Chapter 9
9.
The Hook
“Seek not only the beautiful youth nor the Olympian in his prime, but explore also the filthy and profane, the aged, the unusually formed, the destitute and unmuscular, for the Great Balance requires a cornucopia of sensual and sentient beings.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #15
“Tom Collins?” Ronnie asked, fanning himself with Joe’s Mr. Boston Official Bartender’s Guide . He had been quizzing Joe about cocktail recipes for over an hour as the two sat at the end of Harbor Walk, which jutted out into the Great South Bay—the spot known as “the hook.”
“Gin!” Joe called out proudly. “Two parts fresh lemon juice, one part sugar syrup … four parts Coke?”
“No,” Ronnie growled. “Come on, Joey, we went over this already. Not Coke—soda water. Think! Why would you need sugar syrup if you were already using Coke?”
“Right, right, soda water!” Joe punched himself in his thigh. “There is no way I’m gonna know all these cocktails by tomorrow. How would I pass an organic chemistry class if I can’t even memorize a fucking drink recipe?”
“Easy, Joey Bear. To be honest, if someone orders a Tom Collins at a gay cruise bar, they’re a dick.”
“I can’t fuck this up.” Joe pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I can’t lose this job.”
“Look,” Ronnie said, “if you get stuck, just hide the Mr. Boston under the sink so your boss and the customers don’t see.” He demonstrated. “First, flash a flirty smile and say you ran out of something. Then bend over like you’re looking for it, but give ’em a little show.” He pulled his shorts down enough to expose the tops of his cheeks. “See? While everybody’s fixated on your butt crack, you scan the recipe! No one will be the wiser!”
Joe jokingly covered his eyes and groaned. “No way am I doing that.” He grabbed back the Mr. Boston .
“Stop being so negative, Joey!”
“Quiz me some more.”
“Let’s take a breath.” Ronnie lay back on the warm wood of the dock. “So, how’s it going with your weirdo roommates?”
“I like them a lot,” Joe said. “Lenny can be a little crabby, but he’s really a sweetheart. He taught me the difference between a Prince Albert and a freedom ladder and made me this hoagie.” He held up the torpedo-like sandwich that he was halfway through eating. “Although he called it a ‘hero.’ Wanna try?”
“Nah. I’m trying to shred. What about that other one?”
“Howie? He’s really cool, like an eccentric old aunt. You won’t believe how they fixed up that attic room for me. Totally rad.” He chewed the next bite of his hoagie more slowly. “There’s just this one weird thing …” He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s stupid. Anyway, I really lucked out.”
Ronnie’s bullshit meter went off. Joe was holding something back. Having been best friends with him for six months, he knew Joe was oblivious to the harsher realities of the gay world. But who the hell moves into the attic of two creepy old strangers he’d met in the harbor? “Okay, spill it,” he said. “Have they ‘accidentally’ walked in on you when you were showering?”
“No,” Joe said. “They aren’t like that. It’s just …” He put down his hoagie. “When they fixed up the attic they purposely hid some of their old photos from me and padlocked this crawlspace and …” He groaned. “I’m being an idiot. Just forget I said anything. Not a big deal. The important thing is, I really want you to like them. Howie knows a ton of interesting stuff.”
“Whatever you say.” Ronnie stomach gurgled with discomfort at the thought of the two strange older men. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt his best friend. “New topic! Tell me more about that hot Irish bar manager of yours? Was he a good kisser?”
“Ugh,” Joe groaned. “Fuck that guy.”
“I mean he sounds like a major ass wipe, that’s for sure.” Ronnie squirmed out of his T-shirt to show off his tanned and swollen torso. “But I saw him wearing a tank top and carrying a case of beer yesterday. Fuckin’ A! That body … woof!”
“Whatever,” Joe said. “I thought you were looking for a rich guy?”
“I am. But I’m up for a little fun in the meantime.”
“You know Vince told me the rich guys who summer out here never date any of the workers. He says they’ll fuck us, but that’s it. Says they think we’re all trash.”
“He said that?” Ronnie’s eyes narrowed. “Hot or not, that brainless Irish douche don’t know shit.”
“Well, he’s worked out here for almost ten years, so—”
“Doesn’t mean squat!” Ronnie sat up. “Maybe the A-listers won’t date losers like Vince whose only goal in life is to work on the island forever. You and me are different. This place is just a means to an end to us. One summer and done. I’m gonna be a rich motivational speaker and you’re gonna be a friggin’ doctor!”
“About that,” Joe said. “Please stop telling people I’m going to medical school. Because it’s just not true—”
“I’ve made my mind up!” Ronnie blurted. “Now I have to sleep with him!”
“What? Who?”
“Your boss, Vince.”
“But you just said he’s a brainless douchebag.”
“That’s exactly why I’m going to give him the lay of his life and then watch him beg for more while I ignore him. That’ll show that overgrown leprechaun he can’t go around spreading bullshit about who we can date and treating my little buddy like a cheap piece of kissable meat.”
“Whatever floats your boat.” Joe did his “Ronnie-you’re-ridiculous” head shake. “Can we get back to work? Quiz me again about—” Joe’s face suddenly brightened as he appeared to catch sight of something over Ronnie’s shoulder. “Wait a minute—that’s them!”
Ronnie turned to see two ridiculously dressed older men heading toward Bay Walk, pushing a cleaning caddie. The short one resembled a Neapolitan lawn ornament in chaps, while the tall one wore flowers in his baseball cap and was waving a massive feather duster.
“Hey there, Joe!” the tall one called out.
Joe jumped up and waved them over. “Howie! Lenny! C’mere a minute. I want you to meet Ronnie!”
“I see you two found the hook,” Howie said as Lenny parked their caddie. “The most perfect spot. And now we get to make the acquaintance of the famous Ronnie! Joe has told us wonderful things. I’m Howie Fishbein and this is Lenny D’Amico.”
As Ronnie shook Lenny’s and Howie’s hands, he felt an uneasy tingling in the lower part of his stomach, just above his appendix scar. “Yeah, ’sup,” he said, lowering his voice and glowering. Something about the bigger guy instantly bothered him.
“Such a strong handshake,” Howie said. “Joe mentioned you have bartending skills. I sometimes arrange parties out here for my customers, and they’re always looking for handsome bartenders—generally shirtless, though. These men have no imagination. If you like, I can put you on my list.”
“Sure, thanks,” Ronnie said, distracted by how intently Howie was staring at him. It wasn’t the leer of other men, undressing him with their eyes. Howie’s eyes were scalpels dissecting his soul. “Is something on my face?” Ronnie snapped.
“You’re eyeballing him,” Lenny snarled. “How many times I gotta tell you not to—”
“You’re right,” Howie said. “Sorry. It’s just you look so … have we met before?”
“Nope,” Ronnie said. “Never.”
“Strange. I could have sworn we … well, in case I ever insulted you in this life or a previous one, I sincerely apologize.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ronnie sniffed, ignoring Joe’s eyes warning him to be nice.
“Oh, hey,” Joe said brightly. “Ronnie, you should see Howie and Lenny’s album and cassette collection. It’s seriously gargantuan.”
“Do you like dance music, Ronnie?” Howie asked. “We’re big fans.”
Ronnie shrugged. “New stuff is cool. Madonna, The B-52s … disco sucks, though.”
Howie and Lenny gasped as if they were silent movie actors. Joe just looked pissed.
“You don’t like any disco?” Lenny asked. “Not even Gloria? Donna? Vicki Sue?”
“Gag me.” Ronnie mockingly stomped his feet in a four-on-the-floor rhythm singing a Gibb-worthy ah-ah-ah tremolo. “It’s all the same song—”
“Ronnie’s being a dick today,” Joe said while giving Ronnie the side-eye. “And I’ve seen him dancing the Hustle at Kurt’s in Philly dozens of times.”
“I went to disco nights because I like to fuck hot, rich guys in their forties,” Ronnie sneered. “The music itself was painful as hell. I had to go home and listen to Kiss and AC/DC just to clear my head of that monotonous shit.”
“Monotonous shit, huh?” Lenny looked ready to fight.
“Perhaps you don’t yet fully comprehend its beauty,” Howie said gently. “The disco aesthetic is highly misunderstood. You know it all started in Manhattan’s Black and gay dance clubs? That’s why white straight men attacked it. Perhaps you can let us try and change your mind.”
Ronnie rolled his eyes despite Joe glaring at him.
“By the way”—Howie squinted at Ronnie—“has anyone ever told you that you have a very interesting aura? It’s all over the place, but with some striking flourishes of indigo—which represents insight.” A flash of pity passed over Howie’s face. “A very difficult time growing up, I suspect. But you’re a survivor.”
“You can tell all that, huh?” Ronnie scoffed, distancing himself from the fact that Howie’s obvious guess had landed a bull’s-eye.
“I believe so.” Howie did another disturbingly deep stare into Ronnie’s eyes.
“So I guess you think you’re psychic or something?” Ronnie bulged his eyes mockingly. “What else can you tell me about myself?”
While he believed in creative visualization and the power of positive thinking, Ronnie drew a hard line at bullshit like crystals, auras, and palm reading. Not that he hadn’t tried them—but ever since he’d wasted an entire week’s paycheck on a bus ticket out to New Mexico to witness the “Harmonic Convergence”—a huge cosmic turd—he had developed a deep disdain for the mumbo-jumbo branch of the New Age business.
“Not psychic at all.” Howie laughed. “Trust me, we’ve known some excellent clairvoyants. Our beloved friend Max reads souls like they’re Reader’s Digest .”
“Doesn’t even use tea leaves or runes,” Lenny added.
“The best I can do,” Howie said, “besides my prescient indigestion, is see auras, but my eyes have gotten cloudy over the last few years. Although, for some odd reason, they’re extremely bright today. Probably sunspots.” He narrowed his eyes, his brow puzzled, before waving a hand through the air as if to wipe away the awkward conversation. “But enough of all this silly metaphysical talk. Look at you two handsome young men, working on Fire Island for your first summer. So exciting! If I did have the ability to see the future, I’d predict you two falling hopelessly in love with Fire Island and never leaving.”
The thought gave Ronnie the shudders. “Ugh, I’d rather chew glass.”
“Ronnie!” Joe snapped, not even hiding his anger anymore.
“I mean, no thanks.” Ronnie tried to leave it at that, but something inside of him refused. “This place is pretty ’n’ all, but me and Joey have big goals that do not include getting stuck spending the rest of our lives cleaning other people’s houses on fucking Fire Island.”
A large sandbag of silence landed smack into the middle of the four men. Joe, looking humiliated, started busying himself with wrapping up what was left of his sandwich. Lenny and Howie simply shot glances at each other. Hot fingers of embarrassment crawled across Ronnie’s face. He hated losing control like that. Why did he dislike these two men so much—especially Howie? Was it that he was old? No. He liked older men. Was it because Howie dressed androgynously? No again. Ronnie was friendly with plenty of drag queens—at least casually. Yet the worms of disdain squirmed in his gut.
“I better go check on the Bolognese on the stove,” Lenny finally said.
“Good idea,” Howie agreed. “I think I’m gonna go back to Jerry’s house. I left some towels in the dryer.”
“Wait,” Joe said. “I’m sure Ronnie didn’t mean that to come out the way it did.”
Ronnie couldn’t even look up as he shrugged. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Howie smiled at him. “You’re not wrong about how some of us get stuck here. If I had my druthers, I’d have preferred to get stuck in P-town or Key West. But I do believe the universe puts us where we’re most needed. Sometimes it ends up being wonderful—and other times we must patiently wait for the ‘wonderful’ to arrive. And sometimes that waiting takes a very long time. But it’s good to trust life, Ronnie. I hope you will someday.”
Fuck this guy, Ronnie thought. How dare he say something like that to me? Of course Ronnie trusted life. Pathetic old gay guys like Howie were just jealous of his good looks and positive energy, so they tried to crush his spirit. He definitely needed to watch out for Joe with these guys.
“Gotcha,” Ronnie said bitterly.
“Fine, then,” Howie said, pushing pass the awkwardness. “We’ll leave you two to your day off.” He took hold of the cleaning caddy. “Lenny, shall we?”
As soon as they were out of earshot, Joe pounced. “What the fuck was that?”
“You don’t think that was a nasty comment he just made about me not trusting life?” Ronnie’s voice leaped an octave. “He basically called me stupid and trashy.”
“He didn’t call you trashy or stupid. He’s totally on your side, and you just told them their whole lives were wasted! What the hell?”
“That’s not how I heard it! And by the way, I know you told him stuff about me … like how I grew up?”
“How you grew up?” Joe looked puzzled. “I barely know anything about how you grew up. I just told them that you were a nice guy. Thanks for proving me wrong.”
Ronnie looked out toward the bay. Two black swans were fighting over a fish. The smaller of the two refused to relent and was able to swallow down the fish in a gulp. The larger one, irate at the loss, opened his bill and screamed, then nipped at the smaller one’s tail feathers before turning and paddling away.
“I’m sorry,” Ronnie finally said. “It’s just guys like him, dressing like that, smiling all the time, making vague wacko comments—they bug the shit out of me. Also they were looking at both of us weird. Totally creeped me out. If you want my opinion, I think you should start looking for a new place to live as soon as possible.”
“But I like their place.” Joe was adamant. “And I’d prefer you didn’t act like a dick and ruin this situation for me, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Ronnie huffed a big, bored sigh. “I promise I won’t cause problems for you. Can we talk about something else now?”
Ronnie went back to quizzing Joe on the cocktail recipes, but he felt no joy in it. He hated how he’d let Howie get to him. Why would the older man think Ronnie didn’t trust life? Life was great. Life was a pearl-filled oyster. Fuck those two weird old house cleaners. Fuck them to the end of the world.