Page 43 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Hey, Howie!” a voice called out.

Howie turned toward the voice from the shadows and squinted. “Fergal? Is that you? What are you doing on the island so late? Don’t you have to work the first ferry?”

“I usually do,” Fergal said. “But I took the morning off. Thought I’d go out and have some fun.”

Howie saw the young ferryman’s face twitch. His aura’s murky indigo spoke of deep intuition and feeling, but it gave way to an underlying violet, which meant that he too might have at least an inkling of psychic power. Though whether Fergal knew this or not, Howie couldn’t tell. Very few magic folk are aware of their powers.

He squinted; there was some other dark force weighing on the young man. Flecks of dirty gray … getting over a cold perhaps? But again that prescient violet kept bursting through, so hungry to be seen.He wrestles something inside his heart.But what? Having known the young ferryman since he was a child, Howie had always suspected the boy might turn out to be one of those tormented, beautiful half-humans fathered by some profligate deity but completely clueless as to their origins. He had the haunting gaze, those otherworldly blue eyes, the underlying sadness that came with being only half of this world. Not to mention the hard drinking, his being prone to risk taking and extremes, his uncanny and precocious swimming abilities and those toes—ever so slightly webbed.

Yes, yes,Howie thought. Fergal might very well be a demigod, a bastard child of Poseidon perhaps, lost and longing to be set free or to find some purpose that would fill the god-shaped hole that sat in the middle of his heart. Of course, Howie also knew it could be his own wishful thinking again.Oh, how the queer and magical, so lonely in their journey to maturity, all long for everyone they love to be queer and magical too!

“Is that new asshole roommate of yours giving you more trouble?” Fergal asked.

“Are you worried about Joe?” Howie again squinted his eyes.

“Fuck no,” Fergal said bitterly, though his lie was as transparent as Chrissy Bluebird’s mesh bikini top. “I don’t give two fucks about that stuck-up little asshole. You shoulda heard how he acted the other day before he fainted, or when I saw him on the beach. He thinks he’s God’s gift.”

“I see,” Howie said calmly. “But remember, he’s brand new to the island. And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but he’s carrying sadness inside him, which sometimes expresses itself as attitude or irritability. Too much sadness can be dangerous when confronted with Fire Island’s high-pressure homosexuality. Certainly, you’ve seen what can happen?”

Fergal looked to the Promethean and then out over the harbor. It was so apparent to Howie that the anger the ferryman wanted to hold onto was confused by a salmagundi of conflicting emotions, primarily hurt pride and … desire? Brilliant fireflies of realization swarmed Howie’s brain. That was it! Fergal was attracted to Joe. That was why he felt like he hated him so. Ugh, how complex and layered affection could be. But Fergal needed to protect himself. Young men like him—if he was, indeed, of mixed heritage as Howie suspected—were prone to falling in love too quickly and too passionately. No one suffered a broken heart worse than someone who was half god.

“Look, if you want my advice,” Fergal said, clearly changing the subject, “you and Lenny have been through a lot lately and are always worrying about someone else. The old-timers are always blabbing about how great it was when you guys used to get all dressed up and go out dancing. Maybe this summer, try to get out there and have some fun.”

“You’re a very wise young man,” Howie said. “One can’t stay in mourning forever, I suppose. You never know; perhaps we’ll test out our dancing shoes one night.”

“Good. Now, I’m gonna go take a walk around the club myself and then probably crash at my buddy’s house or catch a water taxi back home.”

“Wonderful. Do a twirl for me as well. And, if you wouldn’t mind, if you see Joe get into any trouble, do let me know. He’s not as selfish and rude as you may think.”

“Sure, Howie. ’Night.”

Howie watched Fergal walk toward the club. Trailing after him was the glow of that fearless violet, as well as gold, silver, that dirty gray, and finally one of the most passionate shades of red Howie had ever seen.

26.The Wawa Outside of Which I Wept

“Heterosexual overlords are not the only architects of the Great Darkness. Be wary of those holy lovers who have not grown past their self-hatred. Their hearts will be impenetrable to all but evil. Their kiss brings poison.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #101

When Joe opened the door of the Promethean, the one hundred and ten decibels of sound shook the fillings in his back teeth. A giant blow dryer’s worth of humid air blasted his face, filling his nostrils with the scent of booze, poppers, and man sweat. The packed bar area was so dark it was impossible to make out anyone’s face, but all the silhouettes looked like those of muscle gods in the prime of life. When the strobe lights went on, though, he suddenly saw the hollowed cheeks and cavernous eyes of those who were sick.

He pushed his way to another spot. That time, when the strobe lights exploded, he swore that for a split second he saw the face of Elliot in the crowd. He fixed his eyes on the spot, held his breath, and waited for the next clarifying flash of light. As he often did, he played a mind game: What if Elliot hadn’t died? What if Elliot was actually here in the club, dancing? What if Elliot had faked his death just to get away from Joe? At the next strobe blitzkrieg, Joe saw that the man didn’t look like Elliot at all.

The Jäger was really fucking with him now, but it wasn’t enough that he could forget all the bullshit swarming in his head. He elbowedhis way to the front of the bar, where he saw the medium-sized Graveyard Girl working the beer tap. He didn’t appear to be high on K this time, and looked pretty good wearing a pair of butt-less chaps exposing his round and smooth cheeks like two kickballs.

“Hey!” Joe screamed above the boom-boom-boom. “I met you the other week with Ronnie and Thursty at the gym. I’m Joe from—”

“You’re wearing too many clothes!” Without warning, the Graveyard Girl reached over the bar and yanked Joe’s T-shirt up and off his back. “That’s better!” He rubbed Joe’s chest. “Mmm … like Sean Connery and John Stamos had a baby. What’ll it be?”

“Something strong,” Joe said. “Maybe tequila?”

“Looking to get fucked up, huh?” the Graveyard Girl said.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “A little.”

“Got just the thing. It’s called a Knockout punch. It’ll help you feel all warm and sexy!”

“Sounds perfect!” Joe shouted over a remix of “All She Wants Is” by Duran Duran. “Give me an extra-large!”

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