I was a college kid disguised in a wife-beater the first time I walked in the door at Club Stud, 220 South Broadway in Denver. The bartender looked me over and said, “So you came to visit us, huh? That’s all right. You can have a lot of fun in the gutter.”
Later, when it was my turn on the street, I would go to the all-night diner where that same man worked and, if no one else was there, he’d give me a free bowl of biscuits and gravy, then blow me in the mop closet. If he heard the front door rattle, he’d run out to pour coffee and leave me there, my jeans shoved to my knees, my head leaned on the wall beside the mop heads, and I prayed, in the long term, for a less doomed life, and, in the short term, for the guy to get back in there, and meanwhile I reminded God and the Devil that I really did not want to get arrested, not for anything.
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