A Guinness and a Job


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Scene Title A Guinness and a Job
Synopsis Andrew comes looking for a job, and the shorthanded (and short!) Tamsine is happy to oblige.
Date September 3, 2009

Biddy Flannigan's Irish Pub

Ambient lighting blankets the establishment in a soft luminescence, glowing in tones of appealing orange from the front face of the bar and low hanging light fixtures overhead. Old style brick walls given the pub an appealing depth, reflecting the tone of lights in a more amber hue down upon the lengths of the polished, wooden floors. The bar counter of lacquered dark wood stretches along the northern wall, the forefront for shelves of numerous liquors and the substantially sized LCD televisions spaced liberally behind it. The screens flicker with the latest games and news as the labeled spirit bottles wink from lighted shelves with a beckon of their own. Barstools and high tables welcome tipsy patrons to their support, scattered with throughout the barroom with a few wedge into the darker, quieter, and more secretive recesses. Over the bar are a few banners of sports teams, most notably one of English football club Manchester United.

The thick wooden door to the west is fitted with a single neon sign sponsored by one of the brews on tap, glowing in the door's center window to shed its light onto the sidewalk outside and summoning in new customers when the bar is open for business.

While she isn't supposed to be in Biddy's, or even in town, it's worked out well that Tamsine didn't go on the trip with Adam and the rest. One of the bartenders has come down with mono, and called in sick for "at least two weeks." With other members of the wait staff out of town, the bar is already understaffed, and so it is that Tamsine is manning the bar herself. She's newly graduated from bartending school, a program she only enrolled in after agreeing to help manage and to co-own the establishment. Backwards and unexpected, but then most of Tamsine's life has been.

The petite redhead stands behind the bar — many of the stools are occupied, but the bar is far from full. She refills one man's pint of Guinness and slides it toward him. With vibrant red hair and flashing dark eyes, she seems to fit in with the "Irish" theme of the place, but appearances are often deceiving.

Andrew walks into the pub and takes a quick look around. After a few moments he shrugs and walks over to the bar, taking a quick look at which beers are currently on tap. He then decides to take a seat at the bar, and puts his jacket over the back of his chair.

They have at least the basics — Guinness and Bass, so one can get a proper black and tan. There is a variety of foreign and domestic, and even local microbrews, along with a couple of ciders on tap. The cold case displays more exotic and difficult to find tastes. "Hi there," Tamsine says, moving over toward Andrew and putting a coaster down on the glossy dark wood counter. "What can I get you?"

"A pint of guinness and a job please," Andrew replies with a shrug, his Northern Irish accent faint but still noticeable after so much time in the States. "I've got five years experience, and as you can tell I've definitely got the accent."

"More than I have, that's for sure," Tamsine says with a chuckle. "And the red hair is from the savages to the north, rather than the Emerald Isle," she adds, her ethnicity being mostly Scottish on her father's side. She fills a pint glass with the Guinness, and sets it in front of him, then holds up a finger to indicate for him to wait a moment. She heads to the hostess station, pulls out a folder from which she produces a job application. She brings the sheet over with a pen. "New to town, or just pounding the pavement?" she asks.

"Pounding the pavement; I used to work at a different pub, but I had a difference of opinion with the boss. He told me that if I didn't like it, I could leave. So I did," Andrew replies with a shrug before starting to fill in the form with all the usual stuff. In the nationality part, he writes American.

Tamsine nods, watching him fill out the form. The waitstaff handles the tables, and her bar customers are all satisfied, watching for the moment a baseball game on the television. "Sorry about that," she says, with an understanding smile. "By the way, I'm Tamsine. I kind of own the place." The 'kind of' comes off as 'cute' rather than the fact she's trying not to actually lie — she only owns the place on paper.

"Well, if you're the only one on the bar, it looks like I came at just the right time," Andrew replies drily as he finishes off the form and hands over a five dollar bill for his Guinness.

Tamsine takes the form, and waves off the five. "If it's a job interview, we can make it on the house," she says with a smile. She leans on the counter over the form, reading it. "We'll have to call the references of course," she points out, taking the pen and bringing it to her lips to chew on. "You have your citizenship?" she asks, dark brown eyes looking up at him. "If not, work Visa is all in order?"

"Citizenship," Andrew replies, pulling out an American passport. "Swore an oath and everything," he adds drily as he replaces the bill. "Thanks. I hope you don't mind making an international call; my last boss's number is 555 0153, but the one before that was a British Admiral…"

Tamsine's eyebrows raise a bit. "Well, if you have papers saying you're out on good standing or whatever they call it," (her parents are hippies, she's not too versed on military jargon) "I suppose that could suffice. Do you have any personal references, since you said your last boss and you had problems? What kind of problems did you have? I'm willing to give people chances, but obviously I need to know I can rely on an employee."

"He wanted to fire an unregistered Evolved guy unless he registered," Andrew replies with a shrug. "The guy in question agreed that the government needed to know about potentially dangerous Evolved people, but didn't want his name and photo on the Internet for all and sundry to see; otherwise he'd have registered already. I agreed with the Evolved guy and wouldn't let it go."

Since she's in the midst of a force Registration herself, that earns a wrinkled-nose grimace from the redhead. "Fair enough. Any personal references that can vouch for you? If I have a cop friend run this through the system, you're not going to come up with warrants and a rap sheet taller than I am?" she says, while refilling the glass of the whiskey drinker to Andrew's left.

"Not that I'm aware of," Andrew answers drily. "As to personal references, most of them would be back in Ireland, since that's where most of my old friends are. You could always ask the regulars at O'Brian's, that's the pub I used to work at, it's up in the bronx, but otherwise I can't really think of anyone. That said, while my last boss and I had personal problems, he wouldn't be the kind of person to lie about someone if asked for a reference."

Tamsine nods. "That's good. I won't expect raving reviews but if he can just confirm you worked there and that you left of your own volition, that should be enough. I do need someone, so unless something unforeseen comes up, you'll probably have a job." She smiles. "Based on your experience, I can pay you $12 an hour, but you'll make tips, of course." She taps a blank space on the form. "Write out any days you cannot work there, so I can start scheduling you right away once I've confirmed your last job and given you a call to see if you're interested, yeah?"

Andrew nods. "That's great," he answers, writing Sunday Mornings as the only time he's unavailable. "I'll be at at Church then," he says by way of explanation. "I suppose I'll have to pay for a second pint," he adds as he finishes off his Guinness, which he has been drinking in decent sized mouthfulls throughout the discussion.

Tamsine laughs. "The first one's on me. The second's all you," she says, but she picks up the five dollar bill that is still on the counter. "I'll give you a call as soon as it's all settled, then. Welcome aboard." She offers her hand.

Andrew gives the hand a firm shake, squeezing perhaps a little tighter than he means to. "Thank you," he replies as he takes a sip of his second drink.

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