They stood in the alley. Pissing on a brick wall with the Dutch Boy Paints logo on it. That strange demented boy with the weird haircut stared down upon them as a garbage truck went by. Bums rattled through garbage. Crazies slept behind dumpsters. The circus was in town.

You finished? He asked, looking straight ahead at the building.

No. Still pissing on history. He stumbled forward a bit, then stepped back, unbalanced, drunk.

I’m going back in. Cold out here, the drunk said; a wet spot on his jeans.

Wait. Just give me a second.

There’s a beer in there with my name on it. A shot, too.

Such a hurry. You act like you never had money before. Burning through your pocket.

Been a while, he said. It’s been a while. He lit up a Lucky Strike. My dad used to drink in this bar. His dad, too. A whole family lineage of drunks has passed through and passed out in this joint. My old man told me that my great great grandpa died here. Right where we’re pissing. He was shot by some husband. Said he made his way around town. Screwed everything in sight. He smiled. Sound familiar? They both laughed.

That was a long time ago. Back when this thing was more than a rope between my legs.

Sorry about that.

Fucking cancer.

Are you done?

Takes a while these days. Used to piss hard and fast. Could hit a quarter on the floor.

He laughed. Why would you piss on money?

It’s a figure of speech.

Oh.

He zipped up. Stepped away from the wall and spit on the ground. 

You got the next round?

I always do.