The man in the pink shirt, let’s call him Al, was the commander of the jukebox. He’d been cranking out eighties songs for about forty-five minutes. To make it worse, he had these little acts too. One minute he’d be acting all shy and innocent like a virgin, and the next he’d be strutting around like an Egyptian. But he had the respect of the crowd, for no matter what song came on or what act he performed, he always kept a tight radius to the jukebox, a territory nobody threatened. On the other hand, I was hopeful it would soon end. I thought about leaving, but this place had the best drinks in town, and for me, they were free.
Then the man in the black shirt showed up. Let’s call him Curt.