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01. polaroid stories

working at the castle pub isn’t exactly hell. it’s not heaven either — but i’ve never believed in clean extremes. three times a week i kick out loud drunks with a bat, tolerate divorce-core rock, and breathe nicotine like it’s part of the atmosphere. it doesn’t even burn anymore.

still, my boss — who’s also my landlord — gives me a break on rent, lets me badly strum my guitar for an audience that seems to have given up on life, and allows me to keep all the tips. he swears business picked up after i became the bartender. more divorced women, more lingering looks, more empty glasses.

he shamelessly encourages me to let myself be flirted with because it boosts consumption. i let it happen. not for him — i’m just used to it. drunk ex-wives hit on me constantly. some ex-husbands too. london gets very democratic once the alcohol kicks in.

one night, a middle-aged man with grey hair, thick glasses, and a whisky wouldn’t stop telling me how attractive i was. i know i’m good-looking — people love to remind me. i have my mother’s eyes and my father’s body who i strongly suspect was someone’s boy toy before pretending to become serious.

he handed me a card. a modeling agency. claimed to be a scout. i laughed — that automatic laugh you give when you’ve heard every lie behind a bar. still, i gave him my number.

the unbelievable part? the next morning, a modeling agency actually called. i went to the address — a bold move for someone who doesn’t mind becoming a trafficking statistic. against all odds, the drunk man was telling the truth.

the agency existed. the people were real. and somehow, they thought i was perfect for their next campaign: polaroids and memories. a beautiful idea — mildly problematic for someone who arrived in a city knowing no one.

so i swear this blog entry is the best story i have so far to tell through these polaroids.