Chapter 39
39.
What’s the Buzz?
“When the world is falling apart, Disco Witches dance.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #6
The buzz about the 1989 Gay Men’s Health Crisis Morning Party was as loud as a cornfield of gay locusts. Howie explained to Joe that the event—the third high holy day of that summer—had grown so popular the organizers decided to expand that year’s event to a huge swath of the public beach at Ozone and Ocean. The dance floor would need to be built over the backyard swimming pools of two massive beach houses. Tickets would only be available via event “sponsors”—well-connected individuals who were certain to invite only the most beautiful, famous, infamous, and/or wealthy. But even quadrupling the size of the party still left many wannabe revelers bartering their virtue or vintage leather jackets to attend. Dory, as always, used her octogenarian strong-arming to convince as many vendors as possible to donate their services. This ensured the bulk of proceeds would go to GMHC.
“The party is happening the same day as the blood moon,” a troubled-looking Howie told Joe. “These things can cause the cosmic environment to become frighteningly hospitable to otherworldly mischief.”
Joe nodded, unsure of how to react to another of Howie’s New Age panics. “Oh. Wow. Okay.”
Howie, apparently unsatisfied with Joe’s lackluster concern, pressed further. “This can be quite serious, Joe. It’s also the second lunar eclipse of the year, which makes it doubly powerful.”
“Why?” Joe asked.
“Because it’s double.”
“Gotcha.”
“Blood moons can mean danger,” Howie explained. “Although cosmic super events can always go either way. Do us a favor and keep us posted about what you’re up to this weekend. I don’t mean to act all mama bear, but it’s really for the best.”
“Sure, sure, Howie. No problem.”
Joe had been taking most of Howie’s woo-woo, foreboding crap with an even greater grain of salt lately. Other than his alleged aura readings, failed attempts at love potions, and incessant pleas to the Great Goddess Mother, there was absolutely nothing that demonstrated any real magical power. Could the good luck charm Howie had given Joe have been more of a bad luck charm ? The bar had burned down; he’d lost his bartending job; and worst of all, he’d broken the heart of Fergal—and obliterated what was left of his own heart in the process. At least the Picketty Ruff boys had come through with some catering gigs that would pay his bills through Labor Day. It appeared their only real magic power was as a summer temp agency.
“We’ll be at the party the whole day tomorrow if you need us,” Howie said. “We’re on wristband check between eleven and one, and then the last two hours we’ll be working security, making sure no one dies of an overdose or is too flagrant with their drug use. Between one and four we’ll be dancing near the first big speaker on the ocean side of the dance floor. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Joe said.
After doing his dishes and showering, Joe headed over to the beach to volunteer for the party setup. The party area had been cordoned off with orange plastic fencing. Dozens of shirtless young men with power tools buzzed around, flirting. Joe and Ronnie, having been asked to help set up the big tent over the stage, had also doffed their shirts and were holding up two tent poles while two other men set the canvas tarp atop the frame.
Just like the ACT UP benefit (and every big party), rumors were circulating that the surprise performer that year “just had to be” either Madonna or Whitney. The other big topic of conversation was that Frankie Fabulous, that poster boy of Fire Island fun, would not be able to attend the Morning Party, because, after drinking too many Absolut and cranberries, he had jumped off the Taj Ma Homo’s ten-foot-high deck and landed headfirst in the sand, breaking his neck. The severity of which no one knew, but all were certain Frankie Fabulous’s shinning summer of ’89 had ended with a terrible thud.
“That’s some serious bad news for the party,” Ronnie said. “A Morning Party without Frankie Fabulous is like a gay porn scene without penises.”
“Poor Frankie,” Joe said, flinching at the thought of the accident.
“At least the summer’s almost over.” Ronnie shrugged. “The good news is, he’ll have enough time to get his physique back by next year’s Pride, or maybe even for the Winter Party in Miami. I mean, if he can walk and all.”
“For real, Ronnie? You know you—”
Joe was just about to tell Ronnie how profoundly shallow his worldview was, when Ronnie kicked him in the calf muscle and whispered, “Hey, Joey, heads up. That muscle-ginger over there is giving you the eye.” He tossed his head to a group of volunteers building the dance floor. “Do the ‘oops-you-caught-me’ flirt I taught you.”
“I’m not in the mood,” Joe said.
“Come on, buddy boy! It’ll be good practice!”
Joe shot a glare at Ronnie. “If I try, will you leave me alone?”
“Yep. Just give it a shot, and we can call it a day.”
Ronnie’s “oops-you-caught-me” flirt technique involved Joe acting like he got caught looking at the muscle-ginger, quickly looking down shyly, then slowly looking back up, but with a huge sexy grin on his face. Joe followed through, but just as he was forcing a smile at the muscle-ginger, Fergal (the only man wearing a shirt on the beach) walked right between them, seeing everything. Joe quickly dropped his smile, but it only made it worse. Fergal, barely masking his disgust at Joe, began stacking crates of Absolut in the bar tent.
“Fuck,” Joe whispered to Ronnie. “Why did he have to see that?”
“Just ignore him,” Ronnie said.
“Maybe I should skip the party.”
“Don’t you dare. It’s your last chance to achieve what I’ve been visualizing for you all summer.”
“Really, Ronnie.” Joe shook his head. “Even you admitted your visualizing got us a big goose egg.”
“Not at all. I was just down the day I said that. In fact, I’d say my visualizing has an eighty percent success rate.”
“How?” Joe pressed. “You’re not marrying anyone rich and you’re still cleaning toilets. As for me, I got two heartbreaks to deal with, no real job, no plans to take the MCAT, and still haven’t had sex. I don’t know even where I’ll be living in September. How do you call that eighty percent?”
“Well …” Ronnie thought about it. “For one thing, Scotty Black is finally giving me a chance at bartending Sunday night at the Promethean after-party.”
“With only two weeks left until we leave?”
“Better late than never.” Ronnie scrunched his face. “Also maybe Vince isn’t rich now, but I bet he will be. And better yet, I don’t have to pretend to be in love with him. As far as you go …” He shook his head. “Okay, fine, fuck it. So, it’s not eighty percent, but I’m really happy for once.” His eyes filled with a swoony glint. “I’m nuts about Vince. That’s something. And look at it this way, you still have this weekend and Labor Day weekend to get laid, right? And at least now we know your heart still works well enough to get broke. That’s kinda sorta a success, right?”
Ronnie wasn’t wrong. Joe’s heart did work. Maybe too well. He couldn’t stop thinking about Fergal. But going back was impossible—Joe was neither strong nor brave enough to be with someone as good and sensitive as Fergal. He’d make Fergal’s life as miserable as he’d made Elliot’s, to the point where Fergal would rather die alone than have Joe in his life.
When he looked over at Fergal, he felt that iron knot of pain wad up in his stomach again. When was this going to stop? Would it take as long as it was taking to get over the pain of Elliot? Just then, Fergal looked over in Joe’s direction. Joe, hoping even a brief connection might put a dent in the awkwardness, waved and smiled. Fergal’s face froze before he rolled his eyes and turned away.
“Did you see that?” Joe’s voice cracked as he placed his hand on his stomach, where an invisible knife had been plunged. “That does it. I’m going to make him talk to me.”
“Don’t embarrass yourself, bud,” Ronnie warned, grabbing his arm. “He’s just not ready. You hurt him pretty bad. Give the poor guy some space. How about you focus on the man buffet this weekend instead. Maybe that Gladiator Man will be there …”
“It’s not fair,” Joe said, even though he wasn’t sure he believed it. “I know I didn’t handle it well, but he doesn’t need to treat me like I don’t even exist.”
“Come on, Joey—”
“Hey, Fergal!” Joe shouted, still holding onto the tent pole. “Can you come here for a minute? I want to talk to you!”
Fergal didn’t respond but walked over to the muscle-ginger and started flirting himself. The muscle-ginger reached into the collar of Fergal’s shirt to tousle his little patch of chest hair.
“Fuck that!” Joe released the tent pole he was holding, causing the entire structure to collapse. He furiously trudged over to where Fergal was standing. All eyes watched, anticipating either tears or fists between the hot ex-lovers—potentially more thrilling than the finales of Dynasty , Dallas , and M*A*S*H combined.
“Is it so hard for you just to say hi?” Joe’s voice wavered, despite trying to sound controlled. He wanted to say so much, but he mostly just stammered, knowing that there really was nothing to say, yet somehow hoping saying something would change the course of the heartbreaking awfulness. “You … you know … so, we broke up and.… well, it sucked and … well … you don’t need to be a dick!”
Fergal’s neutral expression vanished as his blue-blue eyes swirled with what looked like hatred. For a split second Joe thought Fergal might strike him—and he wished he would. At least the physical pain might briefly distract from the emotional agony. But a moment later, any threat of violence evaporated as Fergal’s face turned sad.
Without responding, he picked up his backpack and left the party area, leaving Joe standing there on the hot beach, his entire body numb with despair, the last hope of repair set adrift forever on an arctic sea.