Four Of A Kind Chapter 7: [1.6] The Grind Never Stops, Not Even for Manhatt

The final bell rang at 3:15 PM.

By 3:16, I was already out the door.

Running through Hartwell’s hallways wasn’t technically against the rules, but it was frowned upon. I split the difference by walking very aggressively. Power walking. Olympic-level power walking.

"Isaiah! Wait!"

Felix’s voice echoed behind . I didn’t slow down.

"Can’t! Late!"

"For WHAT? School just ENDED!"

"Work!"

"Already?!"

I burst through the front doors and hit the sidewalk at a pace that would make a New York pedestrian proud. The subway entrance was three blocks away. If I made the 3:22 train, I could transfer at Tis Square and reach the Velvet Lounge by 4:15. That gave fifteen minutes to change, review the reservation list, and ntally prepare for six hours of serving overpriced drinks to Manhattan’s elite.

Fun. Fantastic. Living the dream.

The subway platform was crowded. I squeezed onto the train just as the doors closed, wedging myself between a woman with a yoga mat and a guy who slled strongly of hot dogs.

This is fine. I’ve slled worse.

The train lurched forward. I grabbed a pole for balance and closed my eyes.

Twenty minutes to Tis Square. Then transfer. Then walk. Then work.

Then more train. Then ho. Then sleep.

Then do it all again tomorrow.

Sowhere in the back of my mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Felix asked: "Is this sustainable?"

I told the voice to shut up.

The Velvet Lounge was located on a quiet street in Midtown, the kind of place you’d walk past without noticing unless you knew it was there. No flashy signs. No neon lights. Just a small brass plaque by the door and a bouncer nad Marcus who looked like he could bench press a car.

"Isaiah." He nodded as I approached. "Cutting it close."

"Story of my life."

"Boss wants to see you before your shift."

Great. Wonderful. What now?

I pushed through the door and into the Velvet Lounge.

The interior was was the ambiance of a high class jazz lounge. Crystal glasses were lining the shelves behind the bar and jazz music was playing softly through hidden speakers. We still had an hour until open, but the staff was already prepping for a successful weeknight.

"Yo Angelo!"

"Vincent."

"You’re late."

"I’m fifteen minutes early."

"For you, that’s late. You’re usually thirty minutes early." He looked over with a critical eye. "You look tired."

"First day of school."

"Ah. The education." He said it like it was a disease. "How is the fancy academy treating you?"

"Sa as always."

"Good, good." He waved his hand dismissively. "Listen, I have a proposition for you."

Here it cos.

"I need a host for the VIP section on Friday nights."

"No."

"You didn’t let finish!"

"You were going to offer the host position again. I’m declining. Again."

Vincent made a sound of frustration. "Isaiah, you are wasting your talents behind that bar. You know how many of our female clientele specifically request your section? You know how much money you could make if you actually smiled at them?"

"I smile."

"You smirk. A smile is welcoming. A smirk is..." He gestured vaguely. "Challenging."

"I’ll work on that."

"You won’t."

"I won’t."

He sighed. "Fine, waste your potential." He started walking back to his office, then paused. "Oh, and table seven tonight is Mrs. Ashworth. She asked for you specifically. Try not to make her husband jealous this ti."

"Her husband wasn’t jealous."

"He tried to buy the bar so he could fire you."

"Ah... the dark knight playbook."

Vincent muttered sothing in French that was probably uncomplintary and disappeared into his office.

I headed to the back to change.

Mrs. Ashworth. Again.

This is going to be a long night.

The Velvet Lounge opened their doors at 5 PM, by 7PM it was filled to the brim on a Monday evening.

I fell into the rhythm of the work. Shake, pour, garnish. Ice, liquor, mixer. Smile at the custor, take the order, make the drink. Repeat.

It was mindless in a good way. My body knew the movents. My brain could wander.

AP English essay due Friday. Two thousand words on symbolism in The Great Gatsby. I can knock that out on the train tomorrow if I start the outline tonight.

Calc howork is twenty problems. Fifteen are variations of the sa formula. I can do those in my sleep.

Actually, I probably will do those in my sleep. That’s just how my life works now.

"Isaiah!"

I looked up and there she was. Miss Karina Ashworth, fifty-two years old but looked thirty-two, and wearing a black cocktail dress that hugged her curves just right.

"You rembered my seat!"

"You’ve been coming here for two years, Mrs. Ashworth. I’d be a terrible bartender if I forgot."

"Oh, please. Call Karina."

"I’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Ashworth."

She laughed. The kind of laugh that won in romantic codies did when the male lead said sothing charming. I hadn’t said anything charming. I’d said the sa thing I said every ti she asked to use her first na.

"The usual?"

"You know so well."