The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years
Page 6
The old man, roysh, it’s like he’s on focking speed half the time. I go into the kitchen the other morning, hanging from the night before, and we’re pretty much talking TOTALLY here, and he’s like, ‘Ross, there you are. Your mother and I bought that CD, the one with the poor people telling stories from the Bible. It’s all dis, dat, dees and dose. Cheered your mother right up, it has.’ I’m just like, ‘When are you two going to focking cop yourselves on?’ and I go back up to my room, SO not in the mood for them after last night.
It storted off bad, roysh, got good around midnight, then went, like, downhill after that. It was the usual crack in the M1, the goys talking about ‘Jackass’ and the birds tearing the back off whoever was stupid enough to go to the toilet on their own. Sophie asks me how my old dear is, roysh, and I say I don’t give a shit, that the bitch deserved what she got, and Aoife asks what happened, roysh, and Sophie tells her that some lunatic threw a tin of red paint over my old dear coming out of that fur shop on Grafton Street. Aoife goes, ‘Oh my God. That is like, OH! MY! GOD!’ and Sophie goes, ‘TOTALLY. It is, like, SO not a cool thing to do. It happened to, like, my mom, too. Except it was, like, blue paint. Mom just looked at them and she was like, “That will achieve nothing. It is not going to bring the seal back and my husband will just buy me another coat”.’ Aoife goes, ‘Go Sophie’s mom! That is, like, Hello?’ and Sophie goes, ‘I know. It SO is.’
It’s my round, roysh, so I hit the bor and that’s when for one, like, brief moment the evening storts looking up. Which actually happens to be my opening line to this stunner I’m standing next to, a ringer for Tamzin Outhwaite. I’m like, ‘The evening is storting to look up.’ She goes, ‘That is such a bad chat-up line. You’re Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, aren’t you?’ I’m like, ‘The one and only.’ She goes, ‘You were with my best friend. Auveen. You were a bastard to her.’ I’m like, ‘Doesn’t sound like me. Is she the bird who gave me the Denis on my neck? Hey, I had to shell out twenty notes for a focking tetanus.’ She goes, ‘I don’t care actually that you were a shit to her. She might be my best friend but she’s an asshole.’
We’re getting on really well, roysh, so I drop the drinks over to the lads and I’m like, ‘See you goys later,’ and Aoife goes, ‘Don’t tell me you’re actually going to be with that girl?’ I’m there, ‘If she plays her cards right … maybe.’ Aoife goes, ‘Ross, she’s been going out with Brad for the last, like, five years. Brad as in Terenure Brad. Brad as in used to be on the Senior Cup team Brad?’ Fionn, roysh, the focking crawler, he goes, ‘Aoife’s right, Ross,’ and he pushes his glasses up on his nose. He’s there, ‘Brad and her are always splitting up. She probably caught him with one of her friends. She wants to get back with him and she’s using you as a chip to renegotiate terms.’ I’m just like, ‘Don’t wait up,’ which I have to say, roysh, I was pretty pleased with.
To tell you the truth I wasn’t actually that Terry Keane on this bird, roysh, but the fact that her boyfriend was Gick made it a challenge I couldn’t resist. I go back to the bor, roysh, buy her a Bacardi Breezer, fill her head with a whole load of bullshit about how I’ve been into her for ages, get a six-pack from the machine in the jacks and the next thing I know, Bob’s your auntie’s husband, we’re in a Jo Maxi on the way to her pad in Leopardstown. I have to say, roysh, I’m really in the mood at this stage, but she turns out to be one of those birds – you know the kind – who wants to watch Ghost and The Piano and every focking chick flick she owns on video before doing anything, to make the evening, like, romantic or memorable or some shit. But halfway through You’ve Got Mail, I make my move, roysh, and the next thing you know, we’re in her bedroom, blah blah blah.
But she keeps saying to me, roysh, ‘Say my name, Ross. Say my name,’ and that’s when I realise, roysh, that I don’t know it. So I jump up and I’m like, ‘I have to go to the jacks,’ and she’s like, ‘What?’ I’m there, ‘Sorry, I have to go to the toilet. Back in a second.’ She goes, ‘Hurry back.’ I go into the sitting room, roysh, and stort turning the place over looking for an ESB bill, a TV licence, a framed diploma from, I don’t know, LSB, anything with her focking name on it, but I can’t find anything. If I go back in there and tell her I don’t know it, roysh, I am so out of here it’s not funny. So I’ve, like, no other choice, roysh. I have to go to her handbag, which is on the table in the kitchen. But as I go to pick it up, roysh, I accidentally knock over this load of washing that’s hung on the back of one of the chairs. I’ve got to be quick at this stage, so I stort picking it up with one hand and going through her bag with the other, looking for a student ID, or a driving licence, or anything.
And suddenly, roysh, I can, like, sense that I’m being watched and I sort of, like, stop and I hear her going, ‘What the fock are you doing?’ I turn around and I’m like, ‘This isn’t … em …’ She goes, ‘Are you stealing money from me?’ I’m like, ‘No, I was–’ She goes, ‘What were you looking for in my bag?’ And I don’t know why, roysh, I just said, like, the first thing that came into my head. I was like, ‘Lipstick.’
She looks at me, roysh, as though she’s, like, weighing this up in her mind, and then she looks down at my hand and, like, her expression suddenly changes. And then I look down and I realise that I’m holding a pair of her tights, and she’s staring at me like I’m some kind of weirdo and she goes, ‘Lipstick? OH! MY! GOD! You are one sick boy,’ I’m like, ‘I swear, I’m not one of those trans-whatever you call them.’ She opens the door and goes, ‘Get out of my apartment! NOW!’ I’m like, ‘Please don’t tell any of the Nure goys about this.’ She goes, ‘Oh my God, I am SO going to tell everyone what a weirdo you are.’
I walk back to my gaff, knowing that by next weekend this’ll be all over town. And they’ll come up with a focking nickname for me. It’ll be Cross O’Carroll-Kelly, how much do you bet?
Michelle from Ulster Bank has left another message. She says it’s urgent.
Asked the old man for two hundred lids. Wanted to get, like, a pair of trousers and a shirt, roysh, and he goes, ‘Don’t have that kind of money on me, Ross. But your mother and I are going into the city this afternoon. You can get whatever you want on my card.’ I’m like, ‘Which means I’m going to have to go into town with you two?’ He goes, ‘Yes, what’s the problem, Kicker? Lovely summer’s day …’ And I go, ‘Do you honestly think I want to spend my day hanging out with you knobs.’
Basically I’d no other choice, though. I was going to Annabel’s that night, pretty much guaranteed my bit off Ali, this bird who’s, like, first year morkeshing in Mountjoy Square, and I needed new threads. So I lash on the old fleece, collar up, and my baseball cap – pulled down over my eyes obviously – and get into the back of the old man’s cor, bricking it in case anyone, like, recognises me. We pork the cor in the Arnott’s cor pork, focking northside, and head towards Grafton Street. The old man looks a total dickhead as per usual in his camel-hair coat and that stupid focking hat he wears. The old dear has the usual fifty baby seals on her back and I’m just there, ‘Oh my God, I SO have to get away from these two.’ The old man’s like, ‘Slow down, Kicker,’ but I’m walking, like, fifty metres ahead of them and the one time I do look back, roysh, is when I’m halfway up Grafton Street and the two of them are looking in the window of Weirs, her hanging off his arm, obviously trying to get another piece of Lladro out of the focker.
So I head on into BT2, roysh – they know where to find me – and I hit the old Hugo Boss section first and stort thinking about getting a new pair of loafers. My old ones are, like, a bit scuffed. The next thing, roysh, who do I bump into only Jill, this mate of Ali’s, roysh, who does a bit of modelling and she goes, ‘Oh my God, hi,’ and sort of, like, air-kisses me. I’m like, ‘Hey, babes, how goes it?’ flirting my orse off with her. She’s there, ‘Oh my God, Ali’s just, like, texted me this second. Are you going to, like, Annabel’s tonight?’ I’m like, ‘I could find myself in that vicinity,’ playing it totally Kool and the Gang.
The only downside of the old pair being arrested, roysh, was that I couldn’t get my new threads and also that I had to get, like, the bus home. I thought my public transport days were well and truly behind me, but there I am, roysh, upstairs on the 46a, texting JP and Christian to find out what the Jackanory is about tonight, when all of a sudden my mobile rings and it’s, like, the old man. He’s like, ‘Ross, do not panic. We’re being held in Harcourt Terrace. Now, have you phoned Hennessy?’ I’m like, ‘Phone him yourself.’ He goes, ‘Okay, let’s stay calm. We’ve got to think carefully. That’s mandatory. Now, I’m only allowed one phone call and I’ve called you.’ I’m like, ‘Bad call then.’ He’s there, ‘Hennessy’s in Jersey, Ross. He’s staying at that new golf resort I told him about. The number’s in my Filofax. In the study. Hurry, Ross. Before your mother’s coat gets infested.’
I’m like, ‘I’m not phoning him. I’m too busy for this shit.’ He goes, ‘Ross, please. You should see some of the things that are written on the walls in here.’ I’m like, ‘Why the fock are you ringing Hennessy? He’s the goy who said you wouldn’t spend a single afternoon in jail.’ He goes, ‘What? Oh, this has nothing to do with that tribunal nonsense, Ross. We were arrested for jaywalking.’ And I just, like, broke my shite laughing, roysh, for about, like, five minutes. Everyone on the bus was looking at me, going, ‘Oh my God, what is the story?’ The old man’s like, ‘You know those lights at the bottom of Grafton Street, they take a bloody age to change. So we just crossed, and some bloody garda comes chasing after us and catches up with us at Weir’s. Now phone Hennessy. I’m planning to take an action against the State for this.’
I’m like, ‘Do you remember that time when I got arrested during the summer? In Martha’s Vineyard? What did you say?’ He goes, ‘Ross, I can hear your mother sobbing in the cell next door.’ I’m like, ‘You told me you’d decided to let me stew. To teach me a lesson.’ I can hear him, like, banging on the door of his cell, going, ‘LET US OUT OF HERE. ARE WE LIVING IN CHILE ALL OF A SUDDEN?’ I’m there, ‘So now it’s payback time. I hope you like prison food,’ and then I just, like, hang up on the dickhead.
Of course, half-eight, roysh, I’m getting ready to go out when the old pair arrive back at the gaff looking pretty wrecked. The old dear takes to the bed straight away. I turn to the old man and I’m like, ‘Well, Nelson, how does it feel to finally be free?’ He gives me this filthy, roysh, and he goes, ‘You think this is a joking matter?’ I’m like, ‘You’re lucky I can see the funny side of it. You made a total show of me in BT2.’ He goes, ‘I have only one thing I want to say to you, Ross. I want you to find somewhere else to live. Your mother and I are tired of your unpleasantness, frankly. We think it’s time you stood on your own two feet in life. And we want you out of the house by the end of next week.’
I’m like, ‘Fock.’
I’m in Reynards, roysh, and I’m with this bird, Helena I think her name is. I sort of, like, know her to see from the rugby club, not bad looking, a little bit like Thora Birch but with less eye make-up. Anyway, there we are, roysh, basically wearing the face off one another and I come up for air, roysh, and she looks at me and goes, ‘Oh my God, I have fancied you for SO long.’ I’m like, ‘I’ve fancied you for ages too.’ I couldn’t swear blind that her name is Helena. She goes, ‘OH MY! GOD! you are going to think this is SO sad, but a couple of years ago, you got off the Dart in, like, Killiney, and I was walking just behind you, and you left your ticket on, like, the turnstile thing. And I picked it up. It’s been in my wallet for, like, two years. Will I show you?’ I stort, like, edging away from her. She goes, ‘Oh my God, you probably think I am such a weirdo, do you?’ Nope, I think you’re a focking psycho. I’m like, ‘No, no, I’m just going to get us another bottle of wine.’ She picks up the bottle on the table and goes, ‘But we’re not even halfway through this one.’ I’m like, ‘I just want to see if they’ve got anything dearer.’ I head for the cloakroom, grab my jacket, get the Fightlink home.
It turns out the old pair were serious about focking me out of the gaff, roysh, unless I apologised for what happened. As if. Packed my rucksack and opened the front door and the old man comes out of the sitting room, roysh, big sad face on the focker, and he goes, ‘We could put this behind us, Ross. All you have to do is say you’re sorry.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, roysh. Get real.’ Of course the old dear comes out then, playing the whole concerned parent bit, going, ‘Ross, where are you going to stay?’ I’m like, ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business anymore, do you? Take a good, long look at me, both of you. It’s the last time you’ll ever see me.’
I could hear the old dear bawling her eyes out, roysh, and I kind of regretted saying that last bit because I was still hoping the old man would give me the money for my cor insurance, which is up, like, next month. Of course he probably won’t even pay it now, that’s the kind of dickhead he is. Anyway, roysh, the reason I was able to be so, like, Jack the Lad about being focked out was that I already had somewhere else to stay. Fionn’s old pair had bought him an apartment in Dalkey for his twenty-first and basically I was going to be, like, kipping on his sofa for the foreseeable future. But I needed funds, so I had to, like, get a job, which meant dropping out of college, though I didn’t mind that so much because I’m pretty sure I failed all my summer exams again and the idea of having to do first year a third time was SO wrecking my head, and we’re talking TOTALLY here.
Basically I had a job lined up pretty much straight away. I’d had a few scoops the night before with JP, who’s doing an MDB, we’re talking Managing Daddy’s Business, namely Hook, Lyon and Sinker Estate Agents. When he floated the idea of working with him, I was like, ‘JP, I’d literally do anything. Well, within reason. I’m not photocopying, or answering phones, or shit. I don’t want anyone taking focking liberties. But I need lids, man. I’m desperate.’ He goes, ‘Ten-four, Ross. I’m hearing you. Let’s fast-track this idea.’ JP speaks fluent morkeshing. I’m like, ‘What I want is to stort on Monday morning.’ He goes, ‘I’ll talk to the old man tomorrow. See if he’ll take the idea off-line. I’ll touch base with you in the afternoon.’ So JP texts me the next day, roysh, tells me his old man thought it was a win-win situation, which basically means I got the job.
Monday morning I’m out of the scratcher really early, we’re talking half-eight here, and I head into the office in Donnybrook, big focking plush gaff, really handy for Kiely’s. JP high-fives me and gives me a list of, like, definitions that I have to basically learn off by heart. It’s, like, a whole new language and shit. It’s all, ‘Innovative use of space �
�� pokey as fock. High specification fit-out kitchen – cooker and fridge. Tranquil waterfront setting – overlooking the Dargle. Parkland setting – grass verge nearby (for now). Dublin 24 – Tallafornia.’
I’ve just finished reading it when JP’s old man arrives, big dog-turd of a cigar clamped between his teeth, a complete focking sleazebag, and he goes, ‘Have you told him about the T-word, JP?’ I’m like, ‘You mean Tallaght?’ and he slams his briefcase down on my desk and goes, ‘That’s the first and last time you ever say that word in this office. Capisce?’ I’m like, ‘Eh, yeah. Kool and the Gang.’ He goes, ‘Don’t ever use that word. It’s Dublin 24. Blessington if you’re really feeling cocky. But never what you just said. Office rules numbers one, two and three.’ He storts, like, examining the end of his cigar, which has gone out, and he’s there, ‘There’s worse places, of course. Some of the areas we sell houses in, Christ, you should see them. The queues outside the post office on family allowance day. Like Poland twenty years ago.’ He turns around all of a sudden, roysh, points at JP and goes, ‘What do we love?’ and JP, roysh, quick as a flash, goes, ‘The free market,’ and his old man goes, ‘Yes, we do. Yes, we do. Sorry, Ross. Little game we play.’
He lights his cigar again, takes a few short drags on it and goes, ‘I’m going to level with you, kid. We sell a lot of houses here and most of them – honestly? – I wouldn’t expect our dog to stay in them. AND I DON’T EVEN LIKE OUR DOG. It was the wife who wanted it. Had a cute face, you see. Two more words we don’t use, Ross – at least not in this exact juxtaposition – are NEGATIVE and EQUITY. It’s the time to buy. Tell them that. TIME TO BUY! Every house you’re selling, you say, “Strong capital appreciation predicted,” and say it in great, big capital letters. STRONG CAPITAL APPRECIATION PREDICTED!’ JP hands me a cup of coffee and goes, ‘Welcome to the firm, Ross,’ and his old man goes, ‘Your father, does he still own those two apartments in Seapoint? Might give him a call. Really is the time to sell, you know.’