We stop at a red light. Next to us: two teenage girls dressed like they’re coming home from a debaucherously champagne-soaked all-nighter at some members-only club. “It’s up to sixteen girls.” The one slurring right now wears a tight pink sequin miniskirt. “And he’s still out there.”
“Well, he’s not here in London, is he?” This one is in short shorts and a tight-fitting designer blazer.
“He’s not far. He could take the train in. Is this light ever going to change?”
Behind us, a man screams something about nuclear power stations destroying us all as he turns a corner.
The light finally changes. We cross the street next to the girls. There’s a haunted tone to Pink Sequins’s voice as she worries about this serial murderer on the loose. I know that feeling. The suspicion that danger is one wrong turn away. “My mum said he’s only killing prossies.”
“Must make her feel better, thinking it’s just prostitutes.”
Pink Sequins rolls her eyes. “Nothing to be terrified of if it’sthemand not us.”
Lily turns to the left at the next intersection. The girls turn right. It’s just us on a quiet street. Lily looks at me with steel in her eyes. “At least the press gives a fuck about those Yorkshire girls. When we disappear, nobody pays it no mind.”
“We?”
“Queers. Queens. Freaks. Fag folk. Trans folk. Black folk. Brown folk. Shall I go on?” She offers me a bittersweet smile. “Us.”
“Us.” I’ve felt so alone for so long. So far from Oliver. Loveless. “At least there is anus, though.” The last time Oliver left me a classified message was a month ago. He addressed me as T. S. Eliot. Identified himself as Vivaldi. The message simply said that the weather was warm in Buenos Aires. That told me he’s in Argentina. That’s all he’s granted me since we parted in Boston almost six decades ago. His location. Nothing more.
She stops when she reaches a run-down building on Floral Street. Two punks drink from the same container on the stoop ofthe building. One of them has a shaved head. Wears nothing but a leather vest. Even in this freezing cold. The other has an orange Mohawk. He’s wrapped in a ragged blanket. I think I see bedbugs crawling on the wool. “Good morning, boys. Nice to see you’re sticking to a healthful diet.”
“And you?” Shaved Head glances my way. “Looks like you’ll be eating chicken for breakfast.”
“Bite your booze-soaked tongue, baldie. I’m helping the kid out, and you turn it into something dirty. You’re no better than the Tories who think queers shouldn’t be allowed to teach children in schools.”
“Oi, I’m no Tory.” Shaved Head takes an insolent slug from his bottle.
“So you say.” Lily unlocks the front door. Gazes down at him. “Bet you would’ve been burning records at Disco Demolition Night.”
“DISCO SUCKS!” That’s the last thing I hear out of the punk’s mouth.
Lily looks down at the punks with real empathy. “So does booze. Look what it’s done to you two.” I can’t help but agree with her. I’ve lived long enough to know I never want to experience another hangover.
Lily slams the door shut behind us. There’s no lift. She makes her way up the stairs. I follow. “I would’ve introduced you if they were worth knowing. Pissed punks. At least Thatcher and her buddies look the part. But the punks. They think they’re so cool. Deep down, they’re just conservatives in secondhand clothes. They think their rage is more valid than ours, their art more meaningful. Disco is manufactured to them just likemy tits are.” She unlocks the door. “It’s a mess, kid. You’ve been warned.”
“Wow.” I almost shed a tear when I first lay eyes on her flat.
“Come on, it’s not that bad.” She closes the door behind me.
“It’s... fabulous.” I turn my gaze from one end of the flat to another. Living room. Dining nook. Kitchen. All connected by open arches. Fabriceverywhere. Patterns of embroidered satins thrown onto a fuzzy brown couch. Monochrome polyesters on a hard wooden chair. Plaids. Wools. Explosions of color. Crushes of velvet. Bunches of chiffon. Like pastel clouds. A sewing machine on the dining table. The scent of home-cooked food. A small television with a machine I don’t recognize under it. A record player. Crates and crates of vinyl.
“Wow, you have so much music. This must have cost a fortune.” I look at her curiously. “Are you rich?”
“Never ask a lady how old she is or how much money she has.” She laughs. “I’m thirty-three and just getting by. None of the records belong to me. I make clothes for all my DJ friends, and store their records for them as payment.”
“I’d like to be the kind of person who saysall my DJ friendsas casually as you do.” I gaze at her with reverence. “You’re fabulous.”
Next to the record player is what can only be described as a shrine of sorts to Donna Summer. I approach. Photos. Magazine covers. Records. All carefully placed next to each other. Three candles underneath them. Dried wax dripping down their edges like withered tears.
“We all have our saints.” She kisses her knuckles. Places her hand gently on Donna’s face. “I was raised with God and now I worship a goddess.”
“I love her too.”
“So you don’t think...” She imitates the punk now. Raises a fist up. “...disco sucks?”
I snort. “No, of course not.”
