Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

“What’s up, kid,” the man in question says from behind his cramped desk in his equally cramped office. The familiar smell of pastrami and the sound of the lunch rush drift up from the deli below. I walk in and throw myself down on the old leather chair in front of his metal desk as I always do––seems to be a ritual with us, slip off my beanie and mittens, and place my motorcycle boots on the corner of his desk. He pushes them off, also part of the ritual.

“What’s up, my dear Martin, is that you left a particularly depressing bit of news on my voicemail the day before New Year’s.”

“I was in Florida. I thought you’d want to know.”

“I was so sure I had it,” I admit, exhaling my frustration. Shafted once again after my third call back. I lost out on a supporting role on a time travel series that was written by a best selling romance author.

Long story short, Camilla had managed to get me an audition. It turns out the author happens to be Mercedes’ daughter’s best friend––Mercedes being Calvin’s estate manager of sorts. I say of sorts because Cal and Cam considered her family. At any rate, I got an audition. I even flew out to L.A. to meet with the producers on the third call back. To get so close and come away a loser was a blow of epic proportions.

“Sorry, kid. The network wanted a known commodity. They went with a household name.” He fiddles with his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately, not being famous is often the biggest obstacle to becoming famous. “Look, it’s time for you to make a change. I could have five auditions lined up for you in L.A. this week alone.”

As I start to argue, he cuts me off. “You can’t keep putting your life on hold for your grandmother. I hate to say it, but she could be in a bad way for a very long time and you’re not getting any younger. It’s the nature of the business.”

He’s right. Except my grandmother is no longer the only thing keeping me from moving to Los Angeles. Lips curling around my teeth, I cringe as I give him the bad news. “I can’t leave the state of New York for at least the next three months and it has nothing to do with my grandmother.”

“You’re not making any sense, kid.”

“Let’s just say that after I got your message, the shit hit the fan.”

One Maple is the hot spot in Manhattan, an upscale lounge that’s a perfect blend of uptown sophistication and downtown trendiness. Our regulars mainly consist of music industry moguls and professional athletes, your occasional film and television star. And then there’s the common folk. And when I say common, I mean the Wall Street millionaires that are about as common in this city as the jumbo sized rats.

It’s my third night back to work since that unfortunate event as I like to call it, and the week already feels twice as long. It’s not even midnight yet and my feet are already aching. Lately I find myself wondering if it’s time to hang up the bartending towel. By the look of my feet, which at present resemble pink sausages stuffed into casing that’s too small, I can’t help but think that maybe I’m getting too old for this. I’ve worked for this restaurant group for years, and although there was a time when this job was a boatload of fun, lately the good times have waned and the jokes a little harder to muster up. Not to mention, the customers ruder.

“Hey, baby doll. I’m back.”

Case in point: rude customer numero uno. I can only assume this douchebag’s inability to understand that I will in fact never ever see his “crib” nor ride in his “whip” is due to either oxygen deprivation when he was being birthed, or one too many testosterone shots. Ignoring him, I go about business as usual. This bar is packed three rows deep with bodies and although I’m one of four bartenders on duty tonight we still have to hustle.

“Hey––Abby, hello.”

I’ve corrected him twice to no avail. Without a glance in his direction, I continue mixing two cosmos for a group of models sitting at the end of the bar with yet another Wall Streeter.

“Unfucking believable,” I hear him mutter to his equally rude friend. “How long you gonna continue ignoring me. Hey, I’m standing right here!”

“No shit,” I bark in exasperation. “Too bad you didn’t drip down your momma’s leg with the rest of your brothers and sisters.”

Nothing. It went right over his head. Explain to me how this guy is allowed to trade millions of dollars for his company. Turning away, I start on a large order for one of the VIP tables crowded with NY Gladiators. Their season came to an embarrassing end a couple of weeks ago thanks to the Seattle Seahawks. At least, that’s what Kevin, one of the other bartenders, whispered when they all filed in earlier. Kevin’s eyes meet mine. The universal signal for ‘get this jackass off my back’ is exchanged, and we switch places.