Annie
“What previous experience do you have in hospitality?” the short, middle-aged woman crossed her arms and looked me up and down, judging.
I gave her a nervous smile. “Well none really, but I’d be willing to give it a go and-” I was cut off by a frown from my interviewer.
“It was nice meeting you Ally,” the woman had already forgotten my name as she ushered me out of the shop doors. “We’ll umm, we’ll call you about the application later.”
I huffed in exasperation. This was about the third time that I had been rejected on the basis of having no experience with working in a restaurant. I’d been sending my resume out to every place I could think of, since lunch. I’d tried restaurants, cafes, bakeries, grocery shops, fashion stores and even hair salons; but all to no avail. The excuse was either “sorry, we’re not hiring right now” or “we’ll be sure to call you back!” – and that no doubt meant that I would never hear from them again.
Crossing the street, I walked along the sidewalk bordering the beach. Shortly after Florence had left Banff to ‘travel abroad’ – yeah, like I believed that – I had decided that I needed a break. A break from everyone, and everything in the past year, including my kidnapping and escape from a warehouse. It was a traumatic experience to be honest, and I had needed to get out of the country.
So here I was, wandering the streets of Perth, in Western Australia. I’d spent numerous days listening to Floss talk on and on about her home country, and now seemed like the best time to investigate. We had basically finished up with school back home, and I’d taken my final exams a few weeks early so that I could leave. My scores wouldn’t come out online for a few months, and instead of waiting, I’d hopped on the first plane out of Canada.
The sun was shining, and it was thirty degrees – Celsius, that is – as I strolled along the beach. The beaches here were beautiful: dunes of fine sand that warmed your feet, and an ocean that was a deep blue, its waves lapping gently against the shore. It was the end of November, and apparently Summer was due to begin in December, stretching all the way into the beginning of March. Locals were scattered on the sand, their brightly coloured towels and umbrellas standing out against the expanse of white sand. I looked like the typical tourist – wearing cargo pants and a long sleeved top in the heat, because I was inexperienced with the weather here. Tomorrow I’d have to swap my attire for shorts and a t-shirt.
My aimless wandering had brought me to a string of shacks just along the top of the beach, looming over the large dunes and overlooking the vast sea. They looked like they could do with a bit of a touch up – the paint was peeling, and the roof was faded from the strong sun – but what caught my eyes was one particular shack with a sign posted out the front: WE’RE HIRING.
Tired and annoyed, I decided to give it one last go at applying for a job. I walked through the open doorway and into a cosy, cluttered space. Surfboards lined the walls, hanging from the roof and stacked on hooks. In one corner was a rack filled with summer clothing and bathers, and there were numerous drawers around the room with surf-related things stacked on top. I had no idea what half of the things in here were called.
At the back of the room was a small counter, with a till sitting on top. A young guy was leaning against the counter, scribbling numbers onto a sheet. He looked up at my entry and gave me a warm smile, before resuming his work.
He looked to be in his late twenties, and he had a few wrinkles around his eyes from squinting too much in the sun. His hair was a dirty blonde mess that looked as if it hadn’t been cared for in a long while. Blue eyes skimmed his work, and his skin was a dark, tanned colour.
