Chapter 47
47.
The Big Guns
“The answer to your specific salvation is always within your reach. You’ll know it by the way it sparkles.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #92
“ Now will you tell me what is going on?” Ronnie demanded.
Howie, Dory, Lenny, and Saint D’Norman had avoided his questions as they rushed back to the attic crawl space of 44 and ⒈／⒋ Picketty Ruff. But as they dug through the glittery costumes, looking for Ronnie’s exact size, they outlined what they believed was his “true nature”—how he was born a “holy lover” of “the Great Goddess Mother,” and, like them, was blessed to be part of a secret coven whose powers reached their apotheosis when five or more were gathered on the dance floor in “holy ceremony.”
Ronnie’s head felt like it was about to explode. “So you people actually believe you’re dancing witches?”
“Well, that’s a bit reductive.” Dory pulled down a fabulous white cowboy hat with feathers and rhinestones. “And you should rephrase that to we now, darling. Because you’re a disco witch too.” She placed the hat on his head. “Perfect, right?”
Howie and Lenny nodded with satisfaction.
“Why are you putting this crap on me?” Ronnie peevishly tossed the hat back on the shelf—though he had never felt a hat so perfectly made for him. His scalp longed for its return.
“Look, we don’t have a lot of time,” Howie said. “So, Reader’s Digest version.” Howie, as fast as he could, explained the entire formation of their dance-floor fellowship. He outlined their successes and their failures, their purpose in protecting certain special young men, always in the time of their Saturn Returns, bearing specific characteristics, whom the Great Goddess Mother put in their path. Howie then demarcated what was within their collective power and what was not. He explained how, at that very moment, Max was dying, and that their only hope was Ronnie, because, as fate would have it, he too had a magical propensity that made him a natural member of their dance coven, thus being the greatest (and only) luck that they’d had in years.
“That’s the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard.” Ronnie pushed off the black cape Lenny had just pinned around his neck. “I am not at all like you.”
“Just be still!” Lenny slapped Ronnie on his overly muscled trapezoids. “Coglione! You want to help your friend or not?”
“Yeah, of course.” Ronnie swallowed his emotion. “Joe means everything to me.”
“Then shut your friggin’ mouth and let us get you ready.”
“It’s as simple as this, darling.” Dory touched Ronnie’s hand, causing an ever so slight jolt of electricity between them. “You’re joining us is essential to the process of saving Joe.”
“ Saving Joe? Are you telling me you think Joe is your ‘special person’ that needs saving?” Ronnie asked, though he already knew. He had envisioned Joe’s vulnerability all the way back when they first met in Philly. He, too, had instantly felt an inexplicable need to protect him.
“Yes,” Howie began, “and tonight is his apotheosis. He either makes it through … or he’s lost. Ever since his breakup with Fergal and the burning of the bar, Joe’s lost all hope. That is the state the Great Darkness needs to do its worst. I know this won’t make sense to you, but you need to trust us—trust that feeling you have in the pit of your stomach. Joe’s on a precipice and has lost the desire to live. It’s our responsibility to try and help him. We must!”
It was then that Ronnie first noticed the small tingling in his lower abdomen that pointed toward the truth in Howie’s words. Yet he still didn’t want to believe it. “How can you help Joe with all of this dressing-up crap?”
“For starters, sugar,” Saint D’Norman said, “we’re bringing out the big guns.” He measured a pair of silver satin shorts against Ronnie’s bubble butt. “Mm-hmm. Like a glove.”
“I’m so confused,” Ronnie groaned, putting a hand to his gurgling stomach.
“Just trust us!” Howie fumed. “Things don’t always have to make sense to work! But we’re not asking you to be different from the way you are. Just allow yourself to see the similarities and the connections. We are one!”
Ronnie, still grimacing, touched a rhinestone on the white cowboy hat, and similar to Dory’s touch, he felt electricity shoot into his fingers. Images flashed across his brain—the day he’d met Joe; the embrace with Joe on the boardwalk the night they’d became friends again; Joe wandering in a haze through the Meat Rack, not caring if he lived or died. Joe snorting a toxic chemical just to free himself from his bottomless psychic pain. Joe wanting to disappear forever. Ronnie pulled his hand from the hat. “Okay. What exactly would I have to do?”
“First, you’d let us finish dressing you,” Howie said. “Then we’d head to the Promethean to do a little ceremony—”
“You know.” Lenny spun a panel of silver silk. “A little twirling, a little flagging.”
“Fuck no!” Ronnie shouted. “I will not flag. I’ll never get laid again!”
“Goddammit!” Dory slammed her bejeweled hand on a metal shelf, causing several urns of ashes to clank together. “You’re our only hope! Do you want Joe to live or not?”
Ronnie stared at the four old eccentrics with their aging faces, ridiculous outfits, and pleading eyes begging him to join their humiliating, flagging dance ceremony that allegedly would “save” his best friend. He would become a person he’d never wanted to be. And yet, beneath that sickening feeling, there was a deeper one he struggled to identify. Excitement? Fear? Recognition? Haven’t you already had this nightmare? And then … What if this gayest of gay ceremonies really could save Joe? What if you didn’t do it, and Joe was lost forever?
“Okay. Do me up—but I’m not going to like it.”