Today must be payback day - Cillian wants wedge for his cor, and some goy wants to apologise for giving me wedgies in school . . .
This shower I'm working for have got, like, a written policy on sexual discrimination that stops me from telling you that the new bird in advisory consulting has a face like Nicole Scherzinger and an orse like two scoops of butterscotch ice cream, shrink-wrapped.
Monday morning, roysh, we're the first two in and I mosey over to her desk, just to, like, officially welcome her to the company and give her one or two of my lines.
I'm slicker than a fox in a tux, me.
She's telling me what exactly it is she does and I'm doing that thing you do with girls, cracking on to be listening, pulling all the right faces, blahdy blahdy blah. Denise is her name and I'm just about to ask her, roysh, what she's doing Friday night when I hear someone shout, "Black, two sugars, now!" and I don't need to turn around to know it's the man who'll one day, hopefully, marry my STBX and save me a fortune in alimony.
"Was that guy talking to you?" Denise goes, a bit taken aback it must be said, because I might have slightly exaggerated my position within the company when I told her I was the deputy director of overseas risk management and it'd be worth her while keeping in with me.
I'm there, "He must think I'm someone else. Wait here - I'm going to make him grovel for his job . . ." I go into Cillian's office and straight away I'm all apologies about creaming his Chrysler 300C. He doesn't say a word about it, just reminds me that he hasn't had his coffee yet.
But an hour later, he calls me in and asks me what I was doing hanging around Sorcha's gaff in the first place. See, this is his, I suppose, Achilles heel - he's a total control freak.
"She seemed happy enough to see me," I go. He ends up freaking. "Fifteen thousand," he goes. "That's the damage to the car. Can I have it please?" and he looks at me like he expects me to suddenly pull it out of my Eddie Rocket. "Oh, you don't have it?" he goes. "Ross, you already owe me the ten thousand I gave you at Christmas. How do you propose to repay this?" "Put on knee-high boots and dance for you?" I go. See, I've always been a slave to the one-liner. "
You're going to have to work extra hours," he goes, with that this'll-wipe-the-smile-off- your-boat tone. "Thursday and Friday nights. Saturdays and Sundays . . ." I'm there, "You're dreaming. I've got tickets to Ireland v Wales next week. Supposed to be bringing Ro." "Not my problem," he goes, then he just goes back to his work.
It's weird, roysh, but even though I don't believe in a God who wants me to do stuff, I believe there's, like, something out there, pretty much controlling shit? Deep, I know, but it's the only way to explain what happened next. I get a call, roysh, to say there's someone at reception to see me, won't give his name, blahdy blahdy blah.
So I tip down in the lift and there's, like, only one person waiting in the seating area and that's some dude I don't recognise, we're talking blond, Nautica clobber, shades in the hair, just your average cocaine Saturday, farmers' market Sunday type.
"Ross," he goes, obviously copping my face, "I can't believe you don't remember me." I'm there, "Er, you're not the goy who chased me out of that aportment in Milltown, are you? Because that girl told me she was single . . ." He's like, "No, no, no. Ross, it's me - Karl Macken . . ." Karl Macken. It's like a focking bomb has suddenly gone off inside my head. I can literally feel my legs go.
He laughs. "Ross, I'm not going to hurt you. Sit down. I have something to say to you." When I was in, like, first year in Castlerock, Karl Macken bullied me to the point where I nearly ended up joining Clongowes. He was in, like, sixth year and on the S, which made him pretty much untouchable - and boy did he use that. He was the one who found out that we used to live in Sallynoggin - it was actually Glenageary - and he made my life a living hell. He gave me so many wedgies, I stopped wearing underpants altogether.
He holds up his hands. "Honestly," he goes, "I'm not going to hurt you." I sort of, like, reluctantly sit down opposite him and I'm like, "What do you want, then?" He's there, "Believe it or not, I want to apologise. I can't imagine what it must have been like for you. The terror of coming to school every morning, never knowing what torture me and the goys had in store for you . . ." I'm there, "Why are you telling me this?" He's like, "I want you to know I'm a different person now." "But why is it any of my bee's wax - that was, like, years ago." "Ross," he goes. "I'm doing the steps . . ." I'm like, "Oh." "Making direct amends where possible? I'm not saying that that was the reason I did what I did to you. But, well, it's cowardice and insecurity that makes bullies of us, isn't it. Same things that made me drink. "Anyway, I won't take up any more of your time. You seem to be doing very well for yourself," he goes, looking around the swanky reception area. "Again, Ross, I'm very, very sorry." We shake hands. I'm a bit stunned by it all. I'm probably still in shock when I whip out my phone and ring Cillian.
Before he gets a word in edgeways, I go, "I'm just ringing to tell you to stick your job . . . I'm owed two weeks' wages. Keep it. It'll pay for a headlamp . . ." "What about the rest?" he goes. "And what are you going to do for money, huh? You're not exactly overfurnished in the brains department." "I don't know," I go. "All I know is I'm hanging up on you now."
I walk up the quays, feeling unbelievable but my head swimming. I'm thinking, I'm up to my eyes in debt, no moolah, no job.
What am I going to do? All of a sudden, roysh, a taxi pulls up alongside me, travelling in the direction of the Point. The back window rolls down and a voice I'd recognise anywhere goes, "Ross Kyle Gibson McBride O'Carroll-Kelly!" I stop and I can suddenly feel myself smiling, wide as the focking Liffey there. Then the door swings open.
He goes, "In you get, Kicker."