Chapter 36
36.
The ACT UP Benefit
“The disco witch does not sit idly by while her brothers and sisters suffer. Via spells, ceremonial dances, or direct action, the disco witch raises hell by any means necessary until the Great Balance is restored and all the holy lovers and their fellow Disco Witches are free.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #65
The Asylum Harbor ACT UP benefit was a raging success. A fire code–violating number of revelers, dressed in resort wear, stuffed themselves with donated bacon-wrapped shrimp, crab cakes, and drinks from the open bar. Chrissy Bluebird was there, and so were Frankie Fabulous, lots of hottie circuit boys, porn stars, and prophets, not to mention several of the Pines more notable celebrities (the Davids, the Calvins, the Barrys, the Tommys). No sign of the Gladiator Man, which was fine as far as Joe was concerned. Volunteering at the benefit was the first time he felt like he was truly doing something to fight the disease that had taken his Elliot away. How different their relationship might have been if he’d had something like ACT UP into which he could have channeled all his fear and rage. If only he had …
Stop! Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
“Hey, pretty great turnout, huh?” Elena said, stepping up to the bar with a big smile on her face and Cleigh’s hand on her shoulder. Her year of refraining from “actual dating” was looking more and more in doubt.
“Yeah,” Joe said, pulling himself out of his head. “Dory and Howie really can put on a show.”
“They sure can,” Elena said. “Anyway, we just wanted to say keep up the good work. Cleigh and I are off to schmooze a couple of rich lesbians.”
“I’m sure we’ll be able to get them to pony up a little more cashola for the cause,” Cleigh added with her tough-girl twang. “I just need to gush about their handicaps in the last Dinah Shore Classic while Elena here flashes that sweet smile of hers.”
Elena rolled her eyes, but Joe could tell she enjoyed Cleigh’s flirting. Just as they were leaving, Fergal pulled up to the bar and casually grasped Joe’s forearm affectionately before shyly pulling away. His smell, his touch, his voice made Joe’s skin vibrate. Fergal had taken the day off from the ferry to volunteer as “sexy busboy,” causing several ferry passengers to fork over the suggested donation just to get a glimpse of him wearing uncharacteristically short cutoff jeans and a tight-fitting ACT UP tank top.
“I don’t recognize half these people,” Joe said.
“A bunch are ACT UP members from the city.” Fergal gestured to a small group in their twenties and thirties—mostly men, but some women, all dressed in the classic East Village boy outfit of white T-shirts, cutoffs, and black Doc Martens. “They came over this morning with that older guy Larry. He’s one of the founders of ACT UP. Yells like a nut job when he’s riled up but is a total sweetheart in private. He gets shit done.”
Joe studied the activists’ faces and bodies. Most looked healthy. Some of the men were extremely handsome, looking like those brooding male models in Interview Magazine . But a few had the familiar physical markers of the sickness—the hollowed eyes, the powdery lips, Band-Aids covering what might be skin cancers. If these particular ACT UP members were sick, they didn’t seem self-conscious about it. Elliot had always been terrified of anyone knowing.
“How many do you think have HIV?” Joe whispered, his eyes locked on the group.
“Who knows.” Fergal shrugged. “Dory and Howie don’t have it, and they’re ACT UP members. Besides, you can’t know for sure. You have to protect yourself like everyone has it.”
“You’re right,” Joe said. “That was a dick thing for me to ask. It just seems extra brave to be out there fighting when you don’t know how long you have left.”
“Yeah,” Fergal said. “But maybe that’s what keeps them going?”
“Maybe.” Joe wondered if it was time to tell Fergal the whole truth about Elliot. But what if it frightened him away? He couldn’t bear the thought of that.
“You okay?” Fergal asked. “You looked funky all of a sudden.”
Before Joe could respond, three men, including the Broadway composer Jerry Herman, approached the bar. “We’d like three vodka cranberries, please, handsome,” Jerry said, clapping his hands. “Oh, Joe, what a wonderful event you’ve all made!”
“Thanks, Jerry. Drinks coming right up.” While Joe set up the highball glasses, he turned to Fergal. “Hey, babe, wanna go snag us some of those pigs in a blanket before they run out?”
“Babe?” Fergal repeated. Before Joe knew what was happening, Fergal had leaned over the bar and planted a quick but romantic kiss on Joe’s lips. The entire bar stopped to watch. When the kiss ended, the buzzing reignited—only now it was about the sexy young couple. For once Joe didn’t mind the gossip. He and Fergal were officially an item. Let them talk!
“Well done, Joe,” Jerry Herman whispered, handing him a fifty-dollar bill. “This is for your great work on this benefit and for”—he winked—“finally getting laid, especially with sailor boy over there. You know, the whole island’s been worried about you.”
“Thanks.” Joe tried hard not to let his face expose the truth, that he had yet to “get laid” by Fergal or anyone. “But today, Jerry, all my tips go to ACT UP.”
Joe put the fifty into the donation beer pitcher. Soon, other men began offering more donations to ACT UP in honor of Joe losing his Fire Island cherry to the deckhand of their dreams. His ears reddened with guilt, which the men took as a sign of his charming shyness.
“Sorry about what just happened,” Joe said to Vince, who looked annoyed. “I know that was against bar policy.”
“Ach, who gives a flying feck,” he said darkly. “This bar is probably doomed anyway. So I gather things are pure class with your fella, eh?”
“Yeah. I guess so. I mean …” He lowered his voice. “Here’s the thing—and don’t judge—but we still haven’t … you know.”
“Oh Jay-sus, Mary, and Joseph!” Vince shouted. “You’re feckin’ kiddin’ me!”
“Shh!” Joe hushed him, horrified. “Vince, seriously?”
“Sorry,” Vince whispered. “So not even knocking your knobs together?”
“I mean, we’ve gotten pretty hot and heavy. Like, we’ve stuck our hands down each other’s pants and taken our shirts off. And kissed. Oh my god, he’s the best kisser. I get chills every time. It’s just when it looks like we’re ready to finally go for it, he’s suddenly says he’s tired or that he has something to do that won’t wait. I wondered if he thought we might not be, you know, compatible, so I hinted that I can do the whole versatile thing, but he just kinda laughed and said he wants to wait, because doing the ‘big one’—he calls it the big one, which is cute as hell—makes a relationship more ‘real’ for him.”
Vince groaned. “Real? What in Mary Magdalene’s name does that even feckin’ mean?”
“I guess he’s just not ready. He likes me obviously—I mean that kiss and all?”
“I hate to say it …” Vince sighed nihilistically. “It’s the homosexual rule of threes. If no sex by date three, you’re sunk. And if you do end up having sex on date four, it will be so awkward you’ll both lose your hard-ons. If I was you, I’d cut bait and run.”
“But you’re not me.” Joe angrily shoved the metal scoop back into the ice. “Fergal is just different from other guys. Even Howie says so.”
Vince shook his head bitterly and sniggered. “As if our man Howie even remembers a flea’s turd about dating.”
“Howie knows a helluva lot more than you do.”
“Well, scarlet for your mother for havin’ ya!”
“Vince, I literally have no idea what that means.” A wave of men came up to the bar, sending both men scrambling to fill orders. When Joe finished his last vodka cran, he turned and noticed Vince, icy eyes toward the door, as if Charles Manson had just walked in.
“Look what the sewer rat dragged in,” Vince whispered.
Joe looked over. It was none other than Trey Winkle along with two friends—WASPy Xerox copies of himself. All three were dressed in assorted pastel shades of polo-shirted pretension, smugly passing their eyes over the crowd.
“I don’t think I’ve hated someone this much since junior high school,” Joe said.
“Join the club.” Vince sneered as he ripped open a Budweiser. “But ACT UP needs their money, so let’s keep it pleasant. But go extra light on the pour.”
Joe nodded, happy to cheat the man who had treated his best friend so terribly. But then, as those dramatic Fire Island fates would have it, Ronnie Kaminski—having taken Joe’s suggestion to “run into” Vince at the benefit—walked into the bar dressed in his best Ocean Pacific board shorts and Phillies tank top. Oblivious to Trey, he tossed Vince a nervous smile.
“What fresh hell is this?” Vince coldly muttered. “Get him out of here.”
Joe realized he had completely miscalculated Vince’s reaction. “Wow,” Joe said. “Lots of surprises today—”
“You set this up, didn’t ya? Ya little bucket of snot.” Vince threw his dirty bar rag into the sink, then stormed over to the far end of the bar.
Joe, seeing the hope drain from Ronnie’s face, waved his friend over to the bar. “I think I made a mistake,” he said. “I’m really sorry. Maybe you should come back another time.”
“So he still hates me, huh?” Ronnie said. “I knew it.”
“He doesn’t hate you.” Joe handed him a shot of tequila. “He just can’t figure out how to stop feeling brokenhearted, I guess.”
“Why does this summer suck so much?” Ronnie knocked back the drink as if his tonsils were on fire.
“Speaking of sucking.” Joe made sure his lips were unreadable from across the room. “Your asshole ex is here too.”
He pointed the soda gun toward where Trey Winkle and his friends had set up their judgment station. Having caught Ronnie looking at him, Trey smiled snarkily, then whispered something to his friends that ignited a round of sniggering.
“Fuck me!” Ronnie groaned. “First I get rejected by the man I love, and then that stuck-up jack-off laughs at me?”
“Ignore him,” Joe said, mixing a tequila sunrise with one hand and knocking the heads off two draft beers with the other. “You probably should leave anyway. You don’t want Scotty Black to find you here.”
“That’s true. I don’t need to get fired on top of everything else.”
“Do me one favor before you go,” Joe whispered. “Maybe it’s too soon for Vince, but on your way out just say a quick hello. I think maybe if he hears your voice—”
“Are you crazy? He hasn’t even looked over since I walked in.”
“I know. But what can it hurt? Just say one of your affirmation things first.”
“That shit isn’t working anymore. I keep chanting over and over, ‘Vince is still in love with me. Vince is still in love with me.’ ” But my subconscious keeps saying, a lot louder, You blew it, douchebag. He hates you. ” He choked back tears. “Fuck this. I’m out of here.”
As soon as Ronnie turned to make his escape, Trey Winkle and his friends walked directly over, blocking his exit.
“Look who’s here,” Trey said, turning to his clones. “Gentlemen, you remember Ron here? He used to hang out at my place?” He gestured to Joe. “This charming young bartender is his best friend, Joseph—you’re part Iranian or something, right?”
“Armenian,” Joe said flatly. “You ordering something or what? The bar is pretty busy.”
“Of course,” Trey said. “Three vodka martinis, if you would. Extra dirty. A bar like this wouldn’t have Grey Goose, would it? Or is your top shelf just not top enough?”
Trey’s pun caused his friends to snort.
“Yeah, we have Grey Goose.” Joe’s annoyance grew. “But with today’s open bar your choices are Absolut, Absolut, or, um, Absolut. Of course you might find something you like on our bottom shelf, which happens to be Popov. You know Popov, right? It sorta rhymes with jerk off , which I’m sure you hear all the time.” Ronnie’s eyes warned Joe to cool it. “Anyway,” Joe said, lightening up, “Grey Goose would be full price.”
“That’s fine.” Trey tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the bar like it was a napkin.
Joe briefly considered blasting Trey with a stream of Coke from the soda gun, but then saw that Ronnie was on the brink of tears. Joe knew Trey would probably love to see Ronnie cry. He’d get to brag to his hideous friends how the muscle-head hotel porter was wandering the island bawling his eyes out over having been dumped by him.
“Hey, Ronnie,” Joe said loudly, “you have to get back to work, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I probably should.” Ronnie’s sad eyes were barely able to look up.
“Don’t let us keep you,” Trey said, still blocking Ronnie’s way. “Those toilets won’t clean themselves.”
“Trey Winkle and the hot, sad hotel maid,” one of his friends mumbled to the other with a smirk. “Very E. M. Forster. Well done!”
“Rough trade is delicious,” the other friend slurred salaciously. “Then again, from what I’ve heard, Ron’s moonlighting does make him a little more Fanny Hill than Maurice .”
Ronnie didn’t get the literary reference, but Joe did, having heard Howie mention the erotic novel about an eighteenth-century English prostitute. While Trey and his friends laughed, Ronnie tried to feebly join in, thinking he was saving face, which made the whole thing worse. That did it for Joe. He pulled down the Grey Goose and set it on the sink, out of view. He filled the tumbler instead with the cheap Popov, some vermouth, and then squeezed his dirty bar rag into the mixture. He shook the tumbler with a flourish and poured its contents into conical glasses.
“Here’s your drinks, gentlemen,” Joe said, adding the olives. “Extra dirty.”
Then he handed Trey back only twenty dollars change from his hundred-dollar bill.
“Um,” Trey said, looking at the twenty. “This is my change? For three drinks?”
“Ah.” Joe quickly swiped the twenty back out of Trey’s hand. “That’s so nice of you to donate the rest to ACT UP,” he shouted loudly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind giving me some space. I do have other customers. So, ya know, make like your love life and beat it.”
Trey and his friends all looked as if a human-sized, brown-eyed Armenian pigeon had just shit on their heads.
“I’d watch yourself,” Trey said through a gritted smile. “I have no problem speaking to the management of this shitty little bar. I’m a homeowner in this community, and my partner sits on the Pines Homeowners Association Board.”
“Just forget about it, Trey,” Ronnie interrupted, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t be a dick.”
“A dick?” Trey snarled, his drunken eyes turning to rage, his voice rising to almost a shout. “That’s rich coming from you! They aren’t making hustlers as grateful as they used to … or as honest! Do we want to talk about that bag of party supplies you stole from me?”
Ronnie’s face turned the color of grenadine. Joe sensed that whatever Trey was saying was probably true. Still, he wanted to shove the lemon knife into his throat.
“That does it,” Joe snapped. “Get out!”
“We’ll go when we want, Falafel Crotch!” Trey snapped. “We paid a lot of money to be at this silly event. I’m sure Mr. Kaminski here got comped. Unless, of course, one of his hotel tricks paid his entrance fee in return for special service. Any deep cleaning duties lately, Ron?”
Before Joe could respond, a stainless-steel cocktail shaker full of white liquor and ice came rocketing across the bar, crashing on the countertop, and violently splashing its contents all over Trey and his friends. A second later, Vince reached across the counter with his flexed tattooed arm, grabbed Trey by the upturned collar of his lime-green Izod shirt, and held his face within an inch of his own.
“Look here, ya feckin’ chiseler!” he yelled loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “I think you should be careful talking shite about anyone on this island, considering most of us know how you got that house and your money. And you better make the best of it because rumor is your meal ticket is planning to ditch your saggy arse. Now, leave this establishment before I test out my new Doc Martens on those pretty capped teeth of yours. Get me?”
“Let go of me,” Trey hissed. “You have no right—”
“The hell I don’t!” Vince shoved the man so hard he fell back into the crowd.
“Just wait until I talk to the owner of this bar!” Trey yelled as he stood back up.
“I’m the owner!” The crowd parted as Dory stepped calmly up to Trey, a hint of a smile on her face. “Vince here is the manager. Whatever he says goes. Joe, hand ’em a takeaway cup for their drinks.” Joe did as she asked. “Now,” she said, sharpening her sweet, shining black eyes into deadly daggers. “Like the man said, get the fuck out of our bar.”
Trey Winkle and company, red-faced and fuming, shoved their way out of the bar and down the steps.
“Sorry about that, Dory,” Vince said, finally cooling off.
“No apology necessary, honey. Those turncoat Reagan Republicans have always been trash. I’ve been fighting his racist partner on the homeowner’s association board for years. Now, Joe, turn up the music, and let’s keep this party going.”
Joe stooped to adjust the stereo volume, and when he stood up, Vince and Ronnie were whispering to each other. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but fifteen minutes later, after arranging with Fergal to cover for him, Vince walked Ronnie out the back door with his arm around him like he might never let him go.