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23.

Saturday Night

“There’s a time to watch and a time to dance!”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #58

Thanks to Dory’s poultice, the wound on Joe’s leg didn’t hurt at all despite him having been on his feet bartending for over five hours. By ten pm the bulk of the customers at Asylum Harbor started to head out to eat a late dinner, shower, maybe douche, don their sexiest butch drag, and return to the harbor for a night out dancing at the Promethean. It would be the start of a pattern for most of the summer people that would repeat like clockwork until September: beach, low tea, high tea, hopefully Asylum Harbor, dinner, Promethean, hook up or hit the Meat Rack, bed. Rinse, wash, repeat. Fun, fun, fun, and … more fun. Or that’s what it looked like on the outside.

Joe wished he had their same ability to access so much casual joy. But he was stymied by the specter of his great sadness, his fear of the virus, and his more recent rumination on what he had seen (or thought he had seen) in the crawl space and in Howie’s room. And what about that thing Lenny had said about a hex? And the way Howie was always staring at him like he did? And the potions and the club in Rehoboth? And had all three of them really needed to check him for ticks? He should have just confronted them. But what exactly would he have said? That he suspected that they were members of a potentially murderous coven of gay psychopathic witches? Confess that he’d broken into their crawl space and found photos of the hunk whom he’d been obsessing about, who might be a latter-day Dorian Gray on steroids? Or a ghost? Or a gay vampire?

Have you completely lost your mind? Joe thought to himself. You don’t even believe in horoscopes! There had to be some logical explanation. He just needed to find someone to talk to about it without sounding like a crazy man.

“Hey, Joe!” Ronnie’s voice called out from the edge of the bar. “You daydreaming or something?”

Joe’s body jolted at sound of his name being called, and he quickly smiled to cover his reaction. “Wow, look at you,” he said, noting how dressed-up Ronnie was. “Did someone beat you with an LL Bean catalog? Where’s your usual ‘muscle jock’ clubbing outfit?”

As long as Joe had known Ronnie, he’d always worn the same outfit when they went out dancing: a Phillies T-shirt with the sleeves and midriff cut off and extra short shorts to emphasize his massive quadriceps. His lion’s mane of blonde hair would always be unleashed to his shoulders, in case he wanted to whip it on some unsuspecting daddy bear to start a conversation. But that night Ronnie had slicked back his hair into a more conservative ponytail and wore his black Fred Perry polo shirt tucked into his dress-up Levi’s 501s like some born-again preppy.

“Not tonight,” Ronnie whispered. He furtively glanced over at Vince who was busy moving the empty cases of beer out to the back landing. “Look, Joey, I’m sorry, but there’s been a change of plans. I can’t do the Promethean with you tonight.”

“Are you serious?” Joe groaned. “Why?”

“Hey.” Ronnie widened his eyes. “Keep it down, okay? It’s just I got a last-minute invite to a fancy dinner party. It’s a great opportunity, and I don’t wanna miss it.”

“What about after?” Joe lowered his voice. “It’s just I need to talk to you. I saw something at Howie and Lenny’s. It’s pretty hard to believe, and I know it doesn’t make sense but—”

“Look, buddy, I really want to hear all about your housemates’ newest weirdness, but”—Ronnie leaned in and curled his lips like he was trying to prevent an even bigger smile from tearing his cheeks apart—“I just gotta tell you something.”

“Go ahead,” Joe said, not having seen Ronnie this excited since he first convinced Joe to go out to Fire Island.

“I think I met him ,” Ronnie whispered.

“Who?”

“Him! The whole reason I came out here? The life partner I’ve been creatively envisioning every day for the last two years? His real name is Hogarth Miles Winkle the Third. Did you hear that?! The third! He’s a third generation of something! He goes by the name Trey. Trey Winkle! He’s perfect! He’s got salt-and-pepper hair and only comes to about here on me.” Ronnie indicated a height just below his ear. “Perfect size! Perfect age, like ten years older than me. He’s class from head to toe. We’re talking Ralph Lauren, Herm è s cologne, a Cartier watch. Not to mention Gucci loafers I know were going for at least three hundred and fifty bucks at Wanamaker’s.”

Joe asked Ronnie to hold up while he made a round of kamikazes for a group of guys from Staten Island who were celebrating a friend’s recent breakup, and then he had to serve about five more customers before he could turn his ear back to Ronnie.

“Okay, expensive shoes,” Joe finally said. “So what?”

“The point is, he likes me. I think it could be something serious.”

“Where’d you meet him?” Joe said as he washed the stainless-steel tumbler on the scrubber brush that stuck out of the sink.

“The Meat Rack. But he didn’t even ask me to fuck him right away. Just mutual sucking and a quick rim job. He says he wants to get to know me first before we go further. That’s gold, right? We also have a ton in common. He’s read, like, all the New Age books I’ve read, and even finishes them . Also, get this: he owns an apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, has a place in South Beach, and is building this nutso-ritzy beach house out here—right on Ocean Boulevard. It’s massive. Everyone is talking about it. It’s gonna be finished in about two weeks. He’s the real deal, Joey. The real fucking deal!”

Joe’s hope of getting Ronnie’s attention long enough to discuss what he’d seen in the crawl space was completely gone. His friend was lost in the glittering swamp of romantic fantasy. And the more he thought about it, the more he knew Ronnie wouldn’t be the one to talk him down. Ronnie had already made up his mind to hate Howie and Lenny and might just agree with anything Joe said just to get him to move out. And then, if it all turned out to be a big crazy mistake, he might never get Ronnie and the boys to become friends. No, it was best to let Ronnie follow his most recent romantic infatuation to its conclusion and for Joe to dig a little deeper until he was one hundred percent certain about what he had seen.

“If he’s what you really want. But”—he tossed his head toward Vince, who could be seen through the glass door, collecting beer bottles on the deck—“what about him?”

Ronnie’s elation fizzled like a wet firecracker. “You had to bring that up.”

“Look,” Joe said. “Vince can be a dick, but he’s also a decent guy.”

“I know that,” Ronnie bristled. “But like I told you before, Vince and I have no obligation to each other. It’s just sex. He and I talked about it.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “You told him about this new guy?”

“Of course not. I’m not gonna rub his nose in it. I intend to have a conversation with him soon, but I wanna do it right. That’s why I need you to back me up.”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked warily.

“I’m telling Vince I’ll be cleaning up after a late-night catering gig at Jerry Herman’s place so I won’t be able to meet him after the bar closes. So, if he asks—”

“Fuck you, Ronnie,” Joe hissed under his breath. “I’m not lying for you.”

“You don’t need to lie. Just don’t say anything yet, okay? And remember why we both came out here. I’m just keeping to my plan, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. But still, don’t play Vince for a fool, okay? Can you at least tell him tomorrow?”

Ronnie crossed his heart. Joe nodded but did not smile.

“Hey, I got about two minutes before I gotta bolt,” Ronnie said. “So what’s that weird shit you said you saw at Howie and Lenny’s?”

“Nah, it was nothing. Forget it.”

“If you say so. You’re still going out dancing, right? Remember, you have a purpose out here too—starting with having a good time.”