Page 92 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Elena, my dear,” Howie said. “Thank you so much for helping!

“So, what do you need me to do next?” Elena said. “I promise not to ask too many questions. Dory already warned me.”

“Perfect!” Howie handed her a pair of very dark, vintage Chanel sunglasses caked in rhinestones. “Wear these. We don’t want you to hurt your eyesight.”

Elena, following her vow not to ask, shrugged and put on the sunglasses as Howie whispered more directions. A moment later she, the most ravishing bodyguard, began moving people away from the area where the five intended to dance.

Ronnie waved for Howie. “Can someone please give me some instruction here? Is there specific choreography? Do I chant something?”

“My dear,” Howie said, “I can’t go into great detail at the moment. Just do exactly what we do. When the twirling begins, keep your eyes focused on your nose. Never look out. Okay? First, we drink this.” He pulled five capped tincture bottles from hisfanny pack, handing one to each of the quorum. “This one with theLon it is for Lenny. It’s alcohol free.”

“What is it?” Ronnie asked.

“Just a little ancient preparation to help us with the twirl. It’s fermented. Augments strength and focus.”

“Cool.” Ronnie grabbed for one, always happy to try out a new party cocktail.

“Places, please!” Howie shouted, directing Ronnie to stand exactly five feet from him, with Lenny five feet away on the other side. That’s when Ronnie noticed the giant pentagram that had been drawn in chalk on the floor. Each of them was to stand at a pinnacle.

“DJ Susan always plays it right after this song,” Howie said. “When I give the signal, then we all drink and”—his voice became almost inaudible as he mouthed the word—“dance.”

Seconds later, layered under the end notes of Donna Summer’s “On the Radio,” the intro to Sylvester’s “Do Ya Wanna Funk” began.

“There it is!” Howie lifted his tincture to the others. “The Call to Magic!” Ronnie remained silent as Dory, Saint D’Norman, and Lenny recited the words from memory: “Covenant of the Saint, Communion of the Sacred Dance Floor, Sisters of the Twirl. Knuf annaw uoy OD? Em htiw knuf annaw uoy OD? We do!”

The four swallowed their tinctures; Ronnie followed suit. It was nothing like he had ever tasted before—fizzy flavors of flowers, musk, cucumber, cinnamon … life and death.

“Is this where we start flagging?” Ronnie’s viscera vibrated with a newfound energy.

“That’s for later.” Howie tucked his flag in his belt. “As I said, watch … then do!”

The four older Disco Witches folded their arms atop their chests again, closed their eyes, and bowed. Ronnie copied them. Then they slowly opened their arms and let their black robes fall to the floor. Beneath their robes they wore floor-length, weighted white skirts shimmering with mirror sequins. The entire dance club exploded with the light reflecting off their costumes. Their various blouses, more individuated, were equally bedazzling. The club erupted into cheers as the four kicked their black robes away from their feet,bowed one more time, focused their eyes on the tip of their noses and, one by one, began to slowly spin. After several turns, they raised their arms—their right slightly higher than the shoulder, palm up toward the ceiling, their left lower than the shoulder, palm facing down. As their turning escalated, their skirts opened up like shimmering upside-down calla lilies. Their heads were tilted slightly, as if they were listening for something, their eyelids so low they looked closed.

Ronnie watched, enthralled by the four sparkling disco dervishes. He took a deep breath, dropped his black robe and, as they had done, focused his half-closed eyes on the tip of his nose as he began to spin in place, right foot over the left. As he got into the rhythm of the spin, he lifted his right palm to the ceiling and turned his left palm to the floor, turning faster and faster. His skirt began to rise, escalating his spin as if it were being moved by some external force.This is amazing!

Wanting to see the others, he focused his opened eyes outward and promptly tumbled to the floor—just like Howie had warned. He jumped up, got his bearings, and began to turn again, this time keeping his eyes nearly closed, blurred, and aimed at his nose. As his speed increased, he began to feel small gusts of wind from the spinning skirts of his companions. He again lifted his arms: right palm facing up connects to the heavens; left palm facing down shoots energy to all of humanity. He could have sworn he felt sparks between himself and the others—like they were fomenting their own singular electrical weather system.

Sylvester’s song seamlessly mixed into Donna Summer’s “This Time I Know It’s for Real.” Ronnie heard the whoosh of the whirring strands of beads whipping off Howie’s hat, and then the clacking and buzzing sounds of all their collective spangles. It was as if a host of swarming seraphim had alighted onto the dance floor. Was that a merging with the others he was feeling? Was this what melting into the fabric of time and space felt like? Was he letting go of every pretense of being a successful gay he had ever believed and becoming part of something greater?

Then it happened. He felt his feet lifting from the floor. It was only an inch or two, but it was really happening—that same feelinghe’d had as a child in his dreams, flying over Northeast Philadelphia and nearby parts of Jersey. The only things holding his body and the others aloft were energy, air, and the music. They were five paper whirly toys set loose into the cosmos and at the same time lovingly held close by the Earth.

Free, Ronnie thought.I’m finally free.

A CLEARING IN THE MEAT RACK—10:13PM

Gladiator Glen’s hiding place was under a thicket of chokeberry. It was in a small hidden clearing several feet off the regular path on the bay side, near where the solid ground turned soft and became marsh. In the time it took to walk there, Joe’s high had severely dissipated again. While his body still buzzed from the copious quantity of drugs he had ingested, soul-crushing lucidity was catching up to him, shining a sick green spotlight on all he had lost and all those he had hurt. Meanwhile, Gladiator Glen’s attractiveness was flickering on and off like a broken lightbulb. One moment he’d be as handsome as when Joe had first seen him, and the next his muscles seemed to deflate, and his face grew jowly, his teeth twisting and yellowing. It was as if Gladiator Glen’s otherworldly beauty was evaporating from his skin with each moment Joe’s own high grew weaker. Not that any of that was giving Joe second thoughts about what he was there to do. He just needed to get totally fucked up again.

“How’s it going?” Joe’s voice twitched with desperation, annoyed at how long it was taking Gladiator Glen to move a slab of rotted plywood from atop his hiding spot and pull out a large leather backpack.

“All good here.” Gladiator Glen said, digging through the backpack. “So, you got a boyfriend?” He said the words almost mockingly—like a very large schoolyard bully. His low sonorous voice sounded much higher and far more nasally than before.

“No,” Joe said, trying to sneak a glimpse into the backpack. “You really have something that will get me high in there, or—”

“Look, I told you”—Gladiator Glen growled—“I’ll take care of you, boy. So just shut up, okay? There’s plenty of other faggots that wanna play with me.”

Joe fell silent as fear filled his chest. If he had been totally sober, he might have left upon hearing Gladiator Glen use that awful word. If Joe were a better person, he might have said something. But that moment wasn’t about being a better person. And fearing Gladiator Glen felt right. Joe knew he had never deserved someone good or caring like Fergal or Elliot. That was what he’d really wanted from the Gladiator Man, from that very first day—the capacity to not care, the inability to be hurt, the willingness to hurt others. The willingness to hurt Joe.

“Here we go.” Gladiator Glen pulled a plastic bottle filled with a Windex-blue liquid.

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