6 or the beginning of a journey you didn’t know you didn’t want to start
Phonzo has never had an actual legalised profession.
Beware, no one is implying felonious records, that’s not your skeleton in the closet. Your past is like the Brick Lane Beigel Bake: clear bright, open 24/7 and sweaty.
The point is, back in your hometown, folks are very much attached to traditions and superstition. It is an old costume, for example, not to follow any edict emanated from the authorities while it is a symptom of tremendous bad luck to sign legal papers or any form of stipulations, especially with your own real name. Hence, it is arduous to find a paid occupation with a signed agreement (either virtual or analogue), provided that you can find an employment at all. Things are even rougher if, like yourself, you are not equipped with any sort of certificate from The Very Big School. You never experienced anything other than very casual and random trades or seasonal occupations and the only interviews you’ve ever had were for comprehensive examinations with educational purpose or from your male begetter after batty night outs during your teenage cycle.
You didn’t even have a proper Working Records Plate (or WRP) and didn’t know how to write one before leaving the Boot. Good for you, Petrus was a friend and a former emigrant who went back home a couple of months before you left, thus introduced your very self to the art of shape and disguise the professional past based on the professional path you hope to pursue. At heart, you copied his WRP adding your own (mostly fake) experiences as a worker and learner.
You never added anything regarding your quixotic spirit. You intrinsically knew it wouldn’t help despite the fact it was probably your main feature, the only one necessary thing you needed to describe your persona. As a matter of fact, you thought that having been a scrivener for news bulletin and a seller of educational manuals for young schoolers would’ve helped to easily get a job as Publications Seller in a nice and hipster store.
Of course it didn’t. You were yet far to realise how class-conscious and snobs Celts can be.
Together with Luchino, when you weren’t busy doing whatever you were doing at the time, you would’ve gone on Leaving WRPs Marathons day after day after day. You had a list of the most hipster and indie-cool bookstore for intellectual people in Londinium and your goal was to leave a sheet in each one of them.
It was at the end of one of these marathons that you stopped in a fake Victorian public house in the middle of La Ciudad for a nice pint of blonde fizzy nectar. It was after the second round that, even if it wasn’t your turn, you stood up to grab two more pints once you realised there was a new pretty bartender serving behind the counter. “It’s about time to start flirting in Celtic”, you thought. You were still virgin of the toxic lore infused in your very inner white male cis-core.
The approach was decent and not too difficult, her being Iberian, you ended up quickly becoming the most fluent talker in the conversation. Wow! What if she just didn’t want to talk to you instead, Mr Speaker? Which met its conclusion when you told her about your lack of employment, “Oh, leave WRP. Manager always look for new person”, and so you did, letting her disappear in the fog of the alcohol.
Without showing off your unavoidable failure, you went back to Luchino and kept on pinting.
Pints later, a dude approached you. Behold Dani, the manager. He asked some random questions regarding availability and stuff, then, disappeared as the pretty bartender did before him.
You kept on pinting for a while before Dani approached again, this time to politely ask to follow him upstairs, in his office, for an informal and quick interview. You were surprised and amazed, “what the heck… this city…”, you thought. And, by the time you apprehended your answer has been yes, you were already in the office, talking to Dani. Well, it looked more like the upstairs supper area of the public house, but it surely worked as an office at the time. You were inebriated by the nectar and that was your first employment interview ever. In an idiom wasn’t your procreators’ idiom. In a land wasn’t your ancestors’ land. You were nervous, but able to show self-confidence nonetheless, and supposedly managed to give the right answers since, by the time you went back to Luchino, you’ve earned some apologies and a paying profession.
Something around 30 hours were in between your new professional persona and the beginning of the journey into the hospitality universe. An adventure you would’ve happily avoided.