My career as an Italian club promoter ends before it begins.
location (theoretically) Rimini, Italia
1 (souls to lose)
3 (afternoons off per week, but no nights off)
Sooooo, in light of my untimely death as a sailor (picture a big, bony, seaweed covered hand reaching up from the sea and grabbing me from the front deck), I had to find a new European job/home/life and fast. My former boss (and friend) Konrad's new guests were arriving in five days and I would be kicked out onto the streets. The romance of being down and out in Hoorn and The Hague notwithstanding, I was eager to find someplace to be.
Of course, there's a place (I think) I can always go back to: Momma's house in St. Louis. But oooooh, Doggie! might that make me feel like some sort of pooch with its tail between its legs. Upon entering the living room at 9 Bon Price Terrace I'd fully expect my step-dad, Jerry, to rub my fleshy ears and say, 'It's okay, Puppers,' like he says to the German Shepherd when he's spooked from the rain and embarrassed about it.
Bad scene, best to be avoided.
I started with looking for fruit picking jobs. I emailed grape farms in France, strawberry farms in Ireland, and even a potato hatchery in England. Somehow, hidden among the list of picking jobs was an offer to work as a club promotor in Rimini, Italy. It was like finding a tab of ecstasy and a DOPE silver crucifix in the middle of a Cobb salad. Who was I to not email "Fabrizio"?
(Fabrizio's real name is Thomas, and by all evidence in his emails he's pretty normal. Please disregard this past sentence and picture the above man in the picture, know that his name is Fabrizio, and know that he bangs so many 19-year-old Americans that he just calls them all Jenny, and all the Jennies love it anyway because, Holy shit, Fabrizio is fucking hot, y'all.)
So Fabrizio tells me that the disco is called "Life." Instantly I'm taken in by the club's modesty of purpose. Just a club? No no no. I read on. "At LIFE, we offer a unique way to live the Summertime," Fabrizio tells me. I stop reading and immediately start to write him back:
Job sounds great, but it turns out that "summertime" shouldn't be capitalized because its not a proper noun, and I'm not even sure its a proper conjun...
Then, BAM!, it hits me: Fabrizio gets it. I mean, he gets it. I don't get it. I don't get anything. I look down and I have received the stigmata as penance. I keep reading.
I'll have to "promote" from 3-5pm and 9-12am, and then be club atmosphere (dancing, looking hot, the usual) from 12am to closing at 3am. I will get paid 65 euro a week. I will life in a house with the DJs. "UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU GO TO ANY OTHER CLUB IN RIMINI!" Fabrizio writes that the party can't go on forever.
"I do not recommend staying longer than 1 month, usually after 4/5 weeks you will begin to feel tired," he warns.
Of all the jobs in the world, (and those of you who know me will agree), this sounds like the perfect job for me. I write Fabrizio back saying Yes Sir! I'll take it if you'll have me! And I book a flight that costs half my salary for the month.
Two days later I go to the airport. If my mother had been with me I would have thrown myself on the floor, pounded my fists and feet, and cried, 'I don't want to be an Italian club promoter." So instead I bought a ticket to Dublin and here I am.