Free Low Expectations by Elizabeth Aaron

sustain after going into twenty bars, all of which are fully staffed, to be fobbed off by managers who nod robotically before, I’m sure, chucking my CV straight in the bin. I soldier on, taking circuitous routes on side roads in the hopes of finding someplace so mystifyingly located that I will have minimal competition.
    Finally, I come across a pub in Haggerston that appears to be finishing a recent renovation. There’s some scaffolding on one side and it is just the chicer side of shabby. The traditional Victorian brick façade appeals to me, as does its name, The Pissed Newt. Besides being a state I find myself in on a tri-weekly basis, ‘newt’ is a humorous word to say, though there is not much opportunity to do so outside of medieval apothecaries.
    â€˜Hello! I’m Georgie … it looks like you’re just opening – I was wondering if you need any staff at the moment? I’m looking to work part-time and to start immediately,’ I smile at the man behind the bar, a weather-beaten type with kindeyes, a wide grin and ‘MUM’ tattooed in giant gothic typeface on his upper arm.
    â€˜We’ve been open for over a year, love, but we’ve only just found the dollar to do the place up … and there’s always work here for a pretty lady,’ he smiles, eyes twinkling in a friendly manner.
    I laugh and twirl a lock of my hair excessively, which I immediately regret, but am forced to work to comic effect once I’ve started. Nothing is weirder than suddenly abandoning a faux-flirtation. He laughs at my lameness and I feel at ease. An hour previously in a different bar, a leery bloke had said the same thing with an entirely different effect. It’s funny how two people can read from the same script and from one person it will be charming, from another creepily inappropriate.
    â€˜In that case, can I speak to the manager?’
    â€˜The owner manages the pub but he’s got a few other places he takes care of. I’m the assistant manager, Gary. How much experience have you got?’
    â€˜Well, I’ve done waitressing and bar jobs at festivals so I think I’d pick it up quickly. I’m a student so I’m looking for something three nights a week, I’m flexible on days,’ I say, getting out my CV and placing it on the bar.
    â€˜Okay, just a few more questions then.’ Gary hums while getting out a pen, inspecting my CV and scribbling some notes on it. I wait, hoping his queries don’t run to the dreadedquirky variety. I’m not talented at sounding spontaneously cool, probably because I am not spontaneous or cool. It would take at least a week’s preparation for me to be reliably down with the kids. Is the recession so bad that to get a job pulling pints you have to have model looks, a winning personality and a solid knowledge of underground music?
    â€˜How old are you?’ Phew. That I can answer.
    â€˜Twenty-five. Well, I’m twenty-five in April. That’s ages away. But now I’m twenty-four. Evidently.’ For God’s sake, woman, I scold myself, have you learnt nothing from Two-Minute-Michael? Brevity is the soul of valour.
    â€˜Favourite film?’
    â€˜Oh, um …
Bitter Moon
has great, amazingly terrible dialogue. And
Showgirls
! I love really tacky excessive films. But also, you know, good ones … like … uh …’
    Don’t say
Samurai Cop
. Or
Birdemic: Shock and Terror
. What have you seen that’s good? You’ve watched loads of good films – you can just never remember the titles, directors or plots. What about that Werner Herzog documentary that you found inappropriately amusing?
    â€˜
Grizzly Man
,’ I finish breathlessly.
    â€˜Ah, that one about that guy who was eaten by bears? That was rough.’
    â€˜Yeah, pretty gruesome.’
    â€˜If you were on a pirate ship, what would you be?’
    â€˜What, you mean, first mate or skipper or