Free I've a Feeling We're Not in Kansas Anymore by Ethan Mordden

pulled out of the slip, he gripped Little Kiwi’s shoulders and promised him the most spectacular experience of his life. Wacko immediately bit his nose and he calmed down; but, true enough, the spell of the Pines came upon us as we cut through the bay.
    “There is a tale,” I began. “In ancient days, when the Pines consisted of a few cottages and the ferries stopped once a week, a collection of very special people sped over the water to the Star Party. Everyone would come as a Hollywood personality, full kit. The food! The prizes! The guests! This was a festival to redeem an era!”
    Mention elitism and all gays are transfixed. “When was this?” Dennis Savage asked. “Was Wacko there?” said Little Kiwi. “The puppet?”
    “With so many stupendous guests, it was agreed that all would enter at the same moment. Consider them boarding the ferry, each thinking of his personal grandezza, retouching his toilette, planning his mots. Each had a secret dream of who he might be, could he but become. ”
    “The magic of the Island!” Dennis Savage breathed.
    “What a tension there was as each came unto the ferry, the many dog-pets—impressed by the crush of celebrity—barking and whining.” Little Kiwi patted Bauhaus’ head; Bauhaus growled. “As the ferry neared the Island, the company tensed, wondered, thrilled. Consider their state.” We too were nearing port, cutting by the ambiguous coast. All you see is greenery broken by roofs, but you sense the extraordinary. You have heard amazing stories; you look at the place where they happen.
    “Just as the boat sighted dock,” I went on, “disaster struck. The ferry lurched, struck bottom, and sank. Everyone drowned!”
    “No,” said Little Kiwi. “Wait—”
    “Ridiculous,” cried Dennis Savage. “The bay is four feet deep.”
    “It sank. Yes. Horrible and true. They held no party that night.”
    “No party! ” Little Kiwi repeated, with a miserable groan, as if I had told him that the world’s supply of grilled cheese had been exhausted.
    “And, so they say, when the moon is full and the Island humming, that ferry rises, a ghost. As midnight strikes, if you approach the harbor, you can hear … the ghastly yapping of a hundred poodles! ”
    “Satirist!” Dennis Savage hissed, as we pulled in. It was just after lunch. We turned south on the boardwalk to check in with our host, Wacko commenting avidly on the passing scene, and the passing scene, in whispers, commenting avidly on Little Kiwi. About halfway there I looked back and saw that the old man from the bus was following us.
    “Maybe he lives in this direction,” Dennis Savage said.
    “No, he looks guilty. He’s lurking. ” We had stopped, and so had he.
    “I’ll take care of this,” Dennis Savage snapped, starting back.
    I grabbed his arm. “Let me talk to him. You’re not gentle enough.”
    “You? You’ll throw a drink in his face!”
    “That’s telling him!” cried Wacko. “Put him in the blender and dial puree!”
    Dennis Savage sent the man away, weeping; and Little Kiwi went on snagging hearts. Our host had been having drinks with a friend, who greeted Dennis Savage and me with vacant politesse. But when the friend’s eyes lit on Little Kiwi, he turned vivacious. We dropped our luggage at the door and plopped down with dim smiles and nothing to say in the Pines manner. But the man went on and on, addressing himself to Little Kiwi, going for broke. He hung around so long he practically had to be asked to leave. Of course he insisted on kissing us all good-bye. Our host endured it, Dennis Savage made his usual lateral cheek-to-cheek bypass, and I simply picked up some luggage and carried it into a room. But Little Kiwi, the real object of this exercise, wailed, “It’s the kiss of death!” and backed away.
    I returned to a room made of embarrassment and horror. Apparently this was an Influential Man. Our host turned to me and whispered, “Get him out of here!” through