Page 96 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

Sweat splashed halos around their bodies as they levitated what Ronnie believed to be nearly three inches above the dance floor. Most people in the club assumed the five had slipped on even taller platform shoes or had stepped onto a box. Others, who were dancing closer, would later credit the phenomenon to their party drugs and what a singular night of dancing it had been. Elena, obeying Howie’s warning, did not look back, but would later speak of the energy in the room and the bewildered and ecstatic expressions of the onlookers’ faces—those who, unbeknownst to her, were mesmerized by the blur of the crazed Disco Witches twirling and flagging between the worlds of the living and the dead. No one saw the bulge of their crossed eyes behind their lowered lids. No one saw their bluish flush under the disco lights. No one saw how close they all were to their own demise. If they only could spin their magic a little longer. They had the wind, they had the lightning. All they needed was the rain.

“Please!” Howie begged. “Please, Great Goddess Mother, help us!”

OFF THE PATH NEAR THE GREAT SOUTH BAY—10:21PM

Now. Right now. The present. Tense.

What’s happening? You’ll see.

I’m confused. Just wait.

Joe floats over his convulsing body.Am I dead? I must be dead. I saw an interview once with someone who claimed they had died and gone to heaven. It was onPhil Donahue—or was itOprah? But I don’t feel dead. It must be a dream. Is it a dream?

A thought pops into Joe’s brain:Feeling brave doesn’t make you want to escape the world. Bravery makes you want to stay.A sense of absolute bliss like he has never known fills his heart. He looks around and notices the Meat Rack looks different—foggy yet sparkly, like the mist is made of diamonds. Gladiator Glen is gone.Thank the goddess.Hovering above the clearing, at the top of the birch tree are five twirling silvery balls of fire.

“Where am I?” Joe calls out, but there is no response. “Hello?”

“Hello,” a voice whispers.

Joe turns and standing over him is Fergal, face illuminated by the five twirling balls of fire. Joe gazes up into his blue-blue eyes, which are now fluctuating in tone, one moment Frostie Blue Cream soda, another moment indigo hydrangeas and then a shade of blue Joe has never seen before. And now he knows what he needs to know, what he has always known.

“You still love me,” Joe states matter-of-factly, surprising himself with his own brazenness. “There’s still a chance.”

After lifting Joe to standing, the vision of Fergal flies up, merging into the five balls of fire that spin into a vortex of swirling disco lights. Joe, still earthbound, feels the kiss of each dapple of light, like a promise.

There is a tap on his shoulder, and he turns, hoping it is Fergal. Instead, it’s Elliot, his late ex-lover standing before him as Joe had known him when they first met, so beautiful and wise with his green eyes, sandy brown hair, and enraptured smile.

“Elliot!” Joe throws his arms around him and is about to beg forgiveness for not having been a better partner, for not having been able to handle Elliot’s illness better, for not being brave when he needed to be brave.

“Don’t,” Elliot says before Joe can speak. Then, without saying a word, he relays a message to Joe’s heart, the contents of which are what Joe has always needed to know. Then Elliot places something in Joe’s hand—it’s the lost mixtape,Love Songs 1. He embraces Joe in the warmest, deepest hug before rising up, like Fergal, into the fiery disco light vortex and disappearing.

Joe, feeling the deepest, most satisfying warmth in his chest, yells to the balls of light, “Take me too!”

Inside the belly of the celestial flaming vortex, he sees the faces of Howie, Lenny, Dory, Saint D’Norman, and Ronnie; Max is there too, dressed in drag like in the photo in Howie’s room.

“You’re brave now, Joselito,” Max whispers down to him. “You’re brave now. What would you really do with your life if you were truly brave?”

Visions of all he would do suddenly fill Joe’s brain with an astounding clarity. There is no plan to escape, there is no plan toreturn to Philly or to die a lonely and sad death because of regret and a broken heart. He is overwhelmed by a sense that he has seen both the worst that life has to offer and the absolute best—and he is no longer afraid. The universe opens up before him with all the possibilities of joy, meaningful sorrow, and the knowledge that he can handle anything. His head and heart fill with a million longings, loves, and dreams. Fear of losing, his forever bedfellow, is nowhere in sight. All the imprisoning guilt and darkness missing from his heart cause him to feel so unbelievably light, like floating dandelion seeds lifting up into the swarming, twirling, disco-ball conflagration above his head. He flies upward.

“Nope,” Max says, laughing. “Not yet, papacito.”

Joe feels a force pushing him back down to the earth.

“You look thirsty,” Howie says. “Would you like a drink?”

“Not now!” Joe yells, laughing. “I’ve never been this happy! I feel like I could fly to the sun! Please tell me this isn’t a dream! Look, Elliot found the mixtape!”

“He’s had enough now,” Dory says.

“I hope we didn’t go overboard,” Saint D’Norman adds. “He’s definitely thirsty.”

“Have some water, Joe!” Lenny tips a long-nosed watering can over Joe’s head.

Joe tilts his head up and opens his mouth wide. The water from Lenny’s can begins pouring into his mouth. It’s sweet and delicious. But then Lenny tilts the can more and the sweet water gushes down Joe’s gullet. He tries to close his mouth and pull away, but he can’t. He drops the mixtape. He’s drowning.Why would they drown you when you just found out how to be happy?

OFF THE PATH NEAR THE GREAT SOUTH BAY—10:22PM

The next crack of lightning sliced open the belly of the cumulus cloud, releasing the downpour onto the Meat Rack. Fergal saw the flock of mourning doves alight on the top of a tall birch tree. Leaping off the regular path, he bulldozed straight through the bayberry and holly. The spiked leaves and thorns tore at his skin. Between thunder claps he heard Joe’s choking, causing him to run so fast itwas as if he were doing the butterfly stroke through the gushing rain, arms slapping at branches, legs barely touching the ground, desperation crushing his lungs. Finally, there Joe was, lying on the ground, naked, wet, shivering, and coughing in a puddle of his own sick.But he’s alive.

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