Chapter 30
30.
Invasion Deflation
“The Great Darkness has reigned for one hundred thousand DJ sets and will reign for at least one hundred thousand more. Do not despair. Put on your dancing shoes and continue to work toward the Great Balance.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #42
Before Joe knew it, the summer of ’89 was headed toward its muggy, monochromatic middle. It had been weeks since Ronnie had kicked him out of Trey Winkle’s party, and although he caught occasional glimpses of him working at the Flotel, they’d had no interaction whatsoever. Elena, meanwhile, had been just too busy to hang out, since she was always going to one of her AA meetings or spending time with Cleigh. Vince, heartbroken that Ronnie had ditched him for Trey, reverted to his old miserable self, summoning countless Irish synonyms for calling Joe a “lazy eejit.”
And then there was Fergal the ferryman. Every time Joe’d pass him on the dock, the ferryman not only averted his eyes, he acted like there was nothing but rotten fish in the space where Joe was walking. As for the Gladiator Man, Joe hadn’t seen him since that night he drunkenly stumbled after him down Fire Island Boulevard. It was as if he’d never existed. Or maybe he did, and he just was avoiding Joe. Without any friends around or mysterious obsessions, Joe spent most of his free time alone in the hot, stuffy attic, listening to Love Songs 1 , looking at his one photo of Elliot, and ruminating over the mess he had made. The only bright spot in that part of the summer was how Howie and Lenny were getting all excited about something called the Invasion.
The history of the Fourth of July “Invasion” (the second high holy day in Howie’s calendar) was burned into most Fire Island old timers’ heads. As legend had it, back in the summer of 1976, during the nation’s bicentennial, some of the funky denizens of Cherry Grove, including one dressed in drag, ventured over to Fire Island Pines to eat at a restaurant. The restaurant staff refused to serve the man in drag, since the Pines was much more conservative than the free-spirited Cherry Grove. Infuriated, the rejected Grove patrons decided to take action. On the Fourth of July they gathered their friends, all dressed in the most lurid and flamboyant drag; rented a water taxi; and, like good patriotic libertines, invaded the Pines. Everyone had a blast, including the snooty Pines homos. From that day forward, every July Fourth, a boatload of drag queens—in the hundreds—recreated the invasion of the Pines.
Joe was hopeful that year’s Invasion might bring the possibility of new customers to Asylum Harbor, new friends for him, and the possibility he’d run into the Gladiator Man again or any cute fellow who might wake him from his stupor.
Unfortunately, none of that happened. The Fourth of July came and went, and like most invasions it left a disaster in its wake. Instead of discarded weapons and dead bodies, Asylum Harbor was strewn with lost nylon wigs, feather boas, false eyelashes, and so many Lee Press-Ons that the floor crackled beneath Joe’s feet. There were no new friends, no new regular customers, and Joe’s record as “the best-looking bartender to never hook up on Fire Island” was on track for a Guinness World Record. While the day of the invasion brought the biggest crowd yet into the bar, the following week saw a return to the sparse pre-Invasion levels.
Adding to Joe’s misery, one of the Graveyard Girls spilled the beans to Vince that Trey had given Ronnie an eighteen-karat gold, tricolor Tiffany ring. Vince went mental, demanding that Joe join him in a thorough and complete housecleaning of the bar to get rid of all the bad energy of the first half of the summer.
“We may be the most unpopular bar in Fire Island Pines,” Vince announced with his arms full of industrial cleaning supplies, “but feck it, we’re gonna be the cleanest.”
At least being angry at Vince felt better than being depressed. Joe dove into the work with a vengeance. Soon, Asylum Harbor’s stink of stale beer and vomit was overlayed with the scent of lemony wood polish and the sweat of one exhausted Armenian American bartender.
“All done.” Joe flopped onto a stool and dropped his head on the counter while Vince inspected his work.
“You call that wood shiny?” Vince snarled. “Feckin’ hell! My Aunt Siobhan could polish a bar better than you. And she didn’t have any hands! Do it again, ya lazy lug!”
“I’ve had it!” Joe threw his rag at Vince—though it sadly curved and landed at least six feet off its mark. “It’s not my fault that Ronnie isn’t banging you anymore. Clean the fucking bar yourself.”
Vince’s icy eyes glared at Joe. “For one thing, you ungrateful sod, it was I who was doing the banging. And two, what gives you the idea I give three roasted fucks about that two-faced, disloyal, gold-digging, bastard best friend of yours?”
Hearing Vince refer to Ronnie as his best friend felt like a punch to Joe’s solar plexus. “You know damn well Ronnie and I aren’t best friends anymore. We aren’t even mediocre friends. And besides, you two agreed at the beginning not to be boyfriends.”
“That’s not true!” Vince’s voice nearly squeaked in protest. “I mean, okay, maybe we said something of the sort. But still, how could a lad be all lovey-dovey one day, saying shite like ‘Vince, darlin’, I’ve never felt so comfortable with somebody in my life,’ and then, not a week later, he’s off playing the Leona Helmsley of homos with some rich poof. The worst part is, he didn’t even tell me himself. I had to hear it on the street.”
“I’m really sorry, Vince,” Joe said, softening his tone too. “I get it.”
“You know something? I don’t even care anymore. And I have you to thank for it—this bar cleaning really helped. Clean bar, clean head.” Vince forced a laugh. “I’m so over that bastard, I wouldn’t touch him again for all the dick in Drogheda. No, ma’am!” He held his smile a moment longer before he caught sight of his own reflection in the counter and his eyes glazed over. “Maybe we should also clean out the storage closet and line the top shelves with some doilies. Might look snappy, huh?”
Nope, poor Vince wasn’t anywhere near being over Ronnie. Joe knew the signs; he’d already spent two long years staring at his own heartbreak in a mirror. The stern forehead, the tight jaw, and the eyes—oh, the eyes—darting around as if the very air in front of him might hold an answer to the riddle Where do you put the love for someone who is no longer there?
Joe grew even more resentful at his ex–best friend for what he had done to his brokenhearted bar manager. What an idiot Ronnie was. Not just an idiot—ungrateful as well. In Vince he had a decent man, someone who truly loved him. Someone who wasn’t sick or dying. Someone with whom he could have a future. Did Ronnie not get how few gay men had an opportunity like that anymore? It was so unfair. How dare he throw that all away on some rich, cheating douchebag?
“Vince, face it,” he began, attempting to copy Ronnie’s self-help-guru style of talking. “Men suck. Straight men, gay men. We all suck. And in my opinion, you may be the meanest manager in the history of food and beverage, but you’re a damn handsome fella, and you could do way better than that two-faced, gold-digging Ronnie Kaminski. He’s just a —”
“Cork it, Dear Abby,” Vince growled. “I’ll have none of that bad-mouthing.”
“But you just said—”
“I know what I said, but I don’t need your swaddling and burping, thank you very much. Just get back to work. Those Cuervo bottles better be so shiny I’m blinded!”
At that moment Dory Lieberman-Delagrange walked into the bar, holding Howie’s arm, the two deep in conversation. Howie held a clipboard with a checklist. Joe sighed in relief, not just because he hoped their visit would interrupt Vince’s demonic cleaning purge but also because he always felt lighter and safer in their presence for some reason, especially since he had gotten beyond all that silly disco witch gossip.
“Yes, that’s perfect” Dory exclaimed to Howie. “We’ll have the finger food up against the wall on the deck with four of the tall round cocktail tables set out there, and seven or eight more in here.”
Howie nodded and then threw his arms open toward Joe and Vince. “And look at these visions! How are the handsomest bartenders on all of Fire Island? Wait until you see Dory’s plans for the ACT UP benefit—it’s going to be phenomenal. We were out all day yesterday, postering every flat surface and telephone pole from here to the Grove.”
“Saw ’em last night,” Vince said. “You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one of your fliers. I’m thinking we might need a couple of bruisers to manage the crowd.”
“As long as they’re shirtless and have admirers with checkbooks,” Dory said. “By the way, Vince, how is the bar doing in general? Saint D’Norman suggested receipts are still down?”
“He’s not wrong about receipts, I’m afraid.” Vince sucked air through his teeth. “The Invasion didn’t have any follow-through. Low Tea and High Tea have taken a worse toll than we expected. All the gay sheep wanna follow the crowd. If it gets much worse …” Vince didn’t need to finish his sentence.
“Well, I’m not counting this bar out yet,” Howie chimed in. “What you’ve done with this place is nothing less than miraculous. This time last year this place was a morgue—and not in a good way. It’s alive again!”
“Still not anywhere near where we need to be to stop Scotty Black from exercising his option to close us down,” Vince said.
“But there’s still a healthy crowd coming in just before dancing,” Howie said. “It’s not exactly wall to wall, but it’s a big improvement. Scotty just needs to give it more time.”
Vince couldn’t even force a fake smile. He merely downed the rest of a shot while Dory took a huge gulp off her Beefeaters and tonic. Even Howie sighed with a tone of surrender.
Joe slapped his hand on the counter. “Howie’s right,” he barked, trying to blow air into Howie’s deflated rallying cry. “Maybe this ACT UP benefit will get some younger guys in here.”
Howie beamed. “Exactly. If you can get some of those hot, white T-shirt and black combat boot boys in here, you never know. It could become the hip new thing.”
“Not a bad idea,” Vince said. “Maybe put up some of those Silence Equals Death posters.”
Just as all four started to look on the bright side, the sound of someone running up the wooden steps caused them all to turn toward the door. There, Lenny stood, huffing and puffing, with an enraged look on his face.
“What is it, Lenny?” Howie begged in a panic. “Are you okay?”
Lenny nodded and waved, taking deep breaths, unable to form words. Joe ran over to him with a glass of water. Lenny drank, then sat on a stool.
“Thanks, Joseph. I’m fine. It’s …” Deep breath. “It’s …” Deep breath. “The benefit posters. They’ve been … torn down.”
“What?” Dory said, alarmed. “How many?”
“All of ’em!” Lenny barked. “There’s not a trace anywhere on the island. I even called Babs over in the Grove. There too. Gone. Someone doesn’t want this benefit to happen.”
‘Who would do something like that?” Dory said. “We’re just trying to help end the AIDS crisis.”
“We all know who’s behind it,” Joe blurted, his body tense with rage. “Why don’t we just say his name? Scotty Bl—”
“Easy, lad!” Vince checked the door, then lowered his voice. “Keep your head. Island politics is no joke out here. We’re still in business with him.”
“He’s also not the only one that doesn’t want the word AIDS associated with the Pines,” Howie added, shaking his head.
“Exactly,” Vince said. “So, you see, lad, we can’t go accusing people without absolute proof. It’s not only our livelihoods at stake.” His eyes pointed over to Howie and Lenny. “Some folks here have to keep in good with you-know-who.”
Joe nodded, still furious but comprehending how Howie and Lenny’s housecleaning business also depended on Scotty Black and all his rich friends.
“But you’re not wrong,” Vince said. “Scotty knows the benefit might help Asylum Harbor make its nut, which would dump a cold bucket of ice water on that gombeen’s plans to shutter us.”
“I’m not giving up,” Dory announced. “I’ll just have to see if the printer can send more posters over by tomorrow. Hopefully they’ll stay up long enough this time to get the word out. ”
“Lenny and I won’t have time to put them up again, I’m afraid,” Howie said. “We have back-to-back gigs until the benefit next week.”
“If I start my shift late, I can do it,” Joe offered.
Dory patted Joe’s cheek. “Thank you, darling. You’re a wonderful young man. I’ll see if Elena can help you. We’ll try our best.”
“It’s all we can do,” Howie added. “Though I’ll also put in a request to the Great Goddess Mother to send a Chesapeake Bay’s worth of crabs straight into Scotty Black’s boxers.”
Howie, Dory, and Lenny tried to laugh, but they couldn’t. Joe knew how important this ACT UP benefit had been to them, especially to Dory. Of course, it had also become important to him. Joe desperately wanted the benefit to be a success in honor of Elliot, as well as all the friends Howie, Dory, Lenny, and Saint D’Norman had lost or were losing. Joe’s eyes narrowed as he slammed his fist on the bar counter. “No way are we letting Scotty Black get away with this.”