Last Dance, Part 1

Though Josh and Matthew had broken up shortly after last summer’s Pride weekend, and Matthew had sped off to Bremerton, Washington without so much as proper notification, he and Josh had stayed in contact. Josh understood Matthew’s reasons for moving away and, in his heart, he could not stay angry. And though he desperately needed to talk to his friends about it, he promised Matthew to keep it between them.
Josh, Jacin, Eddie and Owen had flown into Seattle the Monday before New Year’s Eve 1999, the eve of the new millennium — at least in the eyes of technology. That day the sun was uncharacteristically shining bright and had returned throughout much of the week, which was also an anomaly. However, a coat and hat were still necessary to deflect the icy chill in the air.
The group of friends enjoyed the radiant sun by touring the Bremerton Naval yard, visiting Mt. Rainier National Park and, on the day before New Year’s Eve, taking a ferry across Puget Sound to Seattle. They strolled through Pike Place Market where muscular fishmongers in bulky chest waders tossed large fish to each other. And after perusing the quaint shops and the handmade crafts of local artists they moved on to the Capitol Hill area. Rainbow flags on storefronts waved to them as they window-shopped through Pike and Pine Streets to Broadway Avenue.
On a whim as they passed a tattoo parlor/gift shop, Owen suggested they each get a tattoo. After some prodding, Jacin agreed and offered to pay for Eddie’s as a birthday present. Josh and Matthew adamantly refused, but the other three stepped inside the small shop called Pink Zone. The heavily tattooed artist greeted the trio with caution. She took them through a screening process — it was so damn professional — making sure they were neither drunk nor high. She quizzed them with intensity, feeling them out — Eddie thought to himself, there’s nothing worse than permanently altering a tourist’s body, especially one from Utah, and then having him forever regret it. Once she was satisfied that each of them was completely committed and that each had chosen a personal and creative canvas — not a gecko or a heart with ‘MOM’ written across it – she went to work.
Just over three hours later Jacin stepped out of the shop with a pair of dancing flamingoes in top hats on his lower back, followed by Jacin stamped with a quill and inkwell on his right shoulder. Behind them Owen limped from pouty red lips needled into his right butt cheek.
They headed back to Pine Street to meet Josh and Matthew at the Manray, an intimate oval-shaped bar that, on the inside, looked like a submarine, with porthole video screens and a periscope bar centered in the room. Josh and Matthew were sitting at a small white table in the back getting smashed on martinis served in bathtub-sized glasses.
The next morning, New Year’s Eve day (and Eddie’s thirtieth birthday), was once again ablaze with sunshine. Owen was the first to rise, as was typical, since he found Matthew’s sofa bed extremely uncomfortable. He went into the kitchen, the hardwood floors of the weathered old rental house creaking under his feet. He whipped up some breakfast: scrambled eggs with peppers and onions, bacon and what he calls flapjacks.
By mid afternoon the blue sky had turned grey and lumpy. Sitting around the laminate kitchen table — an array of fowl feathers and beads and glitter scattered across it — the quintet worked silently in concentration, less the occasional "Anyone need another beer while I’m up?" They had decided earlier in the week to make Mardi Gras masks to wear for the evening’s festivities.
By seven o’clock they had had manicotti (Eddie’s favorite) for dinner and each were dressed warmly in gray and black. Owen and Matthew opted to wear black patent leather pants while Jacin, Josh and Eddie went more formal with dress slacks. Under their masks, just like in the movies, they were unrecognizable. They had a laugh about it.
Initially, they had hoped to attend the New Year’s Eve party at the Space Needle, but an unconfirmed terrorist threat forced the city to cancel it. So of course plan B was bar-hopping; hitting R Place first — an upscale, three-floor bar catering to thirtysomething professionals. Then they’d wander over to Neighbours, a gay disco, and dance there until midnight, then finish off the night at The Cuff, a a cement wall grunge bar frequented by leather daddies.
Only a couple dozen other partygoers were mingling about, the group noticed, when they entered R Place and ordered drinks from the unharried bartender. Their masks prompted a few smirks by the preppy crowd. Realizing this was not really the scene they were after, they shoved off.
Neighbours was busy when they entered it a little after nine o’clock. A flock of shirtless young guys swept across the large dance floor to Donna Summers’ "Last Dance," which Jacin commented seemed a bit premature. Owen scanned the floor and immediately picked out his prey, a short shirtless black boy with a sinewy body so tight Owen could make out his obliques trailing off under the waistband of his pants. Without a word Owen disappeared into the fog.