Page 45 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“How long of a ‘while’?” Joe pleaded. “I feel like I’m going todiefrom being so sad. My heart hurts, Elliot. People die from broken hearts too, you know!”

“Joe, come on—”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever loved, Elliot. Istilllove you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Elliot. What if something happens while we take this break? What if you get, ya know, sick again or something, and—”

Joe couldn’t finish the sentence. Was it that he wanted Elliot to love him again or just to absolve him of the mantel of being the worst lover any dying man had ever had? Joe’s shoulders shook, bits of pork rinds flying out of his mouth and onto the mouthpiece of the pay phone and his tear-covered hands. Homeless folks walking by looked at him with pity.

“Jesus Christ, Joe.” Elliot’s cold voice echoed through the receiver. “We’ve talked about this over and over. I don’t know how long I have left on this planet, and I don’t want to waste it constantlyarguing with some muddle-headed boy who can’t get his life together, can’t control his emotions, and always has one foot out the door of this relationship!”

“That’s not true!”

“Itistrue! You know it. I loved you, Joe, but it was just too hard.”

Elliot’s use oflovein the past tense sent Joe into another bout of uncontrollable crying. Elliot waited until Joe’s deluge had settled into mere snotty hiccups of weeping. “I’m sorry, Joe,” he said. “I can’t take your periodic rages at me for being sick. That constant expression of worry on your face. You look at me, and all you think about is me dying.”

“That’s not—”

“And you’re always trying to control my every move, what I eat, how much I sleep, how long I stay out at night.”

“I’m just trying to take care of you!”

“It’s not helping, Joe! It’s crushing me! I don’t want to think about it—don’t you get that? And meanwhile, you’ve done nothing about your own life. You clean bedpans in a mental hospital. Focus on yourself, Joe. Grow the fuck up. Please don’t call me again.”

“Okay. But we …” He gulped air, trying not to sob. “We’re still together, right?”

“I … I’m not sure. I’ll call you in a few weeks.”

The click of the hang-up. The ghostly whine of the dial tone. The crunch of the pork rind. The odor of the barbecue mixed with spit, tears, and the plastic of the pay-phone mouthpiece. Joe shivered as the cold Philadelphia wind blew through the giant hole in his stomach.

The DJ was spinning “Good Life” by Inner City when Joe realized he must have blacked out leaning over the edge of the Promethean balcony. He could have died, and his last memory would have been that final conversation with Elliot—a memory he had come to Fire Island to escape. He needed to shake the sadness from his head. He took one last long, painful gulp of the Knockout, hoping it wouldwork like turpentine, melting away the blue and black paint of awful memories. Below him a thousand shirtless men’s bodies rose and fell like a bubbling cauldron. The disco lights swooped, the strobes exploded, the red laser beams stabbed the darkness. Joe tried to spot anyone he might know who could rescue him, but between the lights and his blurry eyes, everyone looked the same.

Except for …

He squinted his eyes to make sure he wasn’t imagining anything. He wasn’t. It washim. Gladiator Man. Every hair on Joe’s body leaped to attention. A bullet of desire blasted away the previous moment’s darkness.

“Hey! You! Hey!” Joe screamed.

Being several inches taller than anyone around him, the Gladiator Man towered over the center of the dance floor like a colossus, his massive shoulders spanning those of two men. A perfect dusting of fur spread across his bowling ball pectorals, and a treasure trail traipsed downward through the granite landscape of his ripped abdomen. His tight white jeans glowed in the black light, making him even more of a beacon. It was as if hewantedJoe to find him.

“Is this really happening?” Joe’s drunken guts ached with sexual hunger as he closed and opened his eyes. When he looked back down, the Gladiator Man gazed directly back at him. This time, there was no mistake.He sees me.Abandoning any attempt at Ronnie’s lesson on seductive disinterest, Joe frantically waved his arms. The beautiful man smiled and waved back, the underside of his hairy forearms mapped with veins. He pointed up to Joe, and then back at himself, as if to say,“You and me—us, together.”Then he tossed his head toward the front door. The meaning was obvious.

Joe vigorously gestured that he would be right down. “Wait for me!” he shouted over the din of Frankie Knuckles’s dance mix of “The Real Thing” before he bolted down the stairway, climbing over a man who had passed out on the steps. Joe’s heart was trying to sledgehammer its way out of his chest. When he arrived at the edge of the dance floor, he elbowed and jammed his way through the crowd. Most of the dancing revelers were too wasted to care. Several thought he was trying to play with them and proceeded to grabhis ass while a gaggle of older Asylum Harbor regulars, rolling on ecstasy, encircled him in a group dance hug.

“Falafel Crotch! Our favorite little bartender on the whole island,” one of the men spit into Joe’s ear. “We love you!”

“Lemme go!” Joe wiggled from their clutches and dove deeper into the crush of the dance floor. A burst of multiple strobe lights briefly blinded him, but he was able to discern he was close to the middle. “Where is he?” he cried out. “Fuuuuuuck! I cannah looze you again!”

“Who are you talking about?” a sardonic voice yelled. “I’m right here!”

It was Thursty and the shorter Graveyard Girl, holding a Diet Coke can in his hand, meaning he was probably high on something. Thursty, however, was clearly drinking one of those Knockout punches.

“Having fun tonight?” Thursty shouted, patting the fanny pack around his thick waist. “I got C, K, T, E, X—the whole fuckin’ alphabet. I also have a package deal tonight on E, K, G—the cardiologist’s special! What do you want? Thirty percent off for island employees!”

“I don’t do drugs!” Joe shouted back.

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