Page 27 of The Guy in the Alley

“Makes sense.”

I was learning to read him. When he grew pensive like that, he was mulling something over, and then maybe he’d propose a suggestion…or get a fucking clue. He could apply for a job as a plumber up in fucking Skokie but not even consider working in a sports bar? Maybe the hourly pay wasn’t much to write home about, though we made sure it was above average, but we did well on tips in this joint.

It was highly possible that I was the poorest fucker working here, not counting the waitstaff. Wasn’t that always the case with business owners on the small side? We couldn’t skimp on anything when we hired people, because nobody would apply for the jobs. We got the scraps, and the month dictated everything. The seasons mattered as well. Football season was good, and it was a combination of the fans and the weather. The beginning of the hockey season too, when fans still held out hope. Hope made us generous.

Summers were terrible unless it was a game day—or they used to be. We’d become creative with themed nights, pub quizzes, and throwback Thursdays when we showed old games. But even then, most didn’t wanna spend their nights in a dark sports bar when they could be at the lake or whatever the fuck they did on vacation.

With all the chairs flipped, I went to grab us the mops and buckets, and by the time I came back, I noticed Ben had cleared our dinner spot. And he was inspecting the crack in the wooden top.

“You weren’t kidding about this.”

“There’s another one farther down.” I pointed toward the other end of the bar. “Some of the booths need fixin’ up too, but I could only afford new padding last time we worked on upgrades.”

Having mopped these floors more times than I could count, I worked on autopilot, starting with the dining section farthest away. Up to code, down with rats, my ma liked to say. It was why we never turned off the lights until the whole place smelled of the degreaser we used.

“Hey, the curious kid has another question,” I said.

He was on his way over with the other mop. “I can’t wait for this. What is it?”

I grinned to myself and maneuvered the mop under the table of a booth. “Were your folks happy?”

“With each other, or in general?”

“Uh, each other.”

“No.”

Christ. “In general?”

“Not that either.”

I cracked up. Then why the fuck did he need the distinction?

I caught him smirking to himself as he got started in the next section.

“Okay, I exaggerated a bit,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Ma’s happier these days. She’s a natural worrier, bordering on neurotic, but she’s happy. It started around the time my dad kicked the bucket.”

I spied a correlation.

“Why?” he asked.

I shrugged and dunked the mop in the bucket. “I’ve been thinking about my folks lately—since they retired and abandoned me.”

“Lemme go find a tiny violin.”

I flipped him off, unable to shake the grin. And it was bad. Because it made me think of something my dad had said once, right on the topic I’d just begun this conversation. I’d been…thirteen? Fourteen? It was just before I’d come out to my folks, and I’d crafted a lie about a made-up girlfriend I’d proclaimed my love for. Dad had smacked me upside the head with the newspaper and told me I didn’t know shit about love.

My regular response back then had been, “What the fuck do you know, Dad?!”

“What do I know? Oh, I’ll tell you. Sit your ass down.”

I blew out a breath.

“Lemme ask you this. Do you feel like everyone else can just fuck off? When you’re alone with this…person…do you feel like nothing else matters in the world? There’s no other place you’d rather be?”

I’d nodded like an idiot, completely missing the hint. He’d already suspected I was gay.

“Yeah, well. That ain’t love, boy. That’s a silly crush. It’s called attraction. It makes you wanna shut everybody out and keep the high to yourself. Love, on the other hand…? Love is something you wanna share with the whole fucking world. Now, go get me another beer.”

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