Isaac's laugh is half self-deprecating, half-amused. "Not at first," he admits wryly. "I got kicked out the first three, four times?" he says, trying to get the exact number down (he sort of stopped keeping track when he wound up on his ass after having no ID to produce). "Now, they kind of let me in, but refuse to serve me anything besides water and whatever food the waitresses who pity me will give me. It's something."

He crosses his arms over his chest, the broad line of his shoulders growing narrower with one motion. "You should try," he encourages Stiles, maybe not entirely believing he'll find success, but knowing it'd be a show to watch.