‘Fionn and Erika getting engaged,’ he goes. ‘That was straight out of left-field, wasn’t it?’ I laugh. ‘Yeah, Fionn, who hadn’t had his hand on a breast since KFC closed on O’Connell Street . . . ’
SO I’M WRAPPING my face around a death row breakfast of saturated fat and maple syrup when I notice a girl sitting on the other side of the restaurant copping a good eyeful of me in between sips of her Tazo tea. She has a nice face but a body like a bag of wet laundry. Still, I’m nothing if not a people person.
“Are these your eyeballs?” I go, holding my empty hand out flat. This is a line I’d be famous for, by the way. “And I’m only asking because I found them on my abs.”
There’s no reaction from her. Not even, like, a smile? I’m beginning to wonder is she possibly – I don’t know – foreign, when a familiar voice behind me goes: “Well, you certainly haven’t lost it.” I’d know that voice anywhere. Who wouldn’t recognise the voice of his best friend in the world?
“Christian!” I go, hopping down off my stool and hanging five in the air for him. “I didn’t even know you were coming home.” He laughs. “Well, it was all very last minute.” He looks incredible – and I mean that in a strictly goy to goy kind of way.
The US obviously suits him.
I’m like, “So how’s . . . ” except I don’t get a chance to even finish the question. Because there’s the answer, standing beside him in, like, an LA Lakers vest. My godson. Ross Jr. The last time I saw him, he was just a bundle of blankets in Christian’s orms. Now he’s a little person. Walking and . . .
“Hi, Uncle Roth,” he goes. He’s got one of those gaps in his front teeth that means he can’t pronounce certain words. It’s incredibly cute at that age – like the kid out of Jerry Maguire – although I suspect it’s going to cost Christian and Lauren a fortune in elocution lessons later on. “Do you like milk thakth, Uncle Roth?”
I laugh. “Milk shakes?” I go. “I focking love them.”
“My daddy’th bringing me to the milk thake thop in Thtillorgan . . . You thaid a thwear word, Uncle Roth.”
“I did. Sorry. They tend to sometimes slip out.”
I look at Christian. “What an amazing kid.”
He nods. “He has his moments. Hey, I can’t wait for him to meet Honor. We should arrange a play date.”
I must have pulled a face then, because Christian asks me what’s up. I’m like, “I’d, er, keep him away from her if I were you. Look, it’s a terrible thing to say about your own kid but Honor’s turned out to be a bit of an arsehole.”
He just nods. “Sorcha was telling Lauren that she’s in that movie that they’re making of your old dear’s book. Don’t tell me that stardom’s gone to her head.”
“I don’t even know if it’s just that? She’s a bad egg, Christian. If you could think of a five-year-old girl with all of my worst qualities and all of Sorcha’s worst qualities – that’d be her.”
“Jesus.”
“I sometimes think she’s my punishment for the way I treated my old pair. Anyway, how the hell are you?”
Christian’s been in the States for the past, like, four years, literally living the dream. He’s the project manager for the new Star Wars-themed casino that opened in Vegas, like, two years ago. His budget was, like, a billion dollars and he ended up spending something like one point three on it. Money was no object.
“Yeah,” he goes, “we’re, er, good.”
“I hear where you’re living now you can ski in the morning and basically surf in the afternoon,” I go, seriously jealous.
He’s like, “Yeah. But it’d mean a five-hour drive in between.”
“So how long are you home for?”
“I don’t know. It’s, er, kind of open-ended at the moment.”
“Well, I’d say you’ll be running back to the States after a week here. I presume you’ve heard that this country’s focked.”
He shakes his head. “America’s worse, Ross. Have you been following the story about Obama’s efforts to raise the federal debt ceiling?”
What a question. He’s obviously been away too long.
“I’ve, er, dipped in and out of it,” I go. “All I’m saying is that it’s good to see that one of us is doing well. You heard Oisinn’s a bankrupt? And JP and his old man are still doing repossessions. But look at you, still flying high.”
He smiles and changes the subject. “How’s your dad?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh? “Dude, I wouldn’t care about that focker if Morgan Freeman was narrating the story of his life. You heard he wants to run for the actual presidency now?”
“What?”
“Yeah, we’re talking the presidency of Ireland. Except no one will nominate him.”
He shakes his head, as if to say, will he ever change? “And how’s Ronan?”
“Yeah, Ro’s still Ro. Top of his class. Sitting his Junior Cert next year, if you can believe that. IQ of something ridiculous. Not bad for a kid who was teethed on a Glock and raised in a part of the world where you can’t fart without everyone wanting to stand up for the national anthem.”
He just nods and goes, “He’s a credit to you, Ross,” which is a lie. He’s a credit to his mother. I accept the compliment anyway. “And Fionn and Erika getting engaged,” he goes. “That was straight out of left-field, wasn’t it?”
I laugh. “Yeah, Fionn, who hadn’t had his hand on a breast since KFC closed on O’Connell Street . . . ”
“And now he’s marrying your sister.”
“Half-sister. And that’s if it even goes ahead. Personally, I think she’s pressing the panic button. Lot of birds do when they hit 30. Still, he’s a mate – which is why I’m going to make sure I’m there for him when she eventually drops him like a wet coat.”
“We’ll have to arrange a night out,” he goes. “Just the goys. You, me, Fionn, Oisinn, JP . . . ”
“Be like old times.”
“Exactly.”
“Dude,” I go, “it’s genuinely great to see you. And little Ross as well.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s great to see you looking so well. And obviously doing so well.”
He sort of, like, laughs – I don’t know if it’s an actual phrase, but inwardly? Then he fixes me with a look and smiles sadly.
“Ross,” he says, “I got sacked.”
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock