I decide that I need to get out of my place and head down to the beach. I absolutely love the ocean and there is something really special about the Pacific. It's as if it reaches into the center of my being and calms my soul. I walk along the shore, ankle deep in the water, and weigh my options.
I have enough in savings to last me another three months. I wish I knew someone, anyone, in L.A. who I might be able to use as a reference. I think briefly of Jake; I bet he had a decent ‘day' job as he worked on his screenwriting. But I hadn't gotten his number, or rather, he hadn't taken mine.
Thinking of Jake makes me think of the pub, McGregors. They seemed short staffed; the bartenders hustling non-stop to make drinks and the bouncer often leaving his post to deliver food from the kitchen. It wasn't a staff position at the Red Cross, but it could provide some income so I can change my career without living in abject poverty.
What the hell? If I can go out by myself on a Saturday night, I can certainly create an impromptu job interview.
I approach the pub and admire the cute little patio area. It is littered with cigarette butts, clearly the smoking customer's haven, but on this crisp fall day, it's empty and looks like a lovely place to sit and enjoy a pint. As I approach, the bouncer comes out with a broom and starts to sweep up. He is a large man, of mixed heritage, and he's talking to himself. I briefly consider asking him if the manager is inside, but I think better of it, and decide to just head in. I wouldn't want to interrupt his conversation.
The sign says they don't open until 2pm, and it is 1:30pm, but I take my chances and pull on the door. It opens and I walk in.
The pub looks, and smells, very differently empty and in the light of day. I'm better able to appreciate the beauty of the space. The wood is a sumptuous pine, rather pale for what you'd expect in an Irish pub, but it creates such a light atmosphere, it perfectly matches its beachside location. The pine is used on the floors and the booths, but the bar itself is the standard mahogany. It stands out sharply in contrast to the pine, and it dominates the room. At present, there is no one behind the bar, and no one in the room for that matter, so I take another step inside. On either end of the room, three TVs are mounted from the ceiling. The requisite sports fill the screens, but it is clear this is not a sports bar. People come here to drink and talk and listen to music, not sit and watch a game.
My attention is pulled down to the far end of the room, where the stage is, by the big guy coming back in from the patio. He pauses mid-stride when he sees me, as if unsure of how to deal with my presence. Decision made, he walks right up to me before stopping about four inches from my face. Whoa, way to invade one's personal space, buddy!
"We aren't open," he says plainly.
"Right," I say. "I was wondering if the manager might be around?"
"Did you lose something?" asks Big Man. "The lost and found is over here," he says and he begins to move towards the bar.
"No. Actually, I was wondering if you all might be looking for any help? I was in here on Saturday night and noticed you were bouncing as well as serving. I thought maybe you were short handed? I'm looking for work," I conclude.
Big Man continues to eye me, but says nothing. Clearly, there is something off about this guy. He could just lack social skills, or he could be a certifiable wacko. I take a small step backwards, thinking that maybe I'll get on out of here, when the door from the kitchen swings open and out walks a new addition to the pub's cast list. I hadn't seen him on Saturday night, but he clearly fits in. He's about my height, with a head full of fabulous white hair. Merry eyes dance over me and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
"Pappy, she's looking for a job." With that, Big Man disappears into the kitchen.
"Well lassie, ye won't find it here!" he laughs.
His words are disheartening, but there's a little twinkle in his eye, and I decide to press my case.
"Really, are you sure? I'm very handy and could be useful in a number of different roles. I have fantastic office skills, I've made my fair share of drinks, and I can wash a dish with the best of ‘em. I'm handy in the kitchen and just anal retentive enough to actually enjoy cleaning!" Alright, this last bit is pure fiction, but I really need a job. And I am anal retentive, that part is true. However, I abhor cleaning, and the best I can do in the kitchen is peel back the plastic film on a Lean Cuisine and press the buttons on the microwave.
Pappy goes to open his mouth, and I can tell rejection is on his lips, so I cut him off.
"My name is Kelli, and I moved here from D.C. a couple weeks ago. I live a few blocks from here and was checking out the scene on Saturday night. I noticed your bouncer was also acting as your server and thought maybe you needed some extra help. Look, I'm willing to do just about anything. You could train me across the various duties here and I can act as a back-up when people are out sick."
"Well Kelli lass, I'll admit t'would be nice havin' some back up ‘round here," Pappy says, as he ushers me into one of the booths. Taking the seat across from me, he continues, "Me son owns the place and whenever anyone calls in sick, all hell breaks loose. But we run a pretty lean ship. Hal's on the door," he nods in the direction of the kitchen. So Big Man was Hal, okay. "Me son Ian and Sean tend the bar, and Tracey runs the kitchen - makin' stew and washin' dishes, servin' folks and the like."
"And what do you do, Pappy?" I ask, hoping it is alright to call him Pappy.
He smiles at my use of his name and says, "Me? Well an old coot like me is only good for one thing, and that's bein' a pain in the arse!"
I laugh and he's pleased.
"Oh, how I love makin' a pretty lass smile," he says fondly.
"Somehow I have a feeling you do that often," I say, trying to work a little charm of my own.
He smiles again and says, "I run the books. Ian has a better mind, but runnin' a pub isn't all that complicated, and I've done it near me entire life. We had a place back in Cork before we moved here … thirty years ago now. Gah! Where does the time go? When we settled, we bought one here and ran it for twenty some odd years before it burned down. By that time, I was thinkin' ‘twas time to pass it along to Ian, so with the insurance money we bought this place, and ‘tis his baby now. But I've never been much o' one for the beach, fair Irish skin and all that, so I need to keep meself busy somehow and Ian's been kind enough to let me keep the books. He's a good lad, me Ian."
I give him an indulgent smile before returning to my mission. "And the website? Who runs that? And social media? I've got excellent experience using social media and other digital platforms to boost visibility." This, unlike the kitchen and cleaning bit, is actually true.
"Well now, as ye can imagine, I'm not so strong in that area. The fact that I can turn the damn computer on and do me orderin' online, well, ‘tis one o' me finer accomplishments. Come to think o' it, none o' us know that much about marketin'. Hal does our website, he's a programmer by trainin', but ‘tis really only there to give our hours and address," he pauses, considering how this might not be optimal.
I pounce.
"A website can be so much more! You've got to convince people that this is where they want to spend their time, and money. You need pictures and menus. You had a great band in here the other night; events and concerts should be listed. If you want even more visitors, you should start a blog. Regularly updated content helps drive search engines to your site. Plus, you'll develop a following and they'll share your posts with their friends, increasing the pub's visibility. You'd need to find an angle that would make it unique. Perhaps you could write about authentic Irish places and artists accessible here in L.A. Or maybe, it could be from your perspective as an Irishman living in southern California. I'm sure you have a thousand observations a day about how different things are here, and I'd bet many are amusing and would make fun subjects for a blog." I'm flying by the seat of my pants here, but I feel him taking the ride with me and hope I've found my hook.
"Well, now, I'm not such a good writer," he says a little abashedly.
"Not to worry! I could write it," I say reassuringly. "Each week, we could spend some time chatting about life and I'm sure I'd get enough material to make into a weekly entry. People would eat it up," I smile at him.