Chapter 2
2.
Land Ho!
“Life will surprise you. Let it.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #83
May 3, 1989 … twenty-one minutes later
Peter Gabriel was singing “Kiss of Life” into Joe’s ears as Joe zipped up his raincoat and climbed the slippery stairway to the ferry’s upper deck. It was all so peaceful: the ferry’s vrooming engine, the seagull’s call, the shush shush of the parting water. He pressed “Fast Forward” on his Walkman. The mixtape whirred past Peter, past Joni, past Ricki Lee, until it hit the perfect song—Bonnie Raitt’s slow, bluesy “Opening Farewell.” Joe closed his eyes and listened to Bonnie’s raspy alto. The spray of the Great South Bay gently stung his face. It’s a baptism, he thought. A cleansing of what had been, and a welcoming of what might be.
“Ah-ha ha ha!” The barrage of loud laughter shoved Bonnie over the railing of Joe’s serenity. He clicked off his Walkman and saw the two deckhands wearing yellow rain slickers, leaning against the captain’s cabin and staring at him.
Were they laughing at him? He knew their type from high school—the sort that would play on the lacrosse team and snap wet towels at bare backsides. One was thick, a pimply-faced teenager, the same height as Joe. The other one was taller and lean, with a stubbly face that bore the flush of a young man who spent his life outside. Handsome—for a straight guy. He looked around the same age as Joe—or rather the same age Joe lied about being—early twenties. Even from across the boat, Joe was stunned by the incandescent blue of the man’s eyes. The deckhand clocked Joe looking at him and whispered something to his coworker, then … more laughter.
Straight assholes. So much for this place being Gaytopia.
He wished Ronnie and he could have at least traveled out to the island together. Instead, Ronnie had arrived a week before, to make sure everything was set up, while Joe had to finish his last week at Friends Hospital in Philly.
Joe was about to head downstairs when he saw it—the fog was lifting, and Fire Island appeared like a long inky brushstroke across the horizon. As the ferry moved closer to the coastline, mansions emerged from the trees. They have to be worth millions! Joe’s heart drummed excitedly. He recalled all that Ronnie had told him—the parties, the men, the feeling of nonstop wealth and hedonism. But then, as the ferry slowly sloshed its way into the harbor, disappointment overcame him. The totality of the business district was nothing more than a handful of squarish buildings with nautical decorations haphazardly slapped onto their cinderblock surfaces—a total contrast to the mansions he’d seen along the coast. Worst of all, only a handful of people were waiting for the ferry, tugging small red wagons filled with groceries or pots of flowers like old people play-acting children. It was like a gay ghost town.
And there was no sign of Ronnie. He checked the other side of the boat, looking off toward the eastern end of the harbor. It was just more gray emptiness except for a single sunbeam splitting the clouds and shooting a natural spotlight onto the very middle of the far dock. Into that illuminated patch of dock walked the most gorgeous hunk of man Joe had ever seen.
Who in the hell … ?
The man had to be six foot four at least, with broad shoulders. His bulging pectorals pushed against the word “Titans” on his damp gray sweatshirt. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties to early forties, with dark, close-cropped hair and a perfect salt-and-pepper beard that emphasized the squareness of his jaw. He looked like a Colt Men magazine model or one of those buff actors wearing a leather thong in a 1960s Italian gladiator movie.
Then it happened: the man turned his head just slightly, and despite the distance, he appeared to be staring directly at Joe with an expression of both desire and danger. Or perhaps sexual hunger and mortal threat? Whatever it was, Joe’s skin began to vibrate at the thought of being touched by him. Then the Gladiator Man began to wave.
Joe nervously lifted his arm to wave back, his heart drumming Boléro against his ribs. Then, just as he flashed one of his glowing Armenian American smiles, a large yacht pulled between him and the Gladiator Man. When it finally cleared the view, the Gladiator Man had vanished.
Dammit, Joe thought. As his eyes scanned the far side of the harbor in hopes of seeing him again, he felt the ferry bump into the dock. The deckhands flew into action—ropes tied, gangplank set, passenger door slid open. Joe hurried below and was last in line to disembark. All the other passengers had someone waiting ashore with a red wagon and a hug. Soon, they’d all been whisked off down tree-covered walkways.
Joe stood alone with his duffel, on the lookout for Ronnie (and for that Gladiator Man). Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. Still no sight of either of them. Every so often the two annoying deckhands would look over. Not wanting to appear as if he’d been abandoned (even if he had been), Joe walked over to the small strip of gray wooden shops, waiting for the deckhands to lose interest. They didn’t. The taller one, who had remarkably blue eyes, wouldn’t look away. Trying to gay-bait him, no doubt. Joe considered wandering off down one of the walkways and risking getting lost. But how far was he supposed to take the charade? Did he really need to prove to some good-looking, homophobic straight guy that he hadn’t been pathetically forgotten by his only best friend? A “best friend” he had only known for six months before following him to an island he knew nothing about.
Dragging his duffel over to the lone pay phone in the harbor, he picked up the receiver before realizing he had neither change nor a phone number he could call. If Ronnie even had a phone; it was unlikely he’d be listed in any directory yet. Hanging up, Joe looked back toward the landing, wondering when the ferry would return to the mainland and whether he should return with it. Just then, he saw two funny-looking older men arrive at the dock and begin loading boxes into their two extra-large wagons. The taller of the two wore an old-fashioned maroon bathrobe and a Yankees baseball cap decorated with fake flowers on the brim. His long silver hair was tied in a ponytail that hung from the back of his cap. His wrists, fingers, and neck were heavily adorned with silver jewelry, including what looked like an entire catalog of religious icons—an Irish cross, a Hamsa, an ankh, a ying-yang symbol, a tree of life, and a winged heart with an Islamic crescent moon and star in its center. His shorter friend resembled a pint-sized member of the Village People, wearing black leather chaps and vest, with just a rim of dark hair around his bald pate and a little mustache dyed coal black.
The man in the maroon bathrobe looked at Joe with an overly familiar gaze. “Young man! Are you okay? You appear lost!”
He had a warm singsongy voice with an accent that was distinctly New York but with an almost fake mid-Atlantic twang—Katherine Hepburn if she had been born in Queens. His warm and silly presence instantly made Joe feel calmer.
“I’m okay!” Joe said as he walked ten paces closer so they could stop yelling. “Where are all the people?”
“It’s too early in the season,” the funny tall man said. “In just a few weeks, you won’t recognize the place. Is it your first time?”
“It is.”
“How wonderful! I’m Howard Fishbein, but everyone calls me Howie.” He pointed to his little bald friend. “This is one of my housemates, Lenny D’Amico. Beneath his tough leather-man exterior is a very small, wounded heart of gold … with a stent.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Joe Agabian.”
Howie whispered something to Lenny, who angrily whispered something back. Then Howie said to Joe, “Are you absolutely sure you don’t need help?”
Joe scanned the harbor again. Still no sign of Ronnie or the hot Gladiator Man—or anyone else for that matter. “Um … I guess I could use some help. You wouldn’t know a guy named Ronnie Kaminski, would you? He moved here last week?”
“You mean the tall hottie with long blonde hair?” Lenny asked with a voice like a nasally Brillo pad. “The one who dresses like a college jock and looks like a Chippendales stripper?”
“That’s him.” Joe laughed. “He’s bartending at the Promethean—”
“You must be mistaken,” Howie said. “If it’s who we think, he’s cleaning rooms over at the Flotel.”
“The Flotel?” Joe said, perplexed as to why they’d ask a bartender to clean. “Is that a different bar?”
“The Flotel Motel ,” Lenny said. “Your buddy is the housekeeper. We saw him picking up cleaning supplies yesterday at Mulligan’s Grocery. Howie and I clean houses out here too—among other things.”
Anxious bees swarmed inside Joe’s chest. “But he’s supposed to be bartending.”
Howie squinted his eyes again. “Bluish-indigo … hmm. Curious.”
“What’s wrong?” Joe looked to see if anything was on his shirt.
“Oh, nothing,” Howie said, looking like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “By the way, Joe, what age would you be?”
Joe had no idea why Howie was asking him his age or looking at him so strangely. He almost blurted out his real age, but then, with the island being so small, he thought it best to continue with the lie he had told Ronnie. “I just turned twenty-four in March,” he said.
“No, that doesn’t feel right.” Howie shook his head at Joe’s response. “So strange.”
“I told you,” Lenny mumbled to Howie, then nudged Joe’s arm to get his attention. “So, you gonna be working out here too?”
“Yeah. We both came out here from Philly to bartend at the Promethean.”
“Two hot cheesesteaks from Philly , huh?” Lenny imbued his words with extra salaciousness and then snorted. “I’ll tell the island medic to stock up on penicillin.”
Howie shot him a withering look. “Let me apologize for my crude housemate. He’s a bit like the tiniest of kidney stones—can be extremely painful but eventually will pass. As for your friend Ronnie, check the Flotel, room number one around back. That’s where the porter usually sleeps.”
“Which hotel is the Flotel Motel exactly?” Joe asked.
“There’s only one hotel, my dear.” He pointed down the left side of the harbor toward a shabby, three-story, cinder-block structure painted blue and white. “You can’t miss it.”
“That’s a hotel?” Joe grimaced. “It’s pretty … um …”
“Bleak?” Howie said, nodding. “With all the charm of a lobotomy.”
“The greedy bastard who owns it still charges a fortune,” Lenny added.
Joe thanked them, grabbed his duffel, and began walking toward the Flotel. Behind him, he heard Howie and Lenny bickering. Only bits and pieces reached his ears:
“Shouldn’t you ask Max?”
“Just temporary …”
“Indigo blue! I sense it—”
“Probably the muck in your eye …”
“Joe, wait!” Howie called out.
Turning back, Joe saw Howie hobbling dramatically after him, waving his ring-covered hand, bracelets clacking. Lenny followed, looking peevish but resigned.
“These wet days are torture for my sciatica,” Howie said. “Look, if you need anything, a hot meal, an ear to listen, or even a place to crash should an emergency arise, our house is on the next walk over. Just behind the Promethean.”
Howie pulled out an old mimeographed flier from his fanny pack. In red marker he wrote his address and phone number over the graphic of a bare-chested man wearing a sailor hat.
“44 and ⒈／⒋ Picketty Ruff?” Joe smiled as he read it aloud. “Why the one-fourth?”
“Forty-four just wasn’t enough,” Howie said with a wink. “Don’t hesitate to reach out for help should you need it.”
“Thanks,” Joe said, folding the card up into a small stiff triangle and stuffing it into his back pocket. “That’s super nice of you, but the Promethean provides room and board, so I’m all set.”
“Wonderful,” Howie said. “But don’t be surprised if things work out a little differently than you planned. Fire Island is like that. Expect the unexpected—”
“And one or two STDs.” Lenny snorted.
“She’s being uncouth again,” Howie said. “But do use condoms. And if you run into any problems … like the card says, we’re at 44 and ⒈／⒋ Picketty Ruff.” Howie offered his hand. “And welcome to Fire Island.”