“Hi, I'm Jason Wellbury. I'm looking for a job.”
“What's your experience?”
“I've worked as a barman in pubs in England.”
“Well, you're good-looking. The blokes'll like that.” 'Like' came out as 'loik'. But Jason didn't spend more than a moment on that thought. What really made him stop was the realisation that this must be a gay pub. Just his bloody luck! The first place he turned into, and it was gay. He didn't think he was ready for that yet. The man was still talking, and Jason tried to pay closer attention. “I'm short a barman tonight, and it's Saturday. So I'll give you a chance. Cash payments, OK, no records? I dunno how good you are. If you're any good tonight, I'll pay you. $12 an hour. And no rooting blokes on the premises.”
Jason must have looked a bit taken aback.
“This is a gay pub. You know that, right?” It came out as ya naoh thet, roight, with the question-mark rising-tone ending Ozzies seemed to put on all sentences whether they were statements or questions.
“Yes,” replied Jason. Rooting?
“Me nime's Tom. They'll love yer accent, mite. Roight, go talk to Keith over there. He'll show ya what ta do.”
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