Page 99 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

He closed his eyes to tap into that same connected brain thing he had experienced earlier. It took him almost a minute to find the link, but when he did, he once again felt that whoosh of his mind quintupling in its expanse of what it could perceive. “This shit’s crazy.” He laughed before disconnecting from the others so he could think and speak as one individuated being. “How long does this disco witch thing take to get used to?”

“Oh, a little while.” Howie’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Wait! Listen!”

Inside the club, the DJ was transitioning from Beethoven into Natalie Cole’s “Miss You Like Crazy,” reminding the stragglers who hadn’t gotten his classical clue that the club was closing.

“The DJ chose that song for Max,” Howie said, and then sighed. “I say we all head home, take a few hours’ nap, and then catch the twelve fifteen ferry. We’ll need to help Heshy with memorial arrangements in the city.”

“Max’s ashes can finally be placed in the reliquary,” Lenny said.

“Of course,” Howie confirmed. “But maybe only a third. The rest I think we should spread in P-town and the Ramble in Central Park. Oh, and at least a thimble for the base of the Guatemalan volcano where he was born. He’d get bored being in one place.”

All five nodded, allowing Natalie Cole to sing the sad song of their hearts. The first ferry of Monday morning blew its horn announcing its arrival. Then, as if the five Disco Witches were of one mind, they leaned back against the wooden bench, sighed, and gazed up to watch the moon do her walk of shame across the early morning sky.

She’s beautiful.

She is.

I wonder where she left her crimson cape?

Somewhere in the Meat Rack, no doubt.

Does she even remember what she did last night?

Oh, most certainly. But she won’t tell anyone. It will be our secret.

Epilogue

“Disco Witches find magic everywhere.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #1

Labor Day weekend of 1989 was the fourth high holy day of Howie’s summer calendar. For the seasonal renters it meant packing up, settling bills, and a final clawing for any scrap of romance in which to wrap themselves during the long, cold New York City winter. A few would succeed. Most wouldn’t. Some of the disappointed would vow to never return. But then, after a bitter winter of overly clothed mortals, amnesia would set in. By January the same failed romantics would be desperately seeking a “full share” and vowing to be “really ready this time” to have their perfect summer of love.

On his final day on Fire Island, Joe was still living in the glow of bravery and a newfound outlook on life. The effective dream’s epiphanies clung to him like glorious armor. He no longer feared having his heart broken again. It was merely another part of life, framing what was important and pointing one toward ways to grow. And while the AIDS epidemic was never far from his mind, he continued to explore the depths of his love for Fergal. Their conversations grew more passionate, inspiring, and relentless by theday. They’d spend long hours cuddled in bed after making love, speaking of their dreams, their fears, and their intentions to be warriors together in whatever fight the universe laid before them.

These were just some of the thoughts Joe was having as he stood in line for the four thirtyPMferry back to Sayville. It had been hard saying goodbye to Elena, who had left the island the week before. She was planning on applying to law school, and wanted to get settled in a recovery program near where she lived in Manhattan. Cleigh went with her for support. Elena had finally told Dory of her HIV status. Though Dory was distraught, she confessed she had suspected as much, and was already preparing to join Elena’s fight for improving women’s access to experimental HIV medications. Elena told Joe she didn’t know whether she and Cleigh would end up in a relationship after she got a year sober. But then, in her very next breath, she repeated what Dory always told her: “If you’re doing life right, you should allow it to surprise you.”

“It looks like the exodus from gay Saigon!” Lenny shouted, trudging toward Joe, carrying a picnic basket big enough for ten. “I brought some snacks for your road trip!”

“Holy heck!” Joe gave a teasing weightlifter’s grunt as he lifted the basket. “You do know they serve food on the plane to Honolulu, right?”

“Airplane food is garbage,” Lenny snarled. “You’ll also need to keep your figure in Waikiki if you wanna make good tips. This oughta hold you for the first two days at least. I included some cured meats that should last at least until you locate a good Italian deli.”

Joe swallowed the emotional lump clogging his throat. “Thanks, Lenny.”

“Basta!” Lenny took a deep tremulous breath. “Now don’t get me started. Where’s Fergal?”

“I’m meeting him on the ferry. He wanted to work this last crossing with the—”

“Hey! Hey!” Howie shouted, trotting across the dock, dressed in his bathrobe and baseball cap. Not far behind followed Vince, Dory, and Ronnie. Instead of his usual jock outfit, Ronnie wore a loose-fitting, tie-dyed hippie shirt with a beaded and feathered necklace.

“Sorry, we’re late,” Dory said, catching her breath. “These lovely gentlemen had to help me with a last-minute errand.”

“Lenny!” Howie pointed at the picnic basket. “You told me you were gonna just pack a couple of sandwiches.”

“They’re flying all the way to the other side of the world. You want they should eat each other? And not in the good way?”

Dory kissed Joe on the cheek. “Thank you for what you did for our bar. You are a wonderful bartender and will be a marvelous doctor one day.” She slipped a fat envelope into his hand. “This will get you started in Honolulu. I’m also setting up a tuition fund for both of you.”

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