I'd have to be pretty desperate for moolah to get an actual job, but work as a focking PA for my ex-wife's boyfriend? Looks like I've finally hit rock bottom
I'm in the old Hilary Swank on College Green, doing a bit of business.
"Can I check my actual balance?" I go, and the dude tells me to pop my cord in the little machine and enter my pin.
After a few seconds of farting around, he eventually goes, "Your balance is . . . three-fifty," to which I naturally go, "As in, three hundred and fifty?" "No," he goes, "As in, three-fifty," and he says it in, like, such a cocky way, roysh, I end up having to remind him that I could be sitting where he is by three o'clock this afternoon if I wanted. All it'd take is a call to one of many Castlerock past pupils who're practically running the place.
I'm bluffing, of course. They wouldn't trust me to find my own arse in the bath. But it softens his cough.
"I'm sorry, sir," he goes, having obviously twigged who he's talking to.
I don't need to show him this piece of metal hanging around the old Jeff Beck.
"Not that I'm so desperate for moolah that I'd have to do something as drastic as work," I go. "A wage slave, I am not." He's like, "Of course not." "Unlike you," I go. "I mean, what kind of shekels are you pulling in a week? Actually, don't answer that - don't want to start the New Year on a downer . . ." "Yes, sir." I'm like, "Now, I didn't come in here to exchange pleasantries with the serfdom. I want to change my account details . . ." "Certainly," he goes. "Which details in particular?" I'm like, "Well, basically, my name?" He looks at me, roysh, as if to say, why would he want to change his name when it means something to pretty much everyone in this town.
"What do you, er, want to change it to?" he goes.
I'm like, "I want to drop the O'Carroll. I want to be Ross Kelly. What do you think of that?" "Er, yeah," he goes. "Whatever." I'm there, "Really grabs you, doesn't it? It's, like, straight in your face. No focking about. Takes less time to say it. Leaves me more time to do other things - namely bring happiness to the lives of women, young and old . . ." People are storting to get impatient in the queue behind me. In fairness, it's pretty rammers for a Wednesday lunchtime. I suppose it's because of, like, New Year and shit? This woman actually tuts - it's either a sigh or a tut - and I end up having to turn around and give her a big-time filthy.
"Do you mind me asking," the goy goes, "what, er, what difference it makes? As in, the name?" I'm like, "I'm going to tell you what I told the goy from XtraVision who rang this morning to tell me I owed €28 in overdue fines on Guitar Hero. My old dear's name is O'Carroll. You may or may not know this but she writes basically dirty books for menopausal old wenches who aren't getting any - and, not surprisingly, I don't want people to know I'm related to her any more. So - basically? - fix it." "It's done," he goes and I'm like, "Kool and the Gang."
I go outside. It's pelting and I think about grabbing a Buckys and a paper and finding out what's in Wardy's crystal ball for 2008.
That's when my phone rings. I don't recognise the number but I make the mistake of answering it.
It's him. I can barely bring myself to say his name. Cillian.
"Need a word," he goes.
I'm like, "I'll give you two. The second one's yourself." "I'd laugh," he goes, "but it's not an informal call. I need to arrange a meet." "Sure," I go. "How does never sound to you." He's like, "Believe me - this is in your interests. There's a place on Aungier Street. The Bald Barista. I'll see you there in 15 minutes." I must admit, the tosser has me intrigued. I know the place well, being a regular fisher of the waters across the road, namely Dumb Blonde School.
He's waiting for me when I arrive. But then he would be, because I arrive half an hour late.
"I'll get straight down to business," he goes. "You owe me money . . ." He's talking about the ransom he handed over when I got, like, tiger kidnapped? "Ten grand to be precise - plus interest at, what, 12 per cent?" I swear to God, I've had my focking fill of the whole financial services sector today. "I don't have it," I go and for once I'm not actually lying. "Then we need to work out some kind of payment plan," he goes, sitting there all smug in his Magee suit. "Speaking of which, your alimony, or whatever you want to call it - you've missed your last four payments . . ."
I can't believe what I'm actually hearing here. What business is it of his?
"If you don't keep up your payments . . ." "Whoa," I go, "if you're going to stort threatening me, you'd want to be filling out that tin of fruit a bit better than you are . . ." "I'm not threatening you, Ross. I want to help you. Sorcha's old man, he wants you thrown in jail. How'd that be?
Honor seeing her father every weekend through a set of grille bars. Of course I don't need to tell you how that'd feel . . ." That was low. Man, that was lower than whale shit.
"Look, Ross, excuse me for being forward here but you have a lot of liabilities and no means of income. It's pretty plain to me that you need a job." "Don't be ridiculous," I go. "Things are never that bad." "I'll put it to you another way - Mr Lalor is planning to initiate procedings against you tomorrow. Now, I think I can hold him off, but only if you go along with the plan." I'm like, "Plan?" "I need a PA," he goes. "It's not a bad job. We'll start you on forty Ks a year . . ." "You're dreaming." "Which will allow you to make your weekly payments to Sorcha and repay what you owe me. I'd be prepared to waive the interest . . ." "And of course you'd love that," I go, "wouldn't you? Your girlfriend's ex-husband working for you. They'd love that in Pricewaterhouse-whatever-the-fock. Make you feel more of a man . . ."
"By the end of the month," he goes, "you could be sharing a room with your old man. I don't see that you have very many options here." He has me by the knackers and he knows it. He smiles at me then, a big, shit-eating smile, sticks out his hand and goes, "Welcome to the firm, Ross O'Carroll-Kelly." "It's just Kelly," I go. "Ross Kelly."