Rhino What You Did Last Summer

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  ‘Erika, yeah.’

  ‘What is it about her that you find so attractive?’

  ‘Found so attractive,’ I go. ‘I’d prefer to talk about it as in, like, past history? Because I saw her yesterday and, well, it might have been that last session we did here, but I honestly had very little interest in her – as in, I think I’d have actually said no, even if I was offered it on a plate.’

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s thinking that this is, like, major progress.

  ‘But to answer your question,’ I go, ‘the big thing with Erika – aport from looks, amazing body, the whole bit – was that she always had zero interest in me. She never fell for my bullshit – one of the very few, believe me.’

  He’s there, ‘So, again, I would suggest to you that your interest in this girl was in establishing physical primacy over her. And what I want you to do now – similar to the last day – is to try to think about your sexuality as being something other than a need to subjugate others for the gratification of your ego. Can you do that?’

  I only picked up, like, half of what he said, but I tell him I’ll give it a shot.

  ‘Okay,’ he goes, ‘again like the last day, I want you to think of your sexual desire as an energy. And I’d like you to realize how much of your energy is taken up by what is simply a desire to vanquish, to satisfy your basest need. Okay, I want you to think about someone else – anyone else – who you find desirable.’

  ‘Melissa Joan Hart,’ I go. ‘I was actually already thinking about Melissa Joan Hart.’

  He laughs. He’s there, ‘Okay, this desire, this hankering, this longing you have for Melissa Joan Hart, you feel this energy in your…’

  I’m there, ‘Em, I suppose in my…’

  He actually says genitals at exactly the same time as I’m saying balls.

  ‘Okay, I want you to think about that energy as something physical. A giant ball of something. Can you do that?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, big-time.’

  ‘Okay, take some time to do it. Think about every aspect of that ball. What does it look like? What colour is it? How much does it weigh?’

  ‘To be honest,’ I go, ‘I’m actually imagining a chicken stock cube – except, like, a massive one?’

  ‘That’s perfect. But using the techniques we learned the last day, examine it, pick it apart, understand it…’

  Which is what I do. It’s, like, a good fifteen minutes before he says another word. I even wonder has he, like, nodded off.

  ‘Now,’ he eventually goes, ‘I want you to imagine this chicken stock cube beginning to dissolve… Feel it fizz… Now im agine it slowly dissipating… Slowly… Slowly… Watch it just… melt away…’

  He gives me a good ten minutes to do that.

  ‘Now, imagine those pieces – those pieces of energy, remember – dissolving into your bloodstream. And this blood, filled with energy, is being carried… being carried… being carried… away from your genital area… and around your body… that thick, energy-rich blood… feeding oxygen into your muscles… giving you life… feel it in your muscles… Can you feel that tingle?’

  I actually can. It’s like an actual thing.

  ‘And then it continues its flow into your brain. Feel that beautiful, energy-rich blood nourishing your mind… Now feel it working its way down your brain stem and into your backbone… Feel that blissful radiance in the seven spinal locations we covered in our first session…’

  I feel un-focking-believable.

  ‘Can you feel it, Ross?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I go.

  ‘Can you feel it?’

  ‘Big-time.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid. Imagine the distinctive tonality of each and every one of those seven chakra. Feel it, Ross. Feel the passion pulsing up and down your spine. Feel it – the primordial wonder and indescribable fulfilment… building up… into an orgasm… of consciousness…’

  Trevion rings me and asks me if I’m watching CNN, which I tell him is possibly the most ridiculous question I’ve ever been asked.

  ‘Well, put it on,’ he goes, which is exactly what I do.

  There’s, like, a newsreader bird – a ringer for Mary Elizabeth Winstead – and behind her is a picture of, like, Cillian, looking like the tosser that he is.

  ‘Now,’ she goes, ‘it started out as a reality TV show about a Coe Lyn Farrell wannabe, his famous mother and their dys-functional extended family. But the star of MTV’s Ross, His Mother, His Wife and Her Lover has turned out to be an Irish risk assessor who is predicting doom – for the world economy. This report by Sam Green…’

  The next thing, roysh, his face fills the screen. It’s, like, a clip from last night’s show. Cillian’s there, ‘Irresponsible lending practices, reckless speculation and investment in toxic securities mean the world economy is in its most precarious position since 1929…’

  This Sam Green dude goes, ‘This is 28-year-old Cillian Mongey, the modern-day Cassandra who has caused minor panic among depositors and investors by forecasting a return to the days of the Great Depression. On last night’s show, he told a startled friend, “The Big One is coming.”’

  The next thing, roysh, they show some bank manager dude going, ‘We’ve had customers arriving at this branch this morning with – lidderully – wheelbarrows, looking for their life savings, on account of what they heard on TV last night. I can assure those people that what he’s saying is purely for entertainment purposes – and it’s not supposed to be taken seriously.’

  ‘Or isn’t it?’ Sam Green goes. ‘Mongey certainly seems to believe what he’s saying. On last night’s episode of Ross, His Mother, His Wife and Her Lover, he claimed that the globalization of finance, the financialization of most developed economies, the abandonment of controls to curb speculation and the complacency brought about by years of low inflationary growth had helped place a ticking timebomb underneath the US and world markets…’

  The next shot is of Cillian going, ‘I’m not just talking about redundancies and foreclosures. I’m talking about bank runs. I’m talking about middle-class people queuing up for food parcels.’

  Sam Green’s there, ‘MTV confirmed that their switchboard was jammed after last night’s broadcast with viewers asking, “Is this guy for real?”’

  They’ve got some other random suit going, ‘The fact is, he’s not for real. I think he’s right in some of the things he said, for instance, criticizing the predatory lending practices of the subprime sector – coming into the living rooms of the unemployed or the part-time employed, by running ads on daytime television. That’s why subprime is in trouble today. But to suggest that it would have a contagion effect on the world economy, or that it might challenge the collective might of financial giants like Goldman Sachs or Bear Stearns or Merrill Lynch or Citicorp, is – quite frankly – fantasy.’

  Then it’s like, ‘Sam Green. CNN. Wall Street.’

  When they go back to the newsreader, she’s actually laughing. ‘Cillian Mongey,’ she goes. ‘What a wacky guy!’

  The trick with my old man is to put him on the back foot straight away. Don’t let him get too palsy-walsy? So the second he answers, I go, ‘You need to throw a muzzle and lead on that wife of yours – and you preferably need to do it now.’

  But, of course, it’s like I haven’t even spoken.

  ‘Hello, Kicker!’ he goes, then I hear him turn to, presumably, Helen and go, ‘It’s young shape-a-m’lad! Ringing from across the proverbial pond! Line as clear as a bell!’

  I’m there, ‘What do you think this is – the 1920s?’

  He’s there, ‘It’s funny that you should ring. Helen and I have some wonderful news.’

  I’m like, ‘Spare me, will you?’

  ‘If I was to say to you, “Majorero, Chabichou du Poitou, Queso Ibores, Caprino Noccetto and Pouligny-Saint-Pierre,” what would you say?’

  ‘I’d say you should lay off the focking brandy,’ I go, although what I reckon they really are
is, like, cheeses? They certainly sound like cheeses. And caprino, I would imagine, comes from capra, the Italian word for goat?

  ‘If your answer was, “Aren’t they all types of cheese, Old Scout? Specifically, goat’s?” then, Ross, you now would be the proud recipient of a Corrrrrrect!’

  ‘I did know, as it happens. Weird as that sounds.’

  ‘Well, let me assure you, I’m here swotting up on my Cabri Ariégeoises and my Harbourne Blues. Helen and I are considering opening up a cheesemonger’s, Ross.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes! In the Merrion Shopping Centre! In point of fact, two doors down from Sorcha’s mum’s shop! What do you thnk of that?’

  ‘A focking cheesemonger’s?’

  ‘One of our crazy teenage dreams – we talked about it when we were back in college, didn’t we, Helen?’

  ‘A cheesemonger’s? What about your actual marriage?’

  ‘Ross,’ he goes, ‘your mother and I are separated, very happily as it happens.’

  ‘Oh,’ I go, except sarcastically? ‘So it doesn’t bother you that she has a new boyfriend? Oh, yeah, you heard me right. I saw them getting off with each other the other night.’

  ‘Well, I’m very happy to hear it,’ he goes and it’s not even bullshit. ‘I should think it’s only right that a wonderful woman like your mother has someone special with whom to share her extraordinary success.’

  ‘I can’t believe how well you’re taking it,’ I go. ‘You need to grow up. All of you. You’re all carrying on like a bunch of kids.’

  He’s there, ‘I won’t deny it, Ross. These last few weeks, I’ve felt like one of these, inverted commas, teenagers, all over again. God, I feel so full of life.’

  ‘You all need to get your act together,’ I go. ‘And fast. I mean, did you end up getting an iPod in the end?’

  He’s like, ‘Oh, yes. Picked it up in one of these famous Sony Centres last weekend.’

  I’m like, ‘Thirty gigs or sixty?’

  He’s there, ‘Sixty.’

  ‘You make me want to puke,’ I go. ‘Well, actually, as it happens, I’ve got news for you as well. Brace yourself for a bit of a shock – Erika is over here. She’s been here all along. She just doesn’t want to talk to you, probably because you’re behaving like a couple of focking saddos.’

  Then, roysh – and I know how random this is going to sound? – it suddenly pops into my head that De Moivre’s Theorem says that (cos x + isin x)n = cos(nx) + isin(nx).

  Hilarious.

  The Entertainment Channel says that Disney have had to postpone filming on Teenage Kicks because thirteen-year-old star Danny Lintz fractured his ankle in a fall backstage at the Hollywood Bowl last weekend. The even funnier bit is that his representatives have denied that the accident was a result of him taking alcohol along with his depression medication. The delay is expected to cost the studio up to five million dollars.

  Hugo has this saying, which I’m really storting to believe in now, that the universe has a way of evening things out. Another way to put that would be payback sucks, my friend!

  I find Sorcha and Erika having coffee outside Lulu’s, except I can’t just rock on up to them because the cameras are there, filming them having one of their blah conversations – a Philip Lim high-waisted pencil skirt with a nice tight tank would be so the right thing to wear if you were going for a job interview in, like, fashion.

  It’s, like, ten minutes before Johnny tells me I can join them. I tip over and they’re all, ‘Hey, Ross,’ but I just look at Erika and I’m like, ‘By the way, the latest on my old man and your old dear? I thought you might like to know that they’re opening a focking cheesemonger’s now. In, like, the Merrion Shopping Centre?’

  ‘I know,’ Erika goes.

  I pull up a pew beside them. I’m there, ‘Who told you?’

  She’s wearing the Erdem pleated floral dress that I let Sorcha put on my credit cord because hers was, like, maxed out and she’s still waiting for, like, her new one to be approved. She looks really well in it, but I stort thinking about that chicken stock cube and – it’s actually like a miracle – suddenly I’ve no basic interest in her.

  Sorcha goes, ‘Her mum rang the house this morning, Ross,’ then she sort of, like, stares me down. ‘We’re trying to work out how she knew she was here.’

  Of course I stort taking a sudden interest in the menu. ‘Okay,’ I’m going, ‘what’s good in this place?’

  She’s there, ‘Did you have anything to do with it, Ross?’

  I give her the old wounded look. ‘I can’t believe you’d even ask me that.’

  ‘Duirt sé len a athair go raibh tu anseo,’ Sorcha suddenly goes. This is a thing they do whenever they want to say shit without me understanding. They either use big words or they talk to each other in Irish. Duirt sé len a athair go raibh tu anseo means, he told his old man that you were here.

  ‘Ceapann tu?’ Erika goes, in other words, do you think?

  ‘Oh! Mo! Dhia! ’ Sorcha goes. ‘Feach ar a aghaidh. Ta fhois agam nuair a bfhuil sé ag insint breaga. Bhi me posta leis ar feadh dha bhliann,’ in other words, I know when he’s lying – I was married to the dude for, like, two years.

  ‘Okay,’ I hear myself go. ‘Duirt mé leis. An bhfuil sibh sasta anois?’

  I swear to God, roysh, I’m as much in shock as they are. ‘You don’t know any Irish,’ Sorcha goes.

  I’m there, ‘I know. At least I didn’t think I did?’

  ‘Ross, you got, like, an N.G. in your Leaving.’

  ‘Er, you don’t have to remind me, Sorcha. I got an N.G. in everything in my Leaving.’

  ‘An tuigeann tu anois?’

  ‘Do I understand what you’re saying now? Yeah, tigim.’

  ‘Oh! My! God!’

  ‘What happened?’ Erika goes.

  I’m there, ‘I don’t actually know? There’s a lot of weird shit happening with my mind. It’s, like, yesterday, when I was talking to Dick Features, I suddenly knew this Italian word.’

  ‘Did you even do Italian?’ Sorcha goes.

  ‘No. But I went to, like, three or four grinds in the Institute on Friday nights and that was only because I fancied a bird in the class.’

  ‘Melanie Ryan?’ Sorcha goes and I suddenly realize that I’ve opened up old wounds. ‘As in, Loreto on the Green?’

  ‘Er, we were on a break,’ I go.

  She’s there, ‘I know when you’re talking about, Ross, and we were certainly not on a break?’

  I’m suddenly rescued from this line of questioning by these two random birds, who tip over just to say that they – oh! my God! – loved the first episode of the show and that Sorcha and Erika have both got such an amazing fashion sense and blahdy blahdy blah blah. Sorcha especially looks delighted. I suppose it’s what she’s wanted her entire life – the fame thing? Then one of the birds turns to me and tells me I’m an asshole the way I speak to my mother and that I look like a freak with all that bandaging on my nose.

  I give her the finger, then get up from the table and find a quiet corner of the street to make a phonecall.

  He answers straight away. I’m there, ‘Hugo, it’s Ross.’

  He’s like, ‘Hey, Ross,’ and blahdy blahdy blah.

  I’m there, ‘Dude, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Sure,’ he goes. ‘How’s celibate life treating you?’

  I’m like, ‘That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about. It’s like I suddenly know loads of shit?’

  ‘You know loads of shit? What does that mean?’

  He genuinely hasn’t a bog.

  ‘I’m talking different ports of the world. I’m talking Irish, as in the language – I’m pretty much fluent in that. All this other shit keeps popping into my head at, like, random times. For instance, right this second, when I close my eyes, I can see a diagram of the human ear with all the ports labelled. Hammer. Anvil. Stirrup. Tympanum. Cochlea. Eustachian tube. I mean, how wrong is that?’

  He l
aughs.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ I go. ‘It’s like I’ve gone to bed and woken up in a bad movie. One with Hilary Duff or a young Lindsay Lohan in it.’

  He’s there, ‘This is what can often happen when we free up our consciousness, Ross. When we leave aside our most base instincts, things that have lodged in the knolls and dells of our memories blow free again. Often things we knew but didn’t think we knew. It’s exciting, right?’

  I’m like, ‘Exciting?’

  ‘Sure,’ he goes. ‘Suddenly having all this knowledge?’

  ‘To be fair,’ I go. ‘I can’t say that I’m altogether comfortable with it?’

  I ring Christian’s phone, but it’s, like, a bird who answers. She’s like, ‘Hello, Christian’s phone.’

  It’s not Lauren either. It’s a bird with, like, an American accent? And my first reaction is obviously, go on, you dirty dog.

  Then I’m thinking, er, Christian? A cheater? I don’t think so. Even though a lot of birds do go off Posh & Becks straight after having a kid.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I go.

  She’s like, ‘This is Martha – Christian’s PA.’

  I’m there, ‘Well, Christian’s PA, any chance I could speak to the man himself?’

  I might be celibate, but I haven’t lost my famous gift of the gab.

  She goes, ‘He can’t really talk right now. Can I take your name?’

  ‘It’s Ross O’Carroll-Kelly – in other words, his best friend?’

  ‘Well, he’s got a meeting with Mr Lucas in, like, ten minutes. He’s busy prepping.’

  I laugh. ‘Just say the name to him and I guarantee he’ll want to talk to me.’

  I hear her turn around and go, ‘Ross O’Carroll-Kelly,’ except she says it like it’s a question? Like she doesn’t believe that he actually knows me?

  ‘Oh,’ Christian goes – I shit you not – as in, oh no! He’s there, ‘Can you tell him I’m busy.’

  Of course there’s no need to – I got the message loud and clear.

  We’re sitting outside Toast on West Third and I’m telling Harvey how well the whole tantric celibacy thing is going and how even the sight of Camila Alves in my bed with her legs in the air couldn’t put storch in my collar.