Some were hired as dancers, others as waitresses and servers. The few men that worked in the place were either bartenders or janitors; neither of which had a very rewarding career outlook.
Ben Whittaker, 23 years old and incredibly numb to what the city had given him, was an unfortunate fool for grabbing a nightly job at The Cove, for the past three years now. He lived modestly, in a 3rd floor apartment in a not-so-amazing neighborhood.
Little did anyone know, as he poured shot after shot of liquor each night, that his fingers were callused and his vocal chords strained from his true passion in life; music. He came to L.A. to make a name for himself, and to share his music in the world. And yet, here he was, three years later, wiping up spilled vodka from a black marble counter.
The place was in full swing tonight, men in suits with loosened ties fresh off a business dinner while their wives waited at home, undoubtedly. Then you had your usual college students, and other bums who managed to show up with uncountable numbers of twenty-dollar bills to shove into the pockets of the dancers and waitresses each night.
Ben ran a hand through his hair during a quick lull at the bar. It didn't last long, though, as another short line developed. His rough hands went to work pouring shots, handing out beer bottles, drowning out the bass-heavy music that always managed to ring in his ears each morning after he got off work.
