It was an early morning bar in the middle of the block, Milwaukee is like that ... yes it is.

Just as much as the nine to fivers, the night shift likes a beer when they get off. The city fathers oblige ... more votes if you pander to the people.

This 12:15 am to 5:15 pm neighborhood tavern was behind a closed tannery and across the way were a small foundry and die casting plant, several tool and die shops, a hops drying and processing facility ... hop oil for the breweries that the city famous. And a local hospital ... close to the injuries.

There were just three people in the bar ... the bartender, a sobbing young woman crying in her beer ... and an old ... old man.

Oh ... sure the old man looked every bit of fifty but he was pushing 90 hard ... ancestral genes kept him looking younger than he was.

It had been a bad job trying to sleep. Waist down ... everything about him HURT ... his knees, hips, back ... even his toes hurt ... when he could feel his legs. His legs had gone south 20 years ago. He hadn’t felt his feet in 10 years. “My feet hurt,” he said to the air.

The bartender agreed. His did too.

“You don’t understand,” said the old man.

“Your feet hurt ... so do mine ... what’s to understand about that?”

“No ... I haven’t felt my legs for years and now my feet hurt.” He complained, “I’ve been here way to long and life isn’t fun any more. Where are the golden years the government keeps talking about. All through my youth they promised things would be great at the end. What a crock...”

Well, the mention of crockery went straight to his bladder ... or prostate ... and he leaked a bit ... just a dribble, but still ... he felt it. In mid sentence he popped up ... creaked up ... spilled a little beer and, cane in hand, hobbled off to the home of the ceramic throne. Little sounds of discontent accompanied every shuffle.

The bartender wiped the splash of beer off the bartop, raised his voice just a little and said, “Use the Ladies, the Mens is out of order.”

The old man veered in his hesitant flight and opened the only other door in the small hall.

Even in this modern day and age of demands for public safety, there was a light switch, fumbling for it he leaked a little more.

“Why isn’t there a motion sensor on this light?” he grouched. The second release of urine ... pissed him off.

The Ladies had modesty doors on their pair of stalls and he fumbled with his cane trying to open one of them. Pissing a third time he threw the cane in his haste. The far wall had a baby changing station next to the two tap wash basin and mirror. As luck, or the gods would have it, the cane flew, missed the mirror and the sink and dropped behind the diaper station. He was in too big a hurry to notice.

It being the Ladies the seat was down and he dropped trou and sat rather than take the time to raise the seat.

Sitting reminded his sphincter of the other necessity. He got that out of the way, too.

The paperwork done, he flushed, fumbled with the latch and realized that initial errand hadn’t emptied his halting bladder and sat back down.

The bartender heard the flush ... well ... he was washing new glassware, keeping busy, he was. When the water-pressure slowed to a drizzle he assumed the restroom was unoccupied.

So he didn’t say anything to the young woman when she ventured towards the back.

Milwaukee has some interesting laws. If your house is on a corner lot ... and has door ... access ... to both streets your taxes are double. That was why this tavern bar was in the middle of the block ... deliveries came in from the alley ... the backdoor. Alley doors were tax exempt.

The neighborhood housewives used the rear door.

Keeping up appearances, they were. Not that everyone in the neighborhood didn’t know ... but. Uh ... even the priest and the minister used the backdoor ... and the nuns. Even when the nuns were wimpled everyone ‘didn’t notice’ they were there. After civies were installed nobody said.