What a travesty Saturday night had become.

When Booker decided to buy a bar, he had not anticipated it to become the bar. For college students and twenty somethings with dreams in New York too big for their own shoes. It made sense, in a way. He only booked good bands, stuff people could dance to. And speaking of dancing, he had a big dance space. Booths littered the walls, chairs and tables up on small platforms around, and of course, the bar. It was right off Broadway, which made it even more of a hotspot.

And now Saturday nights were crowded and he often ran out of booze by the end of the night. Rich but at what cost?

Not that he was rich in any way. He put all that money back into his bar. That precious thing, his near and dear and only family. The college kids and the twenty somethings danced and sang and became family in a way, too. Even if he was grumpy and his dreamed had died long ago like Shakespeare and all of his best characters. Washed up musician with front row tickets to other artist's births and deaths. What a way.

It was the glorious Saturday night, the bar already packed at eight. The band wouldn't start for another hour, setting up as some indie song played. People danced, people drank, people enjoyed.

Booker was miserable. He and the other two bartenders made drinks and handed over card machines, counting cash and smiling at tips. Booker seldom spoke. But everyone knew he was good. A guardian, in a way.

They also whispered about the prison time he never mentioned. The years he spent in Ryker's, killing his dreams of ever acting on an island in chains. They never asked, though. Knew better not to.

Booker didn't mind much. Let em talk. Meant no one tried anything.