You remember Alan, right? He didn’t talk much, moved from table to table around the bar, picked up the beer glasses and soggy coasters, smiled coyly at the men who made eye contact or stuck out the tip of his tongue at the ones who didn’t. Without speaking, he’d nod his head towards the empties, raise an eyebrow, barely part his pink lips.

Most of them ignored him, which he loved. He preferred to glide to the corners on the other side of the pool table, listening to the disparate snippets of conversation mixing with the songs from the jukebox.

Several unrecognizables and first-timers came on Fridays.

“And can you believe he kicked me out in the pouring rain?!” a blonde with a chiseled jaw at the rail between the two pool tables beamed. He threw his hands in the air to emphasize the point and show off how his biceps bulged under his mesh top.

On the other side of the rail, his mustachioed friend grimaced and nodded with a strained neck. “Um, yeah. I believe it. All the hot ones end up being dicks.”

But the barback was on to the next group of pregamers before he could learn more details of the hookup gone wrong that had caused Blondie’s disgust and dapper dude’s nonchalance.

“Thank you!” Their heads followed him as he walked away.

Even though everyone used the phone app instead of walking over to the colorfully lit machine on the wall, Alan could tell who played what songs. Ed liked Meghan Trainor. Tommy got annoyed by what Ed played, so he paid extra to skip over those songs so there would be a few Madonna or Britneys in a row before an extrovert with a sterling silver ring on a chain around his neck played Beyoncé. He hadn’t made a name up for him yet—and that was just the Thursday afternoon crowd.

Each day of the week had its regulars and he knew them all by the small details they shared. Some preferred comfort, wore sweatpants that fit snug in the front and flip-flops that didn’t hide their hairy toes. Others wore work clothes for a quick happy hour drink before returning home to their husbands and kids, some guys showed off designer bags and leather jackets, and transplants from Montana and Texas sported classic denim and cowboy boots. He preferred shorts, sneakers, and comfy sweatshirts like the one from Scotch and Soda’s Looney Toons collection as he floated between them.

“Don’t look, he’s gonna notice,” a pool shark who brought his own stick, chalk, and cue ball during the Wednesday tournament averted his vision from the bear at one of the hightops. His tequila soda had been empty for a few minutes too long and the ice was beginning to melt.

“But that’s how the game is played,” his curly-haired friend quipped with a half-full non-alcoholic beer.

With perfect timing, the bear in question gulped the last of his beer and wiped his hands on the hem of his polo shirt. Alan was delighted when he heard them talking about the twinks in the corner who avoided his gaze: a new whisper to carry. The cruising became the map of his shift when the customers were too busy fantasizing and ignoring each other to realize when their trash disappeared.

It was also his job to scrub the urinals. On slow nights like Tuesdays he did it periodically, one at a time between his rounds collecting dirty dishes. He slid the yellow rubber gloves up to the middle of his forearms and removed the bubblegum urinal cake after pouring pine sol into scalding hot water. The earthy antiseptic scent with a hint of lemon bubbled against the stained porcelain after it was squeezed from the sponge, splattering into the cross of drain holes.

He enjoyed scrubbing, the stretch in his wrist tendons, and the soreness that built up in his fingertips. It gave him time to absorb all the rumors, desires, reflections he overheard from the lapping tongues that surrounded him. He imagined them running up his arms and legs, down the neck of his shirt as he plopped in a new urinal cake and washed his hands. Each whisper intertwined with another until they told the same stories of pain, anguish, lust, and laughter and became a shrill ring that conveyed nothing but raw emotion.

“Oh yeah, exactly like that,” Jay said. The older man in flannel smiled earnestly at you, his pupil. “Focus, aim, and throw.”

The two of you have been making your way to the back room dart boards every Monday for weeks. Alan thought you were an odd pair but he loved watching you learn the rules. This was back when you were still young, unsure, and alone in the city. You came down from the University District to order soda and popcorn, to play darts here with Jay.

Alan loitered down the steps, just beyond the threshold to the main bar and out of your periphery. Once you had caught him watching but didn’t let on. He was like a stray cat weaving through the space collecting everyone’s remnants. Now, he kept one eye on your Coke and the other on your dart.

You took a deep breath and gave your full attention to your body. It was as much about calming your mind as developing physical skill. You gripped lightly, pointed your elbow to the front of the room, planted your right foot forward like Jay had shown you. With the release, the dart shot true and landed just shy of the bull’s eye.

“Amazing!” he said. “You’ve improved so much! Good boy, you’re doing so well.” Then Alan came and brought you both a refill.

The barback had Sundays and Saturdays off, but that’s none of your business. You didn’t get to know about who he was outside of this place. Come to think of it, you haven’t seen him in a while.