Page 63 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Could you pipe down?” Fergal whispered. “I didn’t tear anything down.”

“You fucking liar! You’re holding the fucking evidence!”

“Could you just listen—”

“How could you do this to Dory?” Without thinking, Joe swung at Fergal.

Fergal quickly lifted the bag like a shield, blocking Joe’s punch. “Would you just chill out?” When Joe took a second swing, Fergal dropped his bag and grabbed Joe’s wrists, flipping him until he was bent over in front of him. He pressed his mouth to Joe’s ear. “I said listen! I wasnottearing down your posters. Look here—why would I have this if I was tearing shit down?” Fergal pointed to a massive roll of cellophane packing tape in his bag.

“Bullshit,” Joe growled, confusion starting to overtake him. “Prove it.”

Fergal grabbed his bag with one hand and Joe by the scruff of his T-shirt with the other and dragged him down the boardwalk until they reached the next utility pole. Stuck to the pole was a recently mended poster. “Open your fucking eyes,” Fergal barked. “I just put that back up. I found the posters in the dumpster behind the Promethean. I spent the entire night, since one in the goddamned morning, replacing as many as I could! Look all down the boardwalk. I said look!”

Joe looked. And sure enough, the next pole had a repaired poster, and the next one farther down and the next one and the next. Each had clearly been torn down, carefully taped back together, and then wrapped on the pole with enough packing tape it would take a machete to get them down again. Fergal was telling the truth. Joe felt his face flush. “Okay. Fine,” he grumbled through the fog of his humiliation and the remnants of his raging adrenaline. “Can you let go of my shirt?”

“Are you gonna promise not to swing at me again? Cause my arms are a lot longer than yours, shortstop, and I’d have no problem knocking your lights out.”

“Okay,” Joe said as Fergal released his T-shirt. “So, if you didn’t do it, do you know who tore them down?”

“No friggin’ idea,” Fergal said. “One of Scotty Black’s goons I guess. Maybe the Graveyard Girls or some other island wacko—I dunno. I got most of ’em back up.” He walked a few paces away from Joe and started stretching and yawning while also muttering loud enough for Joe to hear. “I haven’t sleptall fucking night, and my thank-you is some fucking pint-sized muscle princess trying to lay me out—for thesecond timethis summer, I might add—”

“Okay, already,” Joe grumbled, so much confusion inside of him. “I’m sorry, all right? Stop acting like I actually hurt you. Jesus.”

“I guess apologizing properly isn’t really your style, huh? Can you at least put these last ten posters back up for me? I want to grab a water taxi and shower before I start work in an hour.”

“Yeah … okay.” Joe didn’t move, immobilized by the breadth of his embarrassment and the preternatural power of Fergal’s blue-blue eyes staring at him. “I guess I … you know … I misunderstood and … I’m sorry.” He shrugged.

“Whatever. Just fix up any major damage. Then wrap the tape around the pole several times to make it harder to tear down. Here’s a backup roll.”

He handed him another thick cylinder of tape and started to gather his stuff. The thought of Fergal leaving on such a sour note sent a jolt of panic through Joe’s heart.

“Wait a minute. You got five seconds more?”

Fergal groaned. “What do you want now?”

Joe’s emotions were a mishmash as he found himself suddenly nervous, confused and overcome by the incredible generosity of Fergal’s act and how he, Joe, had so terribly misjudged him—again. And underneath all that was a desperate sadness that he had missed out on something deeply important. “Seriously, that was a really decent thing to do, and …”

“Yeah, and?” Fergal raised his eyebrows indicating he was waiting for something more.

“Nothing,” Joe said. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

Fergal shook his head, snorted in disgust, and started to walk toward the harbor.

“Wait!” Joe called out.

“What the fuck do you want?” Fergal turned back and dropping his backpack to the boardwalk. “You sound like you want to say something, so fucking say it.”

“Okay.” Joe’s voice shook with nerves. “That morning you kissed me when I was all fucked up. What’s the real reason you didn’t you want to, you know, go further?”

Fergal looked off toward the giant periwinkle pompoms of the hydrangea bush at the side of the walk. Joe couldn’t help but notice how Fergal’s ever-changing eye color was now the perfect shade to match the flowers in the early morning light.

“I don’t fuck around with people so messed up they don’t even know who I am,” he began, his usually gruff voice knee-capped by emotion. “Not to mention, you thought I was someone named Elliot?”

“That wasn’t it,” Joe said, trying to control the emotion in his voice. “Elliot’s my boyfriend.”

“Oh great,” Fergal groaned. “I get it now. Look, you swingers can do what you want. Hats off to you, but I’m not interested—”

“No!” Joe interrupted. “I mean hewasmy boyfriend. He passed away. Two years ago.” He swallowed to clear his throat. “I knew who you were. Honest.” Joe looked down at the bag of ripped and repaired posters.

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