Chapter 7
7.
The Interview
“You will know the Great Balance has arrived when all fighting ceases, when love, sex, and joy reign supreme.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #8
At 4:17 PM Joe went into the bathroom to tame his wavy thicket of black hair with some of Howie’s emerald-green Dippity-do. It was always a balancing act between trying to look more like Richard Gere and less like Elvis. He shaved the stubbly connecting patch of what would have been a pronounced unibrow. (While Elliot had loved Joe’s unibrow, Ronnie had declared it a definite no-go.) Looking at himself in the mirror, he imitated Ronnie’s seductive swagger: “Time to seduce Dory the Boozehound.”
As directed by Howie, the bar was just a short hop down Picketty Ruff and up a flight of stairs over one of the two clothing boutiques that sold mostly Speedos, go-go shorts, and mesh tank tops. When Joe arrived at the door of Asylum Harbor, his heart sank. It was a one-story, gray clapboard structure with two darkened portico windows and a deck outside—more like a large storage shed than a proper bar. Its only exterior decoration was a white, circular life preserver placed next to the door with “Asylum Harbor” sloppily painted around the ring.
After taking a deep breath, he walked in. At first he could barely make out anything in the dim bar except for the silhouettes of two women, one short, the other tall, sitting at opposite ends of the long wooden counter.
“Mrs. Lieberman-Delagrange?” he said.
“Yes, Joe, come in!” The older woman’s voice was warm and friendly, as if Joe had just offered her a piece of coffee cake. “But please call me Dory.”
When Joe’s eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that Dory, a Black woman, looked far younger than Howie had said, more sixty-something than eighty. She was elegantly dressed in a white skirt and a navy-and-white-striped blouse. Her short lavender-gray Afro was topped with a jaunty little sailor’s cap. She definitely didn’t resemble anyone nicknamed “the Boozehound.” In fact, her twinkling dark eyes made Joe instantly feel calmer. The younger woman sitting at the end of the bar wore an oversized sweatshirt that said “Click Models.” Rather than greeting Joe, she just sat there, sipping her can of Tab and reading a paperback version of Anna Karenina held in the light of a small red lamp. Despite her disheveled appearance and no makeup, she was strikingly beautiful, with flawless caramel skin and golden-brown curls.
“Come, Joe! Please sit!” Dory gestured to a barstool next to her. “That lovely though taciturn young woman at the end of the bar is my granddaughter, Elena. So, dear, you’ve bartended before?”
“Um … a little,” Joe said. “Like at parties at my parents’ house. Oh, right—I was also kind of a busboy at a restaurant during college, and … well … I watched the bartenders a lot … and … um …” Joe’s face grew red at how lame he sounded.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dory said. “The vast majority of our customers drink beer or simple stuff like vodka cranberries. Maybe a martini once in a while. My drink is gin and tonic. Two slices of lime. Very clean. My father was a bootlegger on the island. Kept his still out where the Meat Rack is.
Meat Rack? Joe thought, gathering it must be either another gay bar or perhaps a butcher shop.
Dory continued, “His gin running is why I’m here … it’s why we’re all here, I must say. If it weren’t for him getting rich off the hooch, then buying and selling property out here on the island, there might never have been a Pines nor a me nor an Elena nor … I’m sorry, I can ramble. Just tell me to shut up.”
“It’s okay,” Joe said. “I love hearing old stories like that.”
“You’re very sweet.” Dory smiled and stroked his cheek. “Anyway, any of the more complicated cocktails you can learn from a book behind the bar, isn’t that right, Elena?”
Elena finally, but briefly, looked up at Joe with an expression somewhere between disdain and deadpan. “Sure. Why not,” she mumbled before looking back down at her Tolstoy.
Joe couldn’t believe her rudeness. She could have just said something pleasant, even if she didn’t mean it—just as a sign of respect for her grandmother.
“I’m a pretty fast learner,” Joe said. “I was great in chemistry in high school.”
“Marvelous!” Dory gave one definitive clap of her hands. “I like your spirit. Howie was right as usual. You’re absolutely adorable! You’ll just have to meet Vince, the bar manager, but I’m almost certain he’ll love you.”
“Does that mean I have the job?” Joe asked, excitement bubbling around his heart.
“You do,” Dory said with a smile, “at least conditionally. Let me give Vince a call …”
Just then the front door pushed open, and a burst of bright light slapped the dim bar awake. There, standing in the door, was a man in his thirties, with a skinhead crew cut, black Fred Perry polo, and taut arms, mapped with rivers of veins and dozens of tattoos.
“Dory?” the man said with an Irish accent. “What are you doing here this time of day?”
“Well, look who it is.” Dory’s face lit up. “I was just about to call you. I’ve found our perfect hot bartender. This is Joe.”
Dory’s designation of Joe as a “hot” bartender made his cheeks and ears grow warm. Elena, looking up from her book, giggled at Joe’s embarrassment. Vince, however, did not look happy.
“ You found our new bartender, is it?” The pique in Vince’s voice rose. “I thought we talked about this, Dor. As manager, I should be the one who decides on the second bartender.”
All of Joe’s excitement from a moment before bled out onto the dirty barroom floor. Once again he felt the chill of impending joblessness.
“I know you’re the manager, Vince,” Dory said, “but you’ve been interviewing for weeks, and I have this gut feeling about Joe—”
“Look, Dor, if you’re not going to trust my expertise, why in the bollox did you hire me in the first place?”
Joe saw that Elena had stopped reading her book and was now watching the tense exchange between Dory and the Irishman. She appeared not to like the disrespectful tone Vince was using with her grandmother.
“Vince, you don’t need to be so dramatic,” Dory said. “I do trust you, but the bar opens this weekend, and you can’t be bartending alone—”
“We can’t be feckin’ around, Dor, hiring any shitehawk piece of chicken that falls off the ferry.”
Joe felt Elena’s eyes skirt over to him. He tried to mask the wound of Vince’s comment, but his face, unfortunately, showed everything, so he looked down at the floor.
“Vincent,” Dory reprimanded. “Don’t be rude.”
“Apologies,” he mumbled. “Look, we have a limited amount of time to start making a profit before Scotty Black finally has a reason to—”
“Cork it, Lucky Charms!” Dory slapped her ring-covered hand on the counter as her eyes turned to black ice. Gone was the sweet, elegant grandmother. Here was Dory the Boozehound, daughter of a bootlegger. “I’m well aware of the situation. And yes, you’re the manager, but I pay the checks. I’d suggest you remember that.” Vince’s tight lips softened, making him look more like a chastised son then an irate employee. Dory’s fierce black eyes melted into a cajoling twinkle. “Now, are we done with our little tantrum, Vincent?”
Vince rolled his eyes as a small smile battled its way onto his lips. Joe breathed a sigh of relief. That Dory and Vince clearly liked each other gave him some hope, but then he wondered, What exactly do they mean by “the situation”? Is the bar in trouble?
“I’m sorry, Dory,” Vince finally said. “I’m just a bit tense with the opening. You know how much I care about this bar.”
“I do, Vince,” Dory said. “That’s why I hired you: because we both care about this bar far more than we should. And you’re right, I should have consulted you before implying it was a done deal. It’s just when Howie Fishbein recommended Joe—”
“Howie recommended him?” For the first time Vince looked at Joe longer than for a few seconds.
“Exactly,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “So, does that mean you’d like to interview him or not?”
Vince nodded a thank-you before turning to Joe. “Fishbein recommended you, huh?”
“Yeah … yes,” Joe stammered.
“So, lad, tell me about your bartending experience.”
“I … um … don’t really have any.”
Vince ran a hand over his pained face. “Isn’t that precious.” He walked a step closer. “So how do you make a Harvey Wallbanger?”
“I’d have to remind myself with … um … that book behind the bar.” Joe thought fast. “But I bet it has Harvey’s Bristol Creme in it. Besides … um … nobody in this place is gonna drink anything more than beer, gin and tonics, and vodka cranberries …”
“Is that so …? Vince turned to Dory. “You want my official bartender interview, right?”
“Yes,” Dory said. “Act like we’re not even here. Be thorough.”
“Okay, then.” He turned back to Joe and commanded, “Take off your shirt.”
Joe’s face flushed as he checked to see if Vince was serious. He was. Elena, who had been sitting silently watching the whole thing, suddenly slammed her book down on the bar. “No, he won’t! That’s demeaning! Grandma, tell him he doesn’t have to!”
“Look, we want customers, right?” Vince said to both Dory and Elena. Then he yanked off his Fred Perry polo, exposing his own ripped chest. “It’s a shirtless bar—for all the staff.”
Joe stared in awe. Almost every inch of Vince was covered in tattoos, including Celtic crosses and footballers’ insignias. Circling his belly button was a cobra with fangs out toward the viewer. A tiny, copper-colored treasure trail beneath his belly button (the only hair on his torso) collided with a tattoo of red and orange flames erupting from his crotch. Standing next to all of Vince’s tall, smooth muscle made Joe feel like a Star Wars Ewok.
“You don’t need to do it, Joe,” Elena whispered.
Joe, who had written off Elena as stuck-up and unfriendly only minutes before, felt grateful that she had become his out-of-nowhere champion.
“This is business, Elena, darling,” Dory said. “I’m sorry, Joe, dear, but the shirt … lose it.”
“It’s okay.” Joe nodded to Elena before squeezing out of the tight T-shirt, getting his Swatch caught on the arm hole for a split second.
Elena shook her head, appalled, before walking to Joe’s side, her eyes warning Vince not to touch.
“Turn around,” Vince commanded. “Rear view is good. Turn back. Chest hair pattern has its merits. Flex.”
Joe obeyed. Vince’s expressionless eyes assessed his physique as if he were the third runner-up at the Westminster Dog Show. Before he met Elliot, Joe had always considered himself “end-of-the-night handsome”—believing that he was the kind of guy you’d only go home with given no other options. Elliot falling in love with him made Joe feel truly attractive for the first time in his life. Stop thinking about him, Joe berated himself. Now is not the time. Remember what Ronnie taught you. Look sexy!
“Well,” Vince sighed. “At least the two of us won’t be in competition with each other, which is good. And we can corner two markets the Promethean lacks. I’ll lure the customers that go for sexy, fit, football hooligans, and the lad here will attract those who prefer cuddly, cartoon-eyed, lost-boy types.”
While Joe was trying to wrap his head around Vince’s ability to simultaneously compliment and insult him, Dory smiled. “So are we hearing your approval, Vince? Was Howie right?”
“He’s rarely wrong,” Vince said with a surrendering chuckle.
“I’m glad I hired you, Vince.” Dory’s elegant grandma energy had returned. “Elena has agreed to help with the decor. She’s got quite the eye.”
Vince nodded his head at Elena. “Let’s keep it nautical and sleazy, if that’s okay.”
Elena smiled. “Sure,” she said. “Like a bordello at the bottom of the sea.” She put her arm around Joe’s shoulder. “Though we know who they’ll really be looking at—cartoon eyes and all.”
Joe did all he could not to start jumping up and down. He not only had a bartending job, but he also had both the owner and her granddaughter in his corner.
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind”—Vince stepped behind the bar—“I’d like to get this bar opened by Friday afternoon. So if you fine ladies could leave wee Joe and me alone for a bit, he and I have some things to discuss.”
As they were leaving, Dory stopped to pat Joe’s cheek. “Come over to my house any time to talk, okay, my dear?”
After the door shut behind them, the bar was noticeably silent except for gurgling from the beer fridge. Vince took out a shot glass and poured himself a Jack Daniels, keeping his eyes on Joe as he drank—saying nothing. Joe’s cheeks grew hot. He looked up at an old novelty clock hanging over the bar. It featured a muscular little merman figure with a black beard and a teeny trident. The trident ticked off the minutes while his pearlescent fishtail indicated the hour. The merman reminded Joe of someone. Was it that mysterious Gladiator Man he had seen in the harbor earlier that day? No, it actually looked more like that deckhand from the ferry.
“I’ve always loved that old merman clock,” Vince said, having finished a second shot. “Sit closer, lad. I’m not gonna bite your head off.”
Joe walked over to the stool nearer to Vince. “Okay to put my shirt back on?”
“Not yet,” Vince said, leaning his tatted forearms onto the bar. His face came so close that his hot whiskey and Marlboros breath blew up Joe’s nose.
Why is this asshole so sexy? As soon as the thought popped into Joe’s mind, Vince grabbed him by the back of his head and crushed his mouth onto his. Vince’s lips and tongue, like two small fists, beat Joe’s mouth into submission, sucking and biting his lips. For an anxious moment Joe worried that he had tasted blood, and squirmed, his mind sifting through all he had read or heard about whether one could or couldn’t contract the virus from an open wound in the mouth. Stop him! his brain shouted. But the erection in Joe’s pants didn’t want Vince to stop.
Then, trying to approximate the sexy, whispery growl of the Irishman, Joe pulled away slightly and whispered, “You want me to do that bite thing to your lips now?” And just like that, Vince released Joe’s head and gently but firmly pushed him back down onto the customer’s side of the bar. “Wait … did I do something wrong?” Joe asked.
“Not at all.” Vince wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like he had just eaten something rotten. “I needed to get any sexual tension out of the way, lad. It can cause problems between bartenders. Let me be crystal clear: as cute as you are, I have no interest in fucking people with whom I work. Are we understood?”
“Um … of course,” Joe said, though he didn’t fully.
“Also, I need you to follow some other rules. While you work at this bar, I expect you to flirt your ass off with customers, but no going home with any. If you do, they’ll lose interest and stop coming. Hear me? And drill this into your squishy, wee pate: no matter how much they seem to be in love with you, they will never date you. They’ll take you to bed and then talk about you like you’re nothing more than a red-faced Sunday morning brag. Got it?”
Joe nodded.
“And another thing—no cruising the Meat Rack.”
“What is the Meat Rack exactly?” Joe asked. “Dory mentioned it.”
Vince shook his head. “How wet behind the ears are you, lad? Have you not been to the Grove yet?”
Joe knew “the Grove” meant Cherry Grove, the original gay community on Fire Island, which had its own ferry from Sayville. Ronnie had told him the Grove was cheaper and more “artsy” than the Pines, with way more lesbians per square foot. He also said since that demographic “didn’t fit the agenda” (meaning Ronnie’s quest for a hot, rich husband), it made the most sense for Joe and him to stick to the Pines.
“Not yet. Is the Meat Rack in the Grove?” Joe asked.
“No. The Meat Rack is the beach forest between the Pines and the Grove. It’s this giant maze of trees, rolling dunes, and swamp that makes it a pain in the arse to get from one town to the other—much to the satisfaction of both, I’d say. They call it the Meat Rack since it’s filled with all sorts of hiding spots where all the lads and pensioners go to get their rocks off al fresco.”
“No way,” Joe said, smiling at the thought. “Out in the open? Daytime too?”
“Whenever. Used to be even more of a scene before this feckin’ plague that’s killing everybody. And while doing the dirty in the Rack sounds grand, as soon as an island bartender sets foot in there, all the gay hens will be on the phone clucking their heads off. Best for us bartenders to keep ourselves a mystery. Are we clear?”
“Um … yeah. I guess,” Joe said. “Now, can I put my shirt on?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass, but here, take this.”
Ronnie tossed a small red and black book at Joe, which he caught.
“ Mr. Boston Official Bartender’s Guide ,” Joe read out loud. “Great. This will be helpful.”
“Helpful?” Vince scoffed. “You’re to have it memorized by your first shift Friday night. I’ll also need ya that morning for load-in.”
Joe flipped through the hundreds of drinks in the book. “When you say ‘memorize,’ what do you really mean?”
“ Memorize the damned thing! Every blasted drink. If we’re to get this bar in shape, it’s no playing around. And join the gym next door. I want us both sporting cantaloupe biceps by the Invasion.”
Joe nodded his head enthusiastically but then stammered. “Um … what exactly are we invading?”
“Nothing, Attila the Hun. That’s just the name of one of the big weekends out here. The point is, you need to become a first-class bartender so we can keep this bar open. Got me?”
A thousand anxious bumblebees swarmed Joe’s brain. He took a deep breath and then shook Vince’s hand. “You can count on me.”