Page 82 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

Before Howie could say another word, he heard Joe walk across the living room and then out the door. The vibrations of his pain lingered in the attic.That poor, poor boy,Howie thought as his foggy gaze swept across the ruined room. Something atop the dresser caught his eye: a single photo of a handsome, sandy-haired, dimple-cheeked young man playing the guitar on a beach. In front of him was a dark-haired man—clearly Joe—lying on his side facing him.This must be Elliot,Howie thought, taking in how he’d looked down at Joe with such love in his eyes. Why couldn’t love last forever? Why couldn’tloverslast forever?

It was rare for Howie to observe an object’s aura, but the photo was practically glowing. It must have meant a lot to Joe. Just before he set it back down on the dresser, he glanced again, and that’s when he flung his hand across his own mouth to silence a screaming gasp. There it was. Right there. The winged-heart mole on Joe’s back. Just to be sure, Howie wiped his thumb across the photo to make sure it wasn’t dirt. It wasn’t.

His eyes tore around the discombobulated room once more. It all was becoming apocalyptically clear—the mixtape case in the trash can, the egregore sighting in the Meat Rack, the half-packed suitcase on the bed, the snap of the fanny pack, the blackness of Joe’s aura. Howie grabbed Elliot’s mixtape case from the trash and stuffed it into the pocket of his caftan. There was no time to waste. He had to find the others and get to Joe as quickly as possible.

As he scrambled down the ladder, his right foot snagged itself in the hem of his caftan. His six-foot-three-inch, two-hundred-forty-two-pound body fell four feet, cracking his head on the hardwood floor. Just before oblivion descended, he imagined himself calling out Joe’s name.

42.The Morning Party

“Dance, dance, dance, as if tomorrow we all shall die!”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #10

When Joe walked into the Morning Party at eleven fifteenAM, he was hit with an overwhelming blast of energy from the ecstatic, sun-drenched crowd. Every man, woman, and drag queen was wearing some sort of spangly, skimpy thong, swimsuit, or jockstrap—with or without headdress. Several people wore matching outfits signifying the comradeship of that summer’s house share. There were shiploads of sailors in short shorts, blister packs of Judys in various incarnations (Oz or overdose), pools of synchronized Esther Williamses. Former bar patrons shouted:

“Hey, Joe! Yowza! Look at you!”

“Save a dance for me, Joe!”

“If you wanna use the VIP tent with me, Joe, just ask!”

When DJ Michael Jorba blasted “Get On the Dance Floor” the crowd cheered, arms raised, heaving like the ocean.

Joe, however, didn’t move. He scanned the crowd to see if Fergal was there. Not that he wanted to see him. Did he? He didn’t. He did. He didn’t.What would be the point?He knew what he was there to do:Just for one night, do whatever you have to do to get out of your head.And then, in the morning, if you make it that far, you’ll get your things and catch the earliest ferry from the Grove. Tell no one. Just vanish.

“Looking good, Joe! Love the white shorts!”

“Wow! Someone is looking for trouble!”

“Get a load of you! Now we know why your bar burned down! Hot stuff!”

Joe forced a smile as he swerved and dodged his way to the beach side of the dance floor, longing for anonymity, still searching (but not searching) for Fergal. He steered clear of Dory and Saint D’Norman dancing in their glimmering silver and white costumes near the stage. He saw Ronnie and Vince, wearing wrestling singlets, pouring drinks and joyfully squirting each other with water guns. Next to them were Elena and Cleigh, drinking Tab and bopping to the music.At least they were able to find love on Fire Island.

Joe pushed deeper into the crowd, not wanting to be seen by them or anyone he knew. Although that would nearly be impossible since a Who’s Who of his Fire Island summer was swirling around him—the Graveyard Girls (with bumpers stuffed into their nostrils), Chrissy Bluebird, Ace Dandridge, Trey Winkle, Tommy Tune, Jerry Herman, a bevy of Brians, a gaggle of Gregs, all shouting their hellos.

“Hey, Joe! Hey!” a familiar but unexpected voice called out.

Joe turned to see none other than Frankie Fabulous with his broken neck.

“What the hell?” Joe muttered as he stared in shock at Frankie, who was wearing a huge metal satellite ring around his head, held in place with metal pins sticking out of his skull and stabilized with a vest around his naked, chiseled chest. Despite the massive, neck-stabilizing headgear, Frankie was shirtless and wiggling his see-through-mesh-covered hips while waving his arms to the music.

Despite being dumbfounded why anyone in that condition would be there, Joe shouted, “Hey, Frankie! Looking good!”

Then a thought flickered across his brain—Frankie Fabulous looks like the planet Saturn has come to dance. Is this what Howie meant? Saturn returns for all of us. Are you my broken-necked Saturn, Frankie?

Joe looked around at several attractive men who were staring at him, their half smirks sending an invitational signal. Given anotherplace and time, they might have been worthy of his love—if he were capable of it. Darker thoughts stabbed at his brain. How many of these men would be dead within the next ten years? Would Howie, Lenny, and Saint D’Norman be dead? Would Fergal be? How many times could a heart break until it could no longer be a container for love?Come on, stop it, Joe, stop it. It’s a party. Try and smile. Today you escape from your head, tomorrow you escape for real. No looking back. No quitting now.

He fished into the black fanny pack that clung around his waist, his fingers caressing the little mottled merman’s head from the burned clock. Pushing it to the side, he felt for the three pebble-smooth, brown glass vials and the little baggie he had promised Ronnie he’d throw away weeks before.

So, where would he go if he made it until tomorrow? Move to New York? Or maybe even Los Angeles or San Francisco?You know you won’t go to any of those places, and you won’t go to med school or even take the MCAT. You’re a coward, Joe. You’ll move back into mom’s house in Bucks County and get your old job back cleaning toilets at Friends Hospital.He’d start pretending to be straight again. On weekends he’d go to Philly and hook up with random strangers, checking their bathroom cabinets for AZT, avoiding anyone who might get sick or break his heart any other way. He’d spend his thirties, forties, and fifties remembering this summer and what he could have had with Fergal, and how he’d hurt both him and Elliot. Eventually he’d die miserable and alone, and they’d only find his body because of the smell, and no one would come to the funeral because there wouldn’t be a funeral.

“You okay, Joe?” Frankie Fabulous screamed into Joe’s ear—or as close as he could get with his satellite neck brace.

“Huh?” Joe realized he had been standing frozen in the middle of the dance floor.

“You look like your dog just OD’d!” Frankie Fabulous wildly wiggled the lower half of his broken body. “This party is tubular! Come on, smile! If I can smile, anyone can!”

Saturn returns! Saturn returns! Saturn returns!

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