A few old-timers, parked in the corner afternoon and night, are still saddled up to the taps. The photo booth that’s spit out dozens of black-and-white strips now squirreled around my apartment, memories waiting to be dusted off, still sits to the left of the door on the way to the bar. I can’t count how many times I’ve walked in to see familiar faces sitting there, even when we had no plans to meet. Our go-to perch is the pool table in the back, which has a plywood cover for busy nights and in winter becomes a defacto coat check. (The bathrooms are tucked behind it, thankfully out of sight.) A handful of high round tables and stools are still scattered across the middle, with just enough room to dance in between. There’s the jukebox against the right wall, where my friends and I would pay extra for our songs jump the queue, even though we’d be there all night, anyway. Walking through the door now feels like hugging a loved one, even though they might need a change of clothes and a shower. I’ve been going to The Boiler Room for over a decade in gay nightlife terms, the bar practically raised me.
