Schmidt Happens

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

‘Right,’ she goes.

  ‘And you’re still cool with that, are you?’

  ‘Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘No reason.’

  She finishes feeding – such a random name – Hillary, then storts burping the dude.

  ‘So what about you?’ I go. ‘Have you arranged anything yourself?’

  She’s like, ‘No, I’ll let you take the lead on this one.’

  In fairness, I think she’s going to have a lot more difficulty finding dates than I will. I’m not being a dick, but she’s a mother of five these days – and even though she’s talking about going back to yogalates, she’s never going to get her body back to its original factory setting.

  She goes, ‘I’m so glad we’re doing this, Ross.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I am, too. I can’t believe my luck, in fact.’

  ‘So when’s it happening?’

  ‘You want to know?’

  ‘Of course I want to know!’

  ‘Well, I was going to suggest maybe Monday night?’

  ‘Great! And where were you thinking in terms of? Hey, what about that new Japanese-American fusion restaurant on Camden Street?’

  ‘Everybody Loves Ramen?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be amazing.’

  ‘Yeah, no, I’ve heard good things myself. That’s actually a good call.’

  ‘What time were you thinking?’

  ‘Well, I’m supposed to be meeting Devin Toner in Grogan’s at seven. He’s trying to sell me his old Bodymax Ab Cruncher. I’ll probably head for the restaurant straight from there.’

  ‘So what do you think – eight o’clock?’

  ‘Sounds about right, yeah.’

  ‘Do you want me to book it?’

  ‘You? Would that not be a bit weird for you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I think I’d find it a bit weird if the roles were reversed. I might just book it myself if that’s okay?’

  ‘Whatever you think, Ross. Oh, speaking of restaurants, we’re going to Roly’s for Sunday lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘You, me, Honor and the boys. Mom and Dad are treating us.’

  ‘I focking hate your mom and dad!’

  ‘Ross!’

  ‘I do, though. And so does Honor.’

  ‘Monday is the first day of Dad’s release from bankruptcy – and he wants to bring us out to say thank you for putting a roof over their heads for the last two years.’

  ‘Focking dickhead.’

  ‘Ross, he’s being nice.’

  ‘He’s incapable of being nice. Anyway, I’d better go back to Honor’s room. We’re doing ten style hacks to make any bag look AH-MAZING – even if all you can afford is High Street!’

  Sorcha’s old man is full of it. And when I say it, I obviously mean shit?

  He goes, ‘It’s just our little way of saying thank you, Sorcha – for putting up with us.’

  He doesn’t thank me, by the way. Or Honor? There’s not a word of appreciation for Brian, Johnny and Leo – although they’re not actually sitting here. They’re running wild around the restaurant.

  Sorcha goes, ‘It’s like I said to you this morning, Dad. You can go on living in the Shomera for as long as you like.’

  I’m there, ‘Obviously we don’t mean that literally.’

  ‘Yes, we actually do, Ross.’

  ‘I thought it was more a figure of speech, like, Have a nice day! or, Drink responsibly!’

  Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘It’ll be one more year, then we’ll be out of your hair, Sorcha.’

  I end up nearly choking on a mouthful of Pomme Anna. I’m like, ‘A year?’

  Honor says it at the exact same time. She’s like, ‘You must be focking joking.’

  He goes, ‘I’m hoping to go back into practice soon. We’ll get some savings together and rent a little apartment – maybe somewhere in Dalkey, so we can be close to Hillary.’

  Honor looks at me. ‘A year?’ she goes. ‘Can you believe this shit?’

  I don’t get a chance to call the focker out on it because all of a sudden some dude passes our table on the way back from the jacks and goes, ‘Edmund Lalor! How the hell are you?’

  He’s a big, fat focker with a voice that’s about twenty decibels louder than it needs to be. The kind of dude you’d see playing golf in Milltown with my old man and nodding in agreement when my old man says shit like, I don’t know, women shouldn’t be allowed to use credit cords while they’re premenstrual.

  The dude goes, ‘How the hell are you? Are you looking forward to the Six Nations?’

  And Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Yes, it, em, should be a good one this year. A lot of interesting match-ups.’

  There are few funnier things in life than Sorcha’s old man trying to pretend that he knows anything about rugby. He quickly changes the subject by introducing the orsehole to his wife and daughter.

  ‘This is Hugh Hess,’ he goes. ‘Specializes in Family Law. Hugh, you know my wife. And this is my daughter, Sorcha.’

  He says fock-all about me and Honor, by the way.

  ‘Ah,’ this Hugh dude goes, ‘you’re the famous Senator!’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Yes, I was one of An Taoiseach’s nominees to Seanad Éireann – although, at the moment, I’m on, like, maternity leave?’

  You can see the dude’s eyes immediately glaze over.

  ‘That’s, er, great,’ he goes. ‘Edmund, when are we going to see you back in the Courts again?’

  ‘As it happens,’ Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘I was just discussing that very thing. From today, I am officially no longer a bankrupt!’

  ‘Well, then I’m going to get the waiter to send you over a bottle of champagne!’

  ‘You don’t need to do that, Hugh.’

  ‘I’m doing it! No arguments!’

  ‘Actually, I was just telling my daughter that I’m hoping to return to practising in the coming months – maybe start looking at office space by the summer.’

  The dude fishes about in the inside pocket of his suit jacket and whips out his business cord. ‘Ring me,’ he goes, ‘as soon as you want to come back. I can send a lot of work your way. I’ve got way more cases than I can handle.’

  Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Thanks, Hugh. Thank you so much.’

  The dude eventually focks off back to his table and Sorcha’s old man stares at the cord like it’s, I don’t know – name some famous painting? He’s there, ‘I think my luck is changing at long last!’

  He’s delighted with himself. The proverbial dog with a boner.

  Sorcha’s old dear goes, ‘It’s fate, Edmund! That’s what it is!’

  He’s like, ‘Hugh was right, by the way, Sorcha. It’s maybe time you started thinking about returning to the Upper House of the Oireachtas and the vital business of governance!’

  It’s weird because I didn’t hear the dude say anything like that?

  Sorcha goes, ‘Er, I’ve just had a baby, Dad!’

  But her old man’s like, ‘Fionn’s more than capable of looking after Hillary. Haven’t you seen how he is with him? Besides, you’ve got a country to run.’

  A country to run? Wind your focking neck in, I think. It’s only the Seanad!

  He goes, ‘Such a pity that he couldn’t make it today. Where did you say he was again?’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘He’s having lunch with his own family. His sister is home from Vancouver. She’s meeting Hillary for the first time.’

  I rode his sister. Several times. I don’t mention it, though. I suppose there’s no real reason to.

  The dude goes, ‘He was chatting away to Hillary this morning in French, would you believe? Not only French but German, too. Did you know that children born to multilingual parents perform better in IQ tests? It’s in this book he’s reading.’

  ‘Absolutely fascinating!’ Sorcha’s old dear goes – and she seems to genuinely mean it.

  ‘Fionn speaks seven differe
nt languages fluently. Were you aware of that, Sorcha?’

  There’s a bit of him that will never forgive her for getting back together with me. I’m about to call him a focking knob-end when Honor all of a sudden looks up from her phone and goes, ‘Oh my God, Dad, you are so popular!’

  I’m like, ‘Me? What are you talking about? Is it rugby-related?’

  ‘People – oh my God – love you,’ she goes. ‘The video with your Outfit of the Day in it has got, like, 526 views!’

  Sorcha tries to get in on the act then. She’s there, ‘Oh my God, I was going to suggest doing a video on juxtaposing metallics with pastels! I’ve always said I can’t believe it’s not an actual thing, Honor!’

  But Honor totally burns her. She just goes, ‘They love our chemistry, Dad. Listen to the comments they left underneath my unboxing video: “You are so lucky to have a dad who buys you everything you want! My dad is a stingy focking prick who doesn’t buy me shit!” And then this one: “Oh! My! God! You two are like a comedy act! Your dad is HILARIOUS! Boxer shorts! Lol! And I love that funny voice he does!”’

  I’m thinking, What funny voice?

  Honor goes, ‘And then – oh my God – this one: “I hope my dad and your mom both die, then I hope my mom and your dad get married, because then you’ll be my sister and I’ll have LOADS of clothes AND a cool dad!”’

  It’s all good stuff for me to hear. But what’s even nicer for me is the reason Honor’s reading the comments out? She’s reminding me that I’m a great father, despite the fact that I can’t speak any languages other than English – and that not especially well.

  I’m there, ‘Did you hear all of that, Sorcha? Maybe read out some more, Honor. It’d be interesting to get a few other people’s takes on what kind of a father I am.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Yeah, I think we’ve maybe heard enough, Ross?’

  A waiter arrives at our table then. Brian, Johnny and Leo are with him and their faces are covered with what looks very much to me like chocolate ice cream. The dude goes, ‘Can I ask you to please keep a closer eye on your children? We don’t allow guests into the kitchen to help themselves to dessert.’

  And that’s when the shouting suddenly storts. It’s coming from the far side of the restaurant – someone going, ‘Are you deaf or just fucking stupid? I said my lunch is cold!’

  It’s Hugh Hess – and he’s absolutely rinsing some poor waitress. She’s trying to argue back, except he’s shouting over her with his big focking Law Library voice. He’s going, ‘I’m not interested in when you brought the food or how long it’s been sitting here. It should have been sufficiently hot to allow me to go to the bathroom, then talk to an old colleague on the way back to the table. But it wasn’t. And now it’s lukewarm – at best. It’s fucking unacceptable.’

  Everyone in the restaurant just freezes. Out of the corner of his mouth, Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Hugh has a terrible temper. He’s famous for it.’

  The waitress storts crying then, but the dude doesn’t let up. He’s like, ‘Oh, here come the tears! The fucking snowflake generation! Can’t accept criticism!’

  People are just, like, staring with their mouths open, feeling sorry for the poor girl but at the same time not wanting to get involved. And that’s when Honor suddenly stands up.

  ‘Will you shut the fock up?’ she goes.

  There’s, like, gasps in the restaurant. It’s Roly’s, bear in mind.

  The dude goes, ‘I beg your pardon?’ like he’s in court or something.

  Honor’s there, ‘No one actually gives a fock whether your lunch is cold or not! So sit the fock down and shut the fock up, you fat, pompous wanker!’

  You can hear people all over the restaurant struggling to hold the laughter in. Sorcha’s old man is obviously thinking about all the work he’s been promised because he turns suddenly pale. He looks at Honor with genuine hatred in his eyes and goes, ‘That’s enough from you!’

  And I’m like, ‘No, it isn’t,’ and then I stand up? ‘You heard what the girl said – pipe the fock down.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Hugh Hess goes, proving that he knows fock-all about rugby as well.

  I’m there, ‘I’m her father.’

  ‘Well,’ he goes, ‘may I suggest that you take a firmer hand in parenting that child?’

  But I’m like, ‘No, you may not. Because Honor has turned out just fine. And I’m proud to have raised a daughter who’s prepared to stand up to men like you.’

  He stands up then? He’s there, ‘Men like me? Perhaps you’d like to explain what you mean by that phrase? But I’d advise you to be solicitous in your choice of words – there are witnesses present.’

  ‘Er, bullying a waitress?’ I go. ‘It’s the easiest thing in the world to pick on someone who’s not allowed to answer back – and tell you what you actually are. Which is a prick, in case you were wondering.’

  It’s un-focking-believable! Everyone in the restaurant storts suddenly clapping? It’s, like, a full-on round of applause. Then the cheering storts. I pick my napkin up off the floor and I throw it on the table, then I walk out of the place, stopping only to shout, ‘End of!’ at this Hugh Hess tool. ‘End! Of!’

  I walk down the stairs and out onto Ballsbridge Terrace. I stand there for a seconds, then I realize I left my focking jacket behind. But then a few seconds later, Honor comes out carrying it.

  She’s like, ‘You forgot this.’

  And I’m there, ‘Thanks. I didn’t want to have to walk back in?’

  ‘Why did you even leave?’

  ‘I actually don’t know. It felt like a real mic drop moment. I think I just got swept along by all the clapping and cheering. I’d barely even touched my venison.’

  ‘Do you want to go back in?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Let’s just go home, will we? Sorcha can bring the boys.’

  I’m about to stort walking back to the cor.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Honor goes. ‘Did you mean what you said?’

  I’m there, ‘In terms of?’

  ‘What you said about being proud of the way I am.’

  ‘Hey, I definitely meant it. I love that you’re not afraid to call it.’

  ‘You’re the only one. Everyone else thinks I’m horrible.’

  ‘You’re not horrible. Not all the time. Plus, you’ve other qualities.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  She means Sorcha’s old man.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, it was funny. No work for him, I’m presuming.’

  She goes, ‘Dad, I know I’m not always nice to you, but I want you to know that I think all those people who left comments under my unboxing video are right. You are the best dad in the world.’

  She throws her orms around me and I kiss her on the top of her head. The best dad in the world. I’ll take that. But then suddenly my phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but I end up taking the call anyway. I’m like, ‘You’ve got Ross!’ which is a thing I’ve gone back to saying when I answer the phone.

  It ends up being a woman’s voice. She’s like, ‘Ross? Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, is it?’

  And I’m like, ‘Depends. Who wants to know?’

  She goes, ‘I’m Garda Sheila Ní Fhloinn from Finglas station. I just wanted to let you know that your son has been arrested.’

  I hear Ronan before I see him. I’m standing in the gorda station on Mellowes Road and I can hear him roaring from the area of the cells.

  ‘Let me ourra hee-or!’ he’s going. ‘I’ll fooken moorder evoddy last one of you doorty Fascist bastards – smell of bleaten bacon off the lot of yous!’

  I haven’t heard him talk like this since he was ten years old and a Gorda Youth Diversion Officer seized his imitation Glock. I apologize to the woman.

  ‘Sorry,’ I go. ‘He obviously learned that from his mother’s side of the family.’

  She smiles at me. She’s not great. And that’s with
the greatest will in the world.

  ‘We know Ronan of old,’ she goes and she says it in, like, a fond way? ‘Tina used to bring him in here – he couldn’t have been more than five – and she’d ask us to lock him up for the weekend. Scare him straight, she said. He’d refuse food for forty-eight hours, then he’d walk out of here on Sunday night, shouting, “You didn’t break me, you dirty pig fucks!”’

  I laugh. I shouldn’t, but I do.

  I’m there, ‘He was very funny as a kid. I thought he’d left those days behind him, though. So what did he do?’

  She goes, ‘We arrested him last night outside the home of his wife. I believe they’re separated?’

  ‘Yeah, no, they were never actually married? Thanks be to fock.’

  ‘We received a complaint. There was an allegation that he was planning to snatch his daughter.’

  ‘Let me guess who the allegator was. Did he have a st … st … st … st … stutter?’

  She laughs. I think she genuinely likes me. It’s such a pity she’s horrendous.

  She goes, ‘Let’s just say we know Kennet Tuite of old as well.’

  I’m there, ‘There’s no way Ronan would have tried to snatch Rihanna-Brogan. He probably just wanted to see her.’

  ‘Look, the lads all love Ronan in here. But we have to take these reports seriously. Plus, he was drunk and abusive.’

  From the cells, I can hear him shout, ‘I’ll thrag evoddy last one of yous bastoords up in front of fooken GSOC … Yous fooken bastoords!’

  I’m there, ‘Has he been chorged with anything?’

  She goes, ‘Nothing. We hoped he might just sleep it off. If you can calm him down, he can go now.’

  She presses some buttons on a keypad on the wall, then leads me into a corridor where all the cells are. Ronan’s in the last one. She unlocks the door and in I walk.

  He goes, ‘They took the laces out of me bleaten rudders, Rosser!’

  He looks like shit. I say it to him as well. I’m like, ‘You look like shit.’

  Then he stares at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time. He goes, ‘You doorty, bleaten collaborator, Rosser! You doorty, bleaten collaborating fook!’

  I’m there, ‘Ro, calm down!’

  ‘Let me ourra hee-or!’ he shouts. ‘I want to speak to Nordeen O’Suddivan!’