Page 55 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Langhorne,” Joe said. “It’s in Bucks County—”

“I know the area well! My cousins went to George School, and we summered once in New Hope. I’m not sure Ronnie told you, but I went to Wharton for my MBA. Awful neighborhood of course. But I had a place in Society Hill. We’d play lacrosse in Fairmount Park on weekends. Play any sports out there?”

“Not really,” Joe said, but then, sensing Trey didn’t like that answer, he quickly added, “I mean not team sports. I did some intramural gymnastics my first semester at Temple. I lived in Northern Liberties with my boyfriend before he—” Ronnie started coughing loudly. Joe got the message:“No dead boyfriend stories.”

“Before I broke up with him and moved back to Bucks county,” Joe finished.

“His bad luck!” Trey interrupted. “Look, I’m dying for you to meet someone.” He waved beyond Joe’s head. “Ace! Ace, you handsome old bastard! Come over here!”

Joe turned and saw an older man approaching the group, holding two freshly poured cocktails that had been dyed a deep, deep grenadine red. The man was tall and lean, in his late sixties, with slicked back, silver hair. He wore a yellow button-down, tan slacks, and a pricey-looking gold wristwatch that glinted in the sun.

“Ace.” Trey put his arm around Joe’s shoulder and shoved him toward the man. “This is Joe. He went to George School in Bucks County! It’s a very prestigious Quaker school.”

“No I didn’t—” Joe attempted to clarify, but it was no use.

“I just adore a literate Quaker!” Ace’s thick, syrupy accent sounded like he was a character fromGone with the Wind—one who’d drunk one too many mint juleps. He looked Joe up and down. “And, my dear, you look extremely literate.”

Joe blushed as all the surrounding men sniggered.

“Gentlemen,” Trey said to Ronnie and Joe, “this is my dearest friend Ace Dandridge, who happens to be a painfully successful entrepreneur back in Atlanta, and an even more painfully successful sodomite everywhere else!”

This set the group to laughing again. Joe joined in, grateful the focus was off him.

“Oh, stop, Trey Winkle, you honey-mouthed Yankee!” Ace cooed. “I might take offense if that comment hadn’t come from a man whose derrière has been exploited by more stock brokers than a Morgan Stanley expense account!” More guffaws.

Trey grabbed Joe’s hand and pulled him closer to Ace, almost like he was the guest of honor, which seemed odd to him since Ronnie, after all, was Trey’s new boyfriend.

“So, Ace,” Trey said, his hands sliding onto Joe’s shoulders, “Joe here works at … what’s the name of that bar again?”

“Asylum Harb—” Joe started to say.

“That’s right! That quaint little bar no one ever goes to behind the Promethean.”

“Is that foul-smelling petri dish still open?” Ace asked with an exaggerated gasp. “I believe the last time I was there was back in ’78, when I lost my William and Mary class ring up the backside of this hot little Puerto Rican.”

“That’s the place,” Trey sniggered. “It was a different bar back then. Less petri, more dish. But Joe wouldn’t know about that since he’s onlytwenty-four!”

A smirk from Ace. Knowing giggles from the crowd. Joe so wished he hadn’t told the lie about his age. He realized that if he did meet someone he really liked that summer, he’d have to eventually tell them the truth. And why had Trey mentioned his age anyway? The whole ceremony felt like a hazing, like he and Ronnie were being put under the microscope of a group of elderly frat boys.

“This is Joe’s first summer in the Pines,” Trey continued. “Can you imagine?”

“It appears the stock price ofchickenwill be going way up this year,” Ace joked.

This caused yet another eruption of laughter, including from Ronnie. Joe attempted one of his non-smiling smiles, which was even more difficult because he didn’t fully get the joke. Then, from the corner of his eye, Joe noticed guests filling up plates from the food table. He didn’t want to miss his chance. He figured he’d eat enough shrimp cocktail to offset the cost of the expensive outfit. He just needed to make his move.

“You look thirsty, Joseph!” Ace cried. “Would you like one of my fancy Alabama slammers? I asked that Brazilian bartender to mix in extra grenadine with his muscular finger! It’s so red, isn’t it? I like to pretend I’m drinking his blood!” He made a ridiculous face, lapping at his deep red drink like a vampire bat.

The entire crowd around Ace erupted into groans and guffaws. Ace laughed as well, doubling over, causing his two Alabama slammers to splash their grenadine bloodbath all over Joe’s brand-new mint-blue polo.

“Hey! My shirt!” Joe cried.

“Oh, shoot! I am so very sorry there, Joseph! Let me get that for you!” Ace started exaggeratedly rubbing at Joe’s chest and groping his crotch with a cocktail napkin, expanding the crimson stain to his new jeans. Furious, Joe grabbed the napkins from Ace to try and clean himself. All the A-listers laughed. Joe knew that each of them could have bought two, or even ten of those polo shirts, and itwouldn’t have meant a thing to them. But there he was exposing just how big of a deal it was to him.

“No biggie.” Joe tried to stem a desire to cry or scream. “I’ll just go rinse off. I have to take a leak anyway.”

“I’m sure Ace would love to help you!” Trey roared.

More hysterical laughter from a dozen men, including Ronnie. Joe forced a smile, suppressing his rage as he trudged into the house. Once inside the museum-like living room, a shirtless waiter pointed him toward the guest bathroom. It was huge, decorated in slate and glass, with three sinks and a glass shower stall big enough for a small football team. He pulled off his stained polo shirt and jeans, spritzed them with expensive-smelling verbena hand soap, and rinsed them under cold water. The stain got lighter on the jeans, but the polo was clearly ruined. All those bar tips wasted. Joe squeezed the sopping clothes in a gray bath towel, and then pulled them back on. It was then that he heard two men’s voices, just outside a high bathroom window.

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