Chapter 20
20.
Saint D’Norman
“All that we are is within the twirl, all that we see is within the twirl, all connection is within the twirl. Praise the Great Goddess Mother! The sacred twirl will open your eyes, but only if you’re looking inward. If you look outward, you will fall.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #7
The last time Saint D’Norman had visited the clinic about a sick stomach, his new doctor, a young, straight GI resident, was not very friendly and seemed uncomfortable seeing a patient with AIDS. Then, without even touching him, he offered some rote advice about avoiding coffee, alcohol, spicy foods, and any strenuous activity. When Saint D’Norman asked if that included dancing, the doctor said, “Yes. Why would someone your age and condition be out dancing anyway? It’s time you stayed home and rested.” Then he showed him the door.
On his way out, Saint D’Norman flashed his smile at the young resident, and said, “No dancing, huh? Kiss my ass, you arrogant, know-nothing, latex-loving motherfucker. You’re fired.”
As a flamboyant child raised in the less than accepting neighborhood of 1960s South Central Los Angeles, dancing was little Donny Norman’s way of mentally escaping from a world in which he just didn’t fit. When he was seventeen, he’d finally escaped for real, with a cross-country bus ticket, all the way to Greenwich Village and the dance floors of Manhattan. There he met his true family and turned into the fabulous Saint D’Norman, the snapping, popping, bumping, twirling disco witch sensation.
Off the dance floor, he became a registered nurse. He had always had a gift for healing, inherited from his West African great-grandmother, and Cherokee great-great-grandfather. The most vital thing he learned during his decades of nursing was that losing hope was one of the worst things that could happen to a patient. No way was he going to let any doctor (or Miss AIDS herself) make him lose hope—or the chance to dance.
When the crisis first started, the ravaged bodies of three of Saint D’Norman’s former lovers walked into the hospital where he was working. Seeing them there, looking like that, told him all he needed to know—he had the virus too. He vowed to do his darnedest not to get sick himself, and for the next five years he kept that promise. Dance, he believed, was one of the practices that kept him strong.
But just being infected with the virus still took its toll, even before he got any of the opportunistic infections. First, he lost his job at the hospital, then his beloved West Village apartment, and finally even his ability to afford a summer share in the Pines. Without a place on the island, he couldn’t help with the coven’s most important summer work, and with so many sick or dying, they needed him desperately. Lucky for everyone, Dory had been more than happy to offer Saint D’Norman a free place at her house on Ocean Walk. Not wanting to feel like a parasite, Saint D’Norman “volunteered” (with pay) to work as Dory’s off-the-books major domo. He loved feeling useful again, and the more than decent pay allowed him to venture into the city to buy sparkly new dance outfits, although the opportunities to wear them had grown fewer. But like Max always told him, a disco witch always needed to be prepared. This was why Saint D’Norman decided to wear a shimmering turquoise caftan for that afternoon’s twirling practice.
“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” he said to the empty deck as he pressed “Play” on the high-end boombox Dory had given him. A moment later “Boogie Wonderland” by Earth, Wind & Fire started to fill the warm air with pure bliss. Then, as he had been taught so long ago, Saint D’Norman crossed his arms over his upper chest and slowly began to spin in a counterclockwise direction, gradually raising his arms, his right palm lifted toward the heavens, his left palm downward toward the earth. Besides reinvigorating his attitude and getting exercise (fuck that doctor!), Saint D’Norman was using the sacred twirl to see if he could hook up a connection to the Great Goddess Mother. He was hoping to gain the clarity Howie had been seeking with that lame-ass, long-distance-boogie spell he’d tried over the phone. Howie-girl needs to do some spinning herself and clear that too-busy-for-her-own-good head of hers.
After a few minutes of spinning, some flickers began behind his eyelids. A memory was trying to push through. He put his twirl into high gear, spinning like a dreidel on the ball of his left foot. Bit by bit, word by word, the memory started to grow brighter until it was like a billboard in front of his face. Max’s rubric. There it is, clear as day.
Saint D’Norman stumbled out of his spin. He knew Howie and Lenny were about to head over to Sayville on the 1:55 PM ferry. He had just enough time to catch them and tell them everything. Just wait until those queens hear this!