Mismatched

by Elle Casey

  “Eh, there’s the rest of your luggage, Ridlee,” I say trying to muscle past the lovebirds and catch it before it does a second tour.

  “Ah, Americans!” says the guy, his eyes not leaving Ridlee’s face.

  This irritates me no end as she has not yet said a word. Parts two and three of her luggage are ducking back through the hole in the wall, and of course there’s no sign of my generic black Walmart case.

  “I am. She’s not,” coos my idiot friend. “Erin’s Irish. Like you.”

  “Is she?” He tears his eyes away from her face briefly to shoot me a look, but in a mili-second they’re glued back on her face. I am sooo used to this, playing second fiddle to my gorgeous, sexy friend.

  “She doesn’t sound Irish,” he says smiling lazily at her.

  “I know, right? I was just telling her that. But, you do.” She moves her hand toward his face as though she’s about to brush her fingers against his cheek but pulls away at the last moment, all demure.

  I have seen this scene play out a million times, and they always fall for it. I spot my bag lumbering toward me, wedged between two massive cases. It looks like it’s been attacked by an angry bull. Grabbing it, I heave it onto the trolley that I cleverly commandeered earlier, and head toward the exit. Ridlee has her bags and is following close behind, her whipping boy hot on her heels.

  A huge cheer goes up as I walk through the double doors, and instinctively I cringe. A massive banner reading WELCOME HOME ERIN! is blocking the faces of the entire front line of people waiting to collect friends, colleagues, or loved ones. It’s my family. All of them.

  “Hi!” I screech with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I hate any kind of familial emotional displays.

  My mother thrusts herself forward, blocking the exit for anyone else who might be hoping to enter the country today, and throws her arms around me. I gasp at her unexpectedly vice-like grip and try to maneuver her away from the exit doors so that people can pass us.

  “Welcome home, Erin! Céad míle fáilte! A hundred thousand welcomes!” she yells.

  My mother was actually born in the States, but since moving back to Ireland, she has taken up learning Irish, or gaeilge. She reminds me of those religious converts who always have to be even more pious than the regular religious folk. Frequently, she’ll announce proudly that she’s more Irish than the Irish and speaks as gaeilge at every opportunity. For those who don’t understand — that is, most of us — she follows with an English translation.

  At the height of her Irish mania, it was decided that I would be sent to an Irish-speaking school. I spent the first three months listening hard for my name amidst all the guttural diarrhea that was spoken at me. It was a strict school and you could get into trouble without even knowing what you’d done wrong. I was in a fight-or-flight state for all of my thirteenth year and yet was reminded daily how lucky I was to be fluent in our mother tongue. The name Erin means Ireland in Irish.

  Much hugging and back slapping ensues. While my mother is one of two children, my father comes from a very large — read: Catholic — family, and most of them and their offspring have turned out to welcome me home.

  “Ye better not have forgotten your roots,” says my Uncle Miley as he grabs me in a bear hug. “None of that ‘garbage’ and ‘to-may-tow’ bullshit, do ye hear me?”

  I try to nod, but my face is pinned to his chest. He smells of stout; Guinness, to be exact. I’m not one for pushing the ‘Oh, but don’t the Irish love a drink’ stereotype, but my Uncle Miley really does like a drink. Several in fact. He was on a one-man mission to drink as much Guinness as possible so as to save the company from being sold to a foreign company back in the nineties. It seems he succeeded because the Guinness factory is still there.

  My Aunty Geraldine steps in to save me. “Put the girl down, Miley!” She pulls me to her and grabs hold of my cheeks. “Don’t they feed ye over there? You’re all skin and bone!” This is clearly bullshit. I am most certainly not ‘skin and bone’. It is just a pre-text for Geraldine to feed me every time she sees me. She’s a feeder.

  The love keeps comin’ from all directions until I finally see my father at the back of the crowd. He is waiting patiently, leaning against a wall. I go over to him.

  “How’re ye, Dad?”’

  “So, you decided to come back to the auld sod finally, did ye?”

  “I haven’t had much money for air fares, Dad.”

  “Aragh, don’t give me that crap, Erin. Ye know we’d have flown ye home for a visit.”

  “Margaret needed me.”

  At this my father actually guffaws. “Ay, like a hole in the head.” He looks at me for the longest minute before pulling me in for a hug. I hug back hard. “Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters. And who’s this young lassie?”

  I look up to see Ridlee standing in a sea of fancy luggage, a huge smile plastered on her face. She’s holding a card in her hands. Her whipping boy from the baggage claim is walking away grinning, suffering what I call ‘the Ridlee effect’.

  “Ahem!” she clears her throat.

  My father looks on bemused while my mother smiles encouragingly. That’s all Ridlee needs.

  "Dia daoibh!" she hollers.

  God, that girl’s got balls. So that’s why she wanted to know how to say hello in Irish. I cringe for her. Strangers are smiling at her indulgently, the way you do when a child or a handicapped person attempts something challenging, as they maneuver around her.

  "Dia 's Muire dhuit, God and Mary be with you!” answers my mother, rushing toward my friend.

  I break away from my dad and try to save Ridlee from my mother, sliding my arm round her shoulder before Mum can get her in a vice.

  “Everyone,” I announce, “this is my good friend, Ridlee. Ridlee, this is everyone. Literally, everyone. The entire family.”

  “Dia daoibh,” she repeats, arms outstretched. Her head is bobbing and she’s beaming benevolently at the entire O’Neill tribe. Think Buzz Lightyear meeting the aliens in Toy Story 2.

  “Knock it off, will ye.” I guide her to the bar while her bags are now being ridden by my seven-year-old cousin, Danny.

  “Does he know that they’re Globe Trotters?” she asks, craning her neck in the direction of her luxury luggage as I lead her away.

  “I doubt it.” I push her more firmly toward the bar.

  My dad saves the luggage and my other aunts and uncles take Danny and the other kids off to school, saying a quick goodbye and telling us to have a pint for them. I kiss them all and promise to catch everyone for a knees up soon.

  “It’s obligatory to have a pint of Guinness upon landing. No arguments,” I explain to Ridlee, who seems perplexed that we mean to start drinking before breakfast. The Dublin airport bar is more or less empty, but then it is still only nine a.m.

  “Pints all round?” asks Uncle Miley, nodding to the barman.

  With the others all gone it’s just Ridlee and me, my parents, and my Uncle Miley and Aunty Ger.

  “My lovely brother will sort ye out, Boss,” says Uncle Miley to the barman, somehow managing to lift six pints of Guinness off the bar at once.

  This is typical Miley; he orders and carries the drinks, but someone else pays. Usually my dad.

  “Would you like a tray with that?” asks the barman, winking knowingly.

  “Ah, Jaysus, don’t ye think I’ve enough to carry!” retorts Miley, with a wink of his own. He brings the drinks over to our table and sets them down without spilling a drop.

  “Would’ya give us a job in yer pub over there in Boston, Erin, would’ya?” he asks.

  “In a heartbeat, Uncle Miley. In a heartbeat.” I take my first sip of the black stuff, and God, it tastes good. I look at Ridlee who is staring at her pint glass.

  Everyone’s watching her as she tentatively takes her first sip. “Mmm, yummy!” she chirps, but you can tell she doesn’t think it’s yummy at all with the way she winces after. Guinness is definitely an acquired
taste. Still, plenty of time for that. Aunty Ger arrives at the table with an armload of cheese and onion crisps.

  “So, Pet, ye’re the proud owner of a pub, are ye?” asks my dad.

  “Half a pub,” I mumble into my glass while taking a slug of my Guinness.

  “What’s that?”

  “Half a pub.” I look up from my drink. My mother, father, and my aunt and uncle are staring at me.

  “The old bint didn’t give the whole thing to ye?” asks my father, his voice rising. “After all the work you put in?”

  “Jack! Keep it down. And don’t talk about my mother like that. It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead.” The last part my mother says under her breath.

  “It’s just a legality. We’re gonna fix it.” I smile confidently in Ridlee’s direction.

  My father looks from me to Ridlee, and back to me again. “You and ... I’m sorry, what’s yer name again, Love?”

  “Ridlee. As in Scott. Like ‘Alien’ but with an ‘E’. Well, another ‘E’. Two Es, really.”

  My father does his pirate face — one eye cocked, mouth askew — and turns to me. “Is she right in the head?”

  “Ridlee’s a lawyer, Dad.”

  “Oh,” is all he says, taking another swig of his pint.

  “So, what’s the story with yer granny’s pub then, Erin?” asks my Uncle Miley, shifting his stool closer to the table.

  “Well, she seems to have left half of the pub to someone called Padraig Flanagan. Ridlee and I are going to find him and buy him out. For a fair price of course.”

  “A fair price, is it?” asks Uncle Miley, all wily now.

  I smile at him. We understand each other perfectly. Ridlee smiles too.

  “Well, a fair price of what the bar used to be worth,” I explain. “Before I did all the renovations and basically saved it from bankruptcy. Here, look.” I pull some photos out of an envelope I have in my bag. They show the pub before any of the renovations were done. The plaster is hanging off the walls, there’s sawdust on the floor, and crap everywhere— teapots and plates and all sorts of junk from the old country.

  “Nice,”says Uncle Miley, “but what did it look like before?”

  “That is before!” His response deflates me a bit. Doesn’t he see the sawdust? The tired tea service?

  A collective “oohhh” goes up as the photos are passed from person to person.

  “What does it look like now?’ asks Aunty Ger.

  I grin and pull out the brochure that I had recently put together for a marketing campaign. My family leans in to have a look.

  “I’ve gutted the place so that it’s now one huge room instead of little snugs and nooks and crannies.”

  The brochure shows an immense bar with stools running the length of it and a neon Fightin’ Irish leprechaun above it. There are neon shamrocks here and there and gaelic football jerseys on the walls. There’s a photo of me pulling a pint, wearing a green shirt with the words Kiss Me I’m Irish emblazoned on the front. A huge, green, cardboard shamrock behind me offers three shots for three dollars during happy hour.

  “Lovely, sweetie,” says my mum, handing the brochure back to me. A general ‘mmm’ is emitted from my dad, aunt, and uncle.

  “You don’t understand!” I hear myself whining. “That’s the kind of thing they want, right Ridlee?”

  “Right!” says my loyal friend, but I can tell she doesn’t really know what we’re on about. She hasn’t been to a proper Irish pub yet. The airport bar doesn’t count.

  “Look, I’m sure ye know best, Darlin,” says my dad, “but ye wouldn’t catch me drinkin’ in one of those ‘themed’ bars. How can ye even have a conversation with all the music and the televisions blaring and the general din?”

  “People don’t want to talk, Dad, they want to get drunk.” I slump back in my seat and almost fall backward off the stool. Why does my family always have to make me feel like a child? It doesn’t matter what I do; it’s never good enough.

  “Don’t mind us, Pet,” pipes up my Aunty Ger, “we’re just old fogeys who enjoy a bit of atmosphere in a pub. I’m sure yer themed bar is lovely.”

  “The Pot O’Gold has atmosphere! Doesn’t it, Ridlee?” My plea stinks of desperation, I can smell it. But I can always rely on Rid.

  “You betcha! It’s bustin’ with atmosphere, especially on Rave Night. Although the cokeheads can get out of hand sometimes.”

  My uncle cuts in, “Lookit, if Erin wants to have a theme bar instead of a real pub, that’s her business!”

  “Thank you, Uncle Miley. I think...”

  “The real question is how is she going to deal with this Flanagan fella?”

  Everyone around the table nods gravely. He waits for a moment before going on. “Now, I’m thinkin’ that the best way to deal with him is with a couple o’ baseball bats and some heavies. Or a shooter. I know a guy.”

  “No!” I am almost on my feet. “No violence!”

  TOLD YOU, Ridlee is mouthing to me from the other side of the table. She pulls her hand out from under the table, thumb cocked and index and middle finger pointed. She’s seen one or two too many episodes of Love/Hate and is convinced that this is the way problems get sorted in modern Ireland. I should never have turned her on to the show; I’ve created a monster.

  “We’re gonna work this out the right way,” I say, facing my friend.

  Four faces turn from me to Ridlee. Sheepishly, she returns her imaginary gun to its holster. “That’s right,” she agrees, nodding. “Legally.” She raises her almost full pint glass.

  “Legally!” we chorus, though some more enthusiastically than others, and raise our almost empty pint glasses.

  “Slainte!” says my dad, tipping his glass to clink.

  “Slainte, to your health,” says Mum.

  The rest of us do the same and drain our glasses.

  “Slainte!” Ridlee takes a sip of her Guinness and winces ever so slightly.

  “You don’t have to drink that,” I tell her.

  “What? No, I love it! Yum!”

  “Give over!” My uncle takes her glass and downs the pint in one. “Amateur,” he mutters with a smile, and we all follow him out of the pub and into a typical September Dublin morning.

  We hurry to the car to avoid the rain that’s beginning to fall and head home. Ridlee and I have one night here before we head down to County Clare. A fun night in the Big Smoke.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RIDLEE

  ERIN’S ALL EXCITED ABOUT SHOWING me her hometown, but I’m way more interested in seeing the sites right here in her family’s house. My two-hour nap has completely recharged my batteries and I’m ready to soak up the Irish magic. I’ve only seen bits of the city as it went past the car windows, but it was enough to realize that the real sparkly stuff isn’t out there; it’s inside the houses, with the people. And Erin’s people are insane. I mean that in the nicest way. I could totally hang out with them for longer than one night we’ve planned and probably never get bored, not even for a second.

  If it’s not the accent getting to me, it’s the humor. I’ve never heard so many off the wall expressions. Her aunt called her uncle a harse’s ass and a fierce hoor loud enough that I heard it in my sleep and incorporated it into my dream. I don’t even know what a fierce hoor is, but in my half-sleep/half-awake state, it was an angry prostitute with wild hair and bared teeth.

  Erin’s whining at me again. “Come on, Ridlee, you can’t mean it. Stay here all night?” She gestures to the window. “But there’re the pubs and the clubs and Dubs. We’re missing out hanging around here with this lot.”

  “Dubs? Is that another Irish expression?”

  “Dubliners. Irish lads. They build ‘em brawny here.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me, going for the hard sell. “I think you might like ‘em.” Her grin could not be more cheesy.

  I play it cool. “I can wait. I’m kinda likin’ the vibe here at Casa O’Neill.”

  She almost stomps her foot. “You ca
n’t be serious! My Uncle’s already three sheets to the wind and my father won’t be too far behind. Anything can happen then. I’ll be humiliated.”

  “That’s kind of what I’m hoping for.” Searching through my suitcase, I wonder what the appropriate outfit might be for sitting around an Irish living room, being regaled with tales of Erin’s childhood. Definitely something black. With a touch of green, maybe. I’ll totally blend.

  “You’re a bad person,” she says. “A wretched excuse for a human being. Selfish. Heartless.” This is her last ditch effort.

  “I know. I agree.”

  She huffs out a puff of air. “Fine. If you insist on dragging me kicking and screaming through my childhood again to provide cheap entertainment, I’ll have to get locked. You’ve left me no choice. My mum has a bottle of Jameson hidden under the kitchen sink and I mean to empty it directly into my bloodstream.”

  “Good. I have my camera fully charged.”

  “I’ll expect you to hold my hair out of the way when I’m bent over the loo retching my guts up.”

  “Consider it done.”

  She leaves me alone in the room, and I make sure to slip my camera into my pocket before following her out. I’m seriously going to document the hell out of this trip, since it’ll probably be my one and only vacation to the Emerald Isle. Lord knows Erin’s not planning on coming back. She acts like this place gives her hives. And I couldn’t imagine being in this country without her translating all this English for me. The accent is so thick I only catch about half of what everyone’s saying.

  When I get out into the dim living room, I assess the situation. The men are on one side of the room and the women on the other. There are well-worn, darkly cushioned chairs for Dad and Uncle Miley and a low-slung flowered couch for Aunty Ger and Mum. Erin is just dropping into the space between the ladies when they see me.

  “It’s a bit early for dinner, so I’ve put out some nibblies over there on the sideboard if you’re interested.” Erin’s mother gestures to a narrow table against the wall, just before the door opening that leads to the dining room.