Originals/Ep1

1 - No Rush

He’s going to miss how this place was. A year in, and he’s taken quite a liking to it.

Not that there’s anything outstanding about it. It’s your run-of-the-mill bar, but the manager communicates his love for blues through its theme—which just isn’t prevalent. Apart from the usual poor lighting, wooden motif and electronic jukebox, there were picture frames of jazz musicians and instruments strung up on the walls. They all just seem to be there for taste, though—nowhere near enough to convey the blues feeling he always talks about.

According to Tish, his “favorite people” are all present tonight. He has a vague idea of who they are, but he never sees them all together. There’s… Celia, tending the bar as usual. Tish, buzzing all over the place, never committed to a single task. Oliver, the same as her. Vernon, despite seeing him earlier, was out of sight again, probably off to a different venue.

And then there’s him. The year-old newcomer, “deacon of the bar” as Oliver likes to call him. All he does is watch the floors and announce last call come closing time. Nothing special, nothing challenging. But it pays, and it pays well compared to his fast-food gig of yesteryear.

He sits next to the entrance, at the edge of the counter, almost close to dozing off. It was eleven o’ clock and patrons have been few and far in between. A Tuesday for you.

There was nothing much to watch; the regulars already left, leaving him with nobody to chat with. There were a handful of other random faces: a couple in the counter three seats away from him, three other lonesomes sitting in their respective tables, what looks like two frat boys behaving in the same floor, and… a girl. Looked to be coming from work, according to her office attire, nursing a small beer. This is her third time appearing here, and that’s telling him something.

While he continues to wallow in hesitation by never budging in his seat, he notices Tish enter into the scene carrying a tray of sterilized glasses. Right away, she notices him and briskly approaches.

“Pst. Yo.” She bumps his shoulder with her elbow in passing by. “You—you like this place the way it is, right?” Sitting near the entrance almost doing nothing at night? Yeah, sure…

She glances up at the staircase to his right. “Back me up, Millo. Don’t you wanna keep it like this every night? Quiet, easy… simple—” The pay is excellent, but he’s practically doing nothing to earn it—he wouldn’t mind a little bit of excitement. He owes the man a good work ethic, and with this role he has no way of showing it.

He responds with a shrug, causing Tish to give him a look. “Whatever, dude. It’s just gonna get worse from here. I swear…” Tish soon vanishes upstairs, some quiet grumbling following her. Ramillo’s relieved; truth was, he was expecting her throw that tray full of glasses at him—he may be taller than her, but he’s seen that temper of her’s go off a few times to a few patrons here.

That might explain a few missing regulars they’ve got. Tish has been uneasy the past week—busy arguing against Oliver and the manager about the bar’s future. She’s got a stake in this place as she’s amply proven in her attendance alone.

He’s made sure to stay out of it, though—and so has the others working here. He scans the counter, finds Celia to be putting things away. She’s probably stayed out of it, too—but he can’t seem to tell. Celia’s quieter than she is, and that’s saying something.

That silence that envelops her mystery, waiting to be untapped. That’s why it’s difficult to approach her. She was only here to clock in and clock out—can’t say he’s thrilled about that, but he respects it. Some people are just here to work.

He looks between her and the lone office girl, whom he catches glancing at him. How was he going to play this? It can’t look forced.

''Think, Ramillo. Think''. There has to be some type of play—something that’ll make his approach seem natural. Oh, to hell with this. Walking up is natural enough—

“Ramillo. Hey.” His name, followed by a tap on the shoulder, take him out of his planning for a second. He turns around and sees Oliver, next to him the leather-clad man he saw walking around the place earlier. “Ramillo’s a cool dude. More than capable protecting the place.” Oliver, the hipper, lighter version of Tish. He always finds a way to surprise him, be it his stealth presence or his wardrobe.

“Spencer,” the guy next to Oliver says, holding a hand up to Ramillo. He promptly and firmly shakes it. “That’s dope, man...”

“So… Spence—” Oliver claps his hand and turns to his friend here. “I’ma call you tomorrow. We can—we can probably start—taking things out…” In true real estate agent fashion, Oliver points to the counters, corners, and walls of this floor. “Cool? Alright…” He handshakes, bumps shoulders, and sees him off to the door.

“Aw, man aw man…” Oliver returns to Ramillo’s side, lightly backhanding his arm while at it. “Full swing, Millo. It’s happening…” Here he was, thinking that Tish had a fighting chance—and in comes Oliver selling the place. Was there something he needed to know about?...

“So, Millo…” He rubs his palms. “Meeting up at Doherty’s later, talk about a few things. Gotta be there, okay?” He’s been three for three on quietly rejecting Oliver’s after-work happenings, but this one doesn’t seem to be one of those. “It’s cool, man—everybody’s gonna be there. Even Cel. Celia—” He catches her attention and holds up two fingers. Right away, she comes up with two shot glasses and pours brown liquor on them.

“To the future, bro.” Celia slides the shot glasses with no effort and no spill. He pushes a glass to Ramillo while taking the other.

“Word.” Ramillo takes his respective glass and toasts.

There are no rivals in this venture. Doherty’s is their bar after work, because drinking on the job would be obscene. That, and it’s a taxi ride away; they’ve got their own territory and regulars with it.

Even on a Tuesday night, the place was packed. They were doing something right here, even though this bar and their’s were one of the same. They only differ in theme—hell, this place has less décor than they do. Must be the strategic location…

Just as Oliver requested by phoning ahead, whoever gets here first has to reserve a table. Ramillo—and his punctuality—has earned a spot away from the more cramped table sets—one closer to the front door. He awaits their arrival eagerly, a tall beer glass in front of him refusing to be touched. He doesn’t really know who wants to drink, but then again, he’s no good at these things—even though he sees enough of it at work.

What are the odds? The first to arrive after him is Celia. She was missing the shroud of barrenness that always followed her around at work. She looked different—more vibrant, and with a smile on her face. He’s not looking at her from behind a counter, after all.

He half-commits to a wave, but she notices him anyway. She lightly smirks, squeezes through a few people passing by and reaches the table. Ramillo smirks back, but quickly lets it go and points at the bar. She purses her lips and waves her hand lightly.

“You—look good—” he tries to tell her, combatting the fluctuating volume of the bar. Ramillo realizes that those words escaped his mouth, but he commits to it in the next second by half-smirking and lightly tapping the table’s surface.

“So... uh—wh—” Somehow, the crowd gets louder in this instance, prompting him to lean in closer to her. “What do you think of Oliver’s decision? About our bar?”

“Our bar?” She thinks about this for a moment—just the change of her expression alone pleasantly surprises him; it was always just a smile being forced or straight-up concentration. “I—I think it’s fine—if it means I can get more tips, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right!” He looks around for a moment, the bar’s busy activity riling him up some. “I wish we were as busy as this place, though—so both Oliver and Tish are happy—” So they don’t have to expect these incoming “adjustments”. What are they doing wrong?

Celia looks away, observant of the flow of people. “I—I think it’s the location—” In this instance, a faint Spanish accent becomes more apparent in her words. “Doherty’s has a nice venue.” Ramillo nods, relaxes in his seat and takes a sip of his beer. “Oh yeah—you sure you don’t want anything? Gotta get something for the others—” He just remembered, so he prepares to fetch it.

“Beer’s fine, thanks,” she says with smile. Ramillo nods and leaps from his chair.

“… overtipped him—that’s like thirty-five…” Oliver and Tish arrive at the same time and make themselves apparent through their slighter loudness. Looks like they shared a cab. “Millo boy!” Tish notices Ramillo at the counter right away; he points to his left, and the two notice the table Celia currently occupies. “Oh well—I got the money—” Oliver expresses while trailing her. Tish gives him the stink-eye.

Whenever they’re not talking shop, Tish and Ollie are best friends. Partly why he wants this business over with already so they don’t have to be quarrelling around them. The two account for most of their workplace’s positive spirit, and that’s been pretty mute lately.

Ramillo returns to the table with a pitcher and four more glasses, the three others making ample room for him to squeeze in. It seems their friendship has taken a sharp turn yet again—Tish and Oliver look to be moping while they receive the glasses.

“I was lookin’ for somethin’ easy when I dropped out—and that was the bar. I know ways to fill it up—like—like this place! I looked it up…—”

“It’s final, Tish—I already talked to your uncle. I already booked a DJ for opening night. I’m moving forward with the interior changes. ''This. Is. Happening''.” Oliver looks between Celia and Ramillo. “Guys. This is happening, right?”

The two, almost in unison, try their best to look indifferent, mostly through shrugs and eye contact avoidance. Ramillo accompanies it with a drink of his beer.

“See? They’re not sure! As far as I can tell you got two undecideds—this can still go either way!—”

“Guys!” Oliver downs half of his glass and looks at the two confusingly. “Let’s decide on this as a team. We’re all Pietro’s favorite people—we get to decide where the bar goes. The amount of people night-to-night proves it—the profit margins prove it. Belfast is dead. We won’t make it in that venue by month’s end if we don’t change up—”

“I wouldn’t call our venue ‘club-friendly’—we’re practically a few areas away from drug corners—”

“Have you ever heard of the thing called ‘Gentrification’? We’re gonna be doing that block a favor…”

And the battle for ownership continues. Ramillo’s seen a similar argument like this days ago—it seems the two are just continuing where they left off. But Oliver does have a point, though—as a team, they should pitch in somehow. Without even meaning it, he glances at Celia to his side. She notices it, prompting him to take it back right away.

“I swear to God, Ollie…”

“Swear to God what?” That distinct, familiar voice—deep, worn down by cigars… not Oliver’s nor Tish’s.

The boss has suddenly appeared before them. Pietro Navorro, proprietor of Belfast. Entrepreneur. Avid blues music collector. He was an old gentleman, carries himself like a musician—graying hair, slanted trilby hat, collared shirt, silver chain. He’s arrived with another familiar face—Vernon Caine, the burly bald man standing next to him.

Tish looks up, indifferent, while Oliver gives him a brief shake and scoots away for room. “Mr. N, can you—talk some sense to your niece here…” Ramillo makes ample room for Vernon; a pleasant surprise seeing him here, since he seems to disappear when he’s not looking. “Sup brother,” he greets Ramillo, giving him a handshake while at it.

Tish snaps out of her disappointment, taking the full glass of beer in front of her and chugging it. “Whoa, whoa whoa slow down girl—” Pietro tries to carefully put the glass down but Tish doesn’t yield. “Ollie what the hell have you been sayin’ to her?”

“Tish—” Oliver, powerless, watches her chug down the glass’s contents to its last drop. “Ah, sh—we—we’re just talking about the bar plans…” Pietro looks between the two and sighs. “Dammit. Y’all still planning that for me? Don’t be fighting for it and shit—I’m still the property owner here…” Tish, arms folded and leaned back, looks away from her uncle. Oliver does the same, but with his chin resting on his palm.

While the three discuss plans, Ramillo, Celia, and now Vernon have resorted to being observers. Vernon looks to the two. “Aw, shit. Celia in the house. Nice seeing you here, girl.” He offers a shake to Celia, who lightly returns it. “And my boy Ramillo. What’s up with you?...” He pauses, continues to stare at the two. “Y’all two goin’ out yet?” Ramillo and Celia give him quizzical looks. “Alright, I’m jus’ fooling.” He chuckles, pours himself a drink.

“… I can still revive the bar. Just a matter of handing out flyers, putting up ads in the right places—having referrals—h-hosting events—”

“But we won’t be a bar anymore. I already called up my people—this renovation is final! I can’t call anything back…”

“So call your people now and we’ll talk right here! We still got two weeks to finalize everything—”

Oliver freezes, stares at Pietro nervously. Pietro, already held aback by this continuous squabble, fumbles for words.

“We—still got two weeks, right?...” Tish looks between Pietro and Oliver for approval, but gets nothing. She leaps for the pitcher and pours more beer on her glass. “Okay—okay Tish—” Pietro halts her from her pouring, but her glass is already half-way full.

He continues to glance at Oliver with seriousness. “Tish,” he calls. He stands up, nods to the entrance. “Let’s talk.” She looks blankly at her glass for moment, then stands up. But before she leaves, she completes filling up her glass. “C’mon girl…” Pietro expresses, pulling her arm. “This is my last,” she insists.

The four others watch them leave; once out of view, Vernon pulls in to take a corner of the table for himself. “Damn,” he comments, pouring what’s left of the pitcher on his own glass. “Ollie what the fuck did you do to her?”

Ollie, deep in silent contemplation—staring at the tabletop—takes a minute to respond. “I don’t know.”

“Y’all are usually cool with each other.” Vernon takes a small sip of his beer. “Don’t let this decision tear you two apart.” Oliver stops staring blankly and looks up at him. “Jus’ sayin’,” Vernon follows.

Oliver leans in on the table, starts playing with his near-empty glass. “Vern you’re—cool with the changes, right?” He looks at him with an unsure expression, one brow pulled up.

Vernon simply shrugs, looks at his own glass. “As long as I still got a job, y’know.” Oliver nods. “That’s the point. We’re trying to get more hours to—you know—work. A nightclub’s gonna have plenty.” The rest nod silently.

“You gonna step up, right? Millo?” Vernon nudges Ramillo’s arm. “I’ve done nightclub work. Depending on how much bodies we get in there it ain’t no joke.” He looks to Oliver for a follow-up.

“Oh—yeah, yeah—” Oliver straightens up from his seat. “I—I know some guys who’ll promote it. We’re expecting a full house on opening night—” While at it, he exchanges glances between the two silent employees.

“And you gonna be busier Millo, since I got a lot of stuff comin’ up…” Vernon nods at him, prompting Oliver to do the same. “Millo and I got this,” he responds. Vernon shows his approval with a smirk, and an intent nod. “Pietro was right about you, man. Good shit.” He offers a fist bump to Oliver, then to Ramillo.

“Once Tish is on board…” Oliver leans back on his seat, drinks the rest of the glass. “Oh, by the way Celia—you got nothing to worry about.” Celia, the quietest of the table, straightens up from her seat. “We’ll just have you serve beer and a few simple cocktails for the first night—just need to learn a few others as we go along. Yeah?” She simply nods, showing agreement through her silence alone.

“Man you guys… you guys want to—” Oliver glances a few times at the door, a little anxious about what was unfolding outside. “—go to a club after this? Kind of—like a field trip. Get a taste...” He snickers quietly.

Vernon glances at his watch. “Yeah but—I gotta be somewhere at 1.” He, along with Oliver look at the other two. “For sure,” Ramillo simply responds. Celia glances at him and nods.

“Slow down, damn.” There was something unusual for an uncle watching his niece gulp a glass of beer in one go. But Tish is an adult. She’s responsible. She deserves moments like these.

“You done?” Tish peeks at the inside of her glass with one eye, unhappy about its missing contents. She uncaringly lets her hand fall, causing Pietro to dive in and prepare to catch the glass just in case. “Dammit Leticia—be careful—”

She simply shakes her head, cups the glass with her two hands. “You can’t let him do this.” Pietro momentarily scans his niece, looking at her eyes in particular. “You might be drunk, girl—”

“I’m not. Now, seriously—” Pietro sighs, straightens up to look at the street with her.

“What is it with you and that bar? You—of all people—know how bad business been…” He glances at the tavern behind him. “We ain’t like Doherty’s.”

Tish examines the glass for a few seconds and decides to put it down. “We ain’t…” she mutters.

The street in front of them is a tell-tale sign for Pietro enough. This is a promising venue, with a few apartments at walking distance—and a commercial area a few blocks down. “If we were up here, we can stay being a bar…” Tish looks at him like she has the right plan. “No, no no—that’ll put me even deeper down…” He sighs, strokes his chin.

“Why do you wanna save the bar so bad, Tish?”

She folds her arms, continues to watch the street. “You know I—I remember ma running it with you. Even though I wasn’t old enough she let me work in there—s’long as I wasn’t drinking or nothing—” Pietro smirks, proceeds to look distantly with her.

“When I—dropped out, I wanted to go back. Work there again. Thinking about that bar… it’s like I at least had something’ to go back to.” The two turn to each other. “That was one of my dreams, unc. Helping you out in that place. Workin’ with the coolest uncle…” Pietro lightly smiles, even chuckles a bit. “Yeah, yeah… it’s corny.”

“First of all, I’m still the coolest unc. And second of all, you still workin’ with me. Difference is, it’ll—be a nightclub now.” Tish nods, proceeds to look down.

“That ain’t the same, unc. You and ma built that place—since gramp was still alive—”

“And things change. Tish…” He stuffs his hands on his pockets and turns to fully face her. “Business hasn’t… gotten any better since you started with me. I waited, and waited, and it never got any better… now, Oliver knows the right people to bring it back—but we gotta make a change for him to do it.”

“Oliver…” she groans.

“Y’all goin’ stop being friends now? C’mon. You two are the best co-managers I got. Don’t split up now, while we’re in this transitional period—”

“It’s like he’s your new assistant or somethin’. Soon enough you ain’t gonna need me—”

“What? Not gonna need my favorite niece…” Pietro sarcastically looks around, eliciting a smirk from Tish. “Girl. Do you think I’m gonna replace you for a white boy? You got me messed up…” She chuckles. “We’re always gonna be a team, Leticia. As long as you want us to be.” He wraps his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. “I love you, girl.” Unresisting, Tish drops her head on his chest. “Love you too, unc.”

Just as they decide to go in, they see a limousine pull up to the curb. Behind them, the four others have already come out, Oliver up front. He pauses, looks at Tish. Wearing a sensible smile, she walks up to him with an offer to shake. Oliver smiles with her, and receives it. “Let’s run a club, yo.” Oliver expresses his relief with a chuckle and a hug to accompany his shake.

“Whose—limo is that, by the way…?” Tish, along with the rest, look at this conspicuous vehicle. “What can I say,” Oliver replies behind her; everyone but Tish look at him with surprise. “I got hook-ups.”

A five-minute limo-ride later, and they have traded their crowded bar scene for a booming nightclub. Can’t expect anything less from Oliver; apart from being an adept event organizer, he knows which clubs to go to at any time of day. He can’t say he knows where they are, exactly—the dark tints of the windows certainly haven’t helped—but from the looks of this block, they were in lower Manhattan.

Oliver greets the bouncer, letting his party of five (Pietro’s gone home before the limo ride) enter with ease. He and Tish lead the pack, while Ramillo and Celia walk side-by-side, Vernon right behind them glaring at his cellphone.

“Aw, shit Oliver what sorcery is this—” A short hallway walk later and they’ve found themselves in a buzzing dancefloor, with tall ceilings, an uncannily strong perfume fragrance, and cosmopolitan people filling the floors. Certainly the most sophisticated club Ramillo has ever entered. What part of town are they in now?

“This is where dreams come to die, ladies and gents—” Oliver leads the group into their own booth, circumventing the dancefloor. “Sorry for the weak-ass spot… this was a last-minute thing—” The other three, Tish especially, couldn’t care less. Even the seats were cushioned—and the table, probably a thousand dollars or more.

“So… this is our goal. Have a bomb-ass place like this in a part of town like that.” The music in the background switches from disco to straight trance. The three look intently at Oliver while Vernon whispers at a barmaid. “Believe in y’all selves,” he comments, “… and we’ll be the next ‘bomb-ass place’ in New York. Also believe in Ollie here—” Everybody else chuckles while Tish motions a drinking gesture to Vernon, who nods assuringly.

“I hope it—doesn’t take a while—I’m tryin’ to take advantage of the gentrification going on over there—” Soon, the barmaid from earlier reappears with a tray full of glasses—in them, sparkling gin and lime. “Bottoms up faggots,” Tish comments, taking a glass for herself, briefly raising it and drinking it right away. Oliver murmurs a “what the fuck” at her while taking his own glass. “Ollie,” Vernon whispers—though in a room with booming music like this, it was more his normal voice—“What the fuck did you do to her now?”

“C’mon Ol’s—” Tish urges, having cleared her glass while they weren’t looking; she pushes against Ramillo’s shoulder to make room for herself, all the while pulling Oliver’s arm. “Wait I haven’t even finished—”

“''Bar! Cute guys! Now!''” She nods at the direction of the bar—visible for its fancy neon shelf lights—while she tiptoes past Celia then Vernon and successfully squeezes out of the table. Oliver couldn’t really make anything out but a couple of people standing there…

Ollie and Tish leave the three confused but amused employees, who are just now drinking their drinks. “She’s drunk,” Vernon comments, then proceeds to shuffle through his cellphone again. Ramillo politely makes room, slipping to the spot where Oliver sat earlier.

“How you faring with all of this?” he asks Celia. She smiles, points to the direction where Tish and them vanished. “I’ve never seen her like that.”

“She still hung up about the bar, I think. She grew up in that place.” Vernon glances at the bar’s direction but its view has been covered by the dancefloor filling up again. “Her last hurrah tonight, I think.” They all stay silent for the next moment. Vernon sneaks a glance at both Ramillo and Celia, who are both pathetically paying more attention to their drinks than each other. “Hey, that thing I got at 1—they want me to be there earlier. I think I’ma book.” He looks at the untouched drink in his hand for a second and puts it back down. “Tell ‘em I said goodnight.” He gives Ramillo a hearty dab, and Celia a shoulder tap. “Play nice y’all.”

Well, the “cute guys” thing was a lie. Ollie and Tish are at the bar for more drinks.

“So at our club… I get to wear nice dresses.”

“Yes.”

“Every night?”

“Every night.”

“Will we be open every night?”

“Uh, no… just on the ideal ‘peak’ nights. And if we have good promoters in those same nights.”

“Can we guest musicians?”

“Depends on what type.”

“Can we be an indie rock nightclub?”

“Depends on the night.”

It seems, by the minute, that Tish is only getting drunker and drunker. She completely halts her question with another shot. “Tish are you—” Oliver, distressed, looks at the bartender, points at her quietly and shakes his head. “Are you… still hung up about the transition?...”

She processes this for not one minute, but two, dimly looking at not him, but the drinks behind the counter. “Uh… y-yes. Ever since you brought up the changes, yes I am.” She turns to Oliver with the same look. “B-but fuck it, you know? Fuck sentimentality, fuck my dead mom. I don—I don’t want my uncle losing his business any more than y-you do. So fff—fuck it. Let’s fuckin’ run a fuckin’ bar—” She lazily turns around to motion the bartender, who only gives her a negative look. Oliver chuckles, relieved. “Two,” he mouths at the man, who proceeds to shrug, but he tends to their drinks anyway.

“Tish are you…”

“Drunk?” She pulls a brow up, shrugs, holds it up and starts nodding. “M-maybe.” Oliver just laughs. “You know it’s equally killing me on the inside what your decision was gonna be. I wanted to—run this with you, you know...” Tish looks to be listening, instead looking down at her empty drinks, but from this angle he couldn’t quite tell.

“You’re—you’re probably one of the coolest friends I have, Tish.” He taps her shoulder, but she doesn’t look up; just smirks. “I can’t imagine organizing the club without you helping me out.” She nods lightly. The bartender arrives, pushes two cocktails close to them. She doesn’t hesitate and downs her drink with ease. Oliver again chuckles at her and takes his own respective glass.

“W-what were you saying?” She looks up at him with blurrier eyes than before. “Nothing,” he simply says, nods at a direction a few tables down. “I said there’s some cute guys over there.” She nods proudly at him, leans on him a bit to aid her balance—which she’s starting to lose at that second. “Okay I think you’ve had enough—” Oliver provides what’s left of her balance, gently pushing against her fall with his hands. “Let’s maybe—go back to the booth—”

Tish manages to hold herself up and walk, but she was still holding on to Oliver for dear life, putting a bit of her weight against him. “Y-you’re a good friend too Ollie—” she mutters to his side. He smiles and shakes his head.

Things don’t go well in the next minute of Vernon’s absence. Ramillo and Celia stay silent in the booth, their attention still on their respective drinks. Ramillo has no idea what to say, and his speculation of Celia’s thoughts were making it worse.

“Um—” Ramillo purses his lips. “So, what do you think about the bar transition?” Dammit, dude. He already asked her that earlier.

Celia pulls her brows up. “Oh, uh—I think it’s—cool now.” She glances at the direction of Tish and Oliver. “Now that everyone’s on board.” Ramillo nods, takes a bigger sip of his drink than usual.

Okay, he’s put off talking to her like this for nearly a year now. Another year and—maybe he’ll find out she has a boyfriend he never knew about…

“This is—kind of a shot in the d—” Before he can finish his sentence, Tish stumbles into the booth, with Oliver trailing her just a few steps behind. “Fuck—fuck—sorry guys—” Tish plays it off smoothly by clumsily seating herself back in the booth. Oliver apologetically looks at both Ramillo and Celia.

“Fuuuuuuuck…” Tish pushes her palms against her forehead, trying to clear the aqua filter that’s suddenly drowning her vision. “Celia,” she asks, her eyes tightly shut, “C-could you maybe walk me to the girl’s b-bathroom—” Oliver covers his mouth, hard to tell if he’s shocked or just holding back a laugh. Celia nods, grips Tish’s left arm. “Let’s go—” Tish slips by the table first, followed by Celia holding her arm. Oliver shakes his head, murmurs “sorry” to Celia as they leave.

“Drank herself blind,” he tells Ramillo, sitting back down. “You guys doing OK?” He nods, Oliver glad to hear it. “What happened with—” Ramillo curves his eyebrows, then puts two and two together. “Oh, no—nothing, man. I—” Powerless, Ramillo just shrugs.

“You’ll get her eventually, man. I mean, you both work together. Got plenty of time…” Ramillo timidly just looks at his drink, then decides to finish it. “Do you wanna maybe—try your luck somewhere else?” Oliver intently points at the dance floor. Ramillo finds it ridiculous… at first. “Psh. I’ll help you out, man. No problem.”

Seriously? The ladies here look… sophisticated. Richer than he is. “Really?” he asks.

“Chyeah. The owner? Friend in college. I’m pretty sure some people we both know are here tonight…” Oliver scans the dance floor, then the other respective booths. “Yeah, see.” He points at a particular booth one dancefloor away from them; five white girls and a boy, some of them already about to dance. “I can introduce you to them. Yeah?”

Oliver’s right. About everything. “Yeah,” Ramillo replies.

No rush here.