The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years (8 page)

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.’

I don’t know why they call it Boomerangs. I said that to the bouncer who focked me out on Wednesday night. I was like, ‘I don’t know why they call it Boomerangs. I won’t be coming back.’

JP’s old man says he wants to interface with me Friday a.m., which basically means he wants to talk to me on Friday morning, roysh, to find out how I’m getting on with the two or three pages of estate agent vocab he gave me to, like, learn off and shit. He goes, ‘No wall, no fence?’ and I’m like, ‘Open-plan front garden.’ He’s like, ‘Two plug sockets in every room?’ and I go, ‘Generous electrical specification.’ He goes, ‘Ballymun?’ and I’m like, ‘Glasnevin.’ Then he sort of, like, squints his eyes, roysh, and he goes, ‘I don’t usually rush these things, Ross, but I think you’re ready to start selling.’ I’m like, ‘Well, I know I’m not even here a week yet, but I feel I’m ready too.’ He goes, ‘Tell you what, let’s get a couple of grande frappuccinos to celebrate. Better make them skinny milk, decaf, cinnamon, no chocolate. This bloody heart of mine. Better start listening to the doctor. I pay him enough.’

He calls in his secretary, roysh, quite a good-looking bird I have to say, but CHV – we’re talking
TOTAL
Council House Vermin here – and he sends her out to the shop, his eyes sort of, like, looking her up and down as she goes out the door. He goes, ‘Was that a ladder in her tights or a stairway to heaven?’ and I
break my shite laughing, roysh, even though hearing him say it makes me feel sort of, like, sick.