Feel like dancing?
James Johnson loved Manhattan. He loved Juilliard. Most of all he loved shedding all the tiresome, uncool parental pressure, but not his monthly allowance, which he supplemented with a hefty income dealing pot and coke to his like-minded artistic classmates. His best customers tended to be kids enrolled in the music division, pianists particularly, their intensive practice sessions fueled by cocaine. When one of his regulars had a stroke while thundering through a particularly and peculiarly physical performance of Lizst, James had a rare attack of conscience. He gave up dealing (well, mostly), lied about his age, and got a job slinging drinks topless (okay, let’s not forget the bowtie) at Studio 54.