “You are not an idiot. This island will do that to you. It makes everyone go a little nutso. I’ll be honest with you, I had something similar happen to me out here when I was a kid. Dory had me come out here the summer after my mother died—kind of like she had me come out here this summer—to heal. She thinks the island has special powers.”

“She does?”

“She does indeed. And it’s infectious.” Elena started to laugh at a memory.

“What is it?” he asked, reflecting her laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“It’s so stupid.” She shook her head. “Once, when I was a kid, I thought I saw her group of friends elevating a few inches off her living room floor while they were having a dance party. I also remember thinking I heard strange voices.”

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