I don’t mind work – I could watch it all day. But if the old man thinks he can bribe me with nice business cords . . .
‘SO THE golf pro said, ‘Where did the wasp sting you?’ And the lady golfer said, ‘Between the first and second holes . . .’” This is Hennessy, in case you didn’t already know – the old man has him on, like, speaker-phone and he’s mid-joke.
“Quick as a flash, the golf pro said, ‘It sounds to me like your feet are too far apart on your down-swing.’” The old man practically coughs up an organ, he laughs that hord, then when he’s done, he goes, “Of course, if the Equality crowd get their way, there’ll be no more jokes like that, Old Bean – in Portmarnock or anywhere else! Anyway, must go. Kicker’s here. First day in the new job and so forth . . .” When he hangs up, he stares into the distance, shaking his head, still laughing of course.
“Golf!” he goes. “Dear, oh dear!” I’m there, “You didn’t even get that joke, did you?” and the thing is, roysh, he doesn’t even deny it? He’s like, “Way over my head. Though I suspect it’s one of his world-famous blue ones – quote, unquote, and whatever you’re having yourself.” I climb into the van and shake my head, as if to say, there’s actually a pair of you in it.
“You know,” he goes, “I’m almost certain it was me who once famously said, ‘In business, as in life, keep three things with you always – patience, courage and good friends – and you’ll never know the heat of a recession.’ And that’s a lesson, Ross, that everyone would do well to heed in these, inverted commas, times – from your senior executives at the top of the tree, right the way down to your lowly commercial property lawyer.”
I throw my eyes up to heaven. I can’t believe that it’s come to this – sitting in a Gloria Este with my old man, facing into a day of, believe it or not, work. I’m about to tell him I’ve, like, changed my mind when he suddenly reaches across and hands me what turns out to be a business cord.
In big red letters is the name of the company, “Shred Focking Everything!” which was – word for word – the legal opinion he got from Hennessy when the Criminal Assets Bureau arrived at the office one morning with a warrant and a battering ram.
Underneath, roysh, in black type, it’s like, “Ross O’Carroll-Kelly – Managing Partner,” and even though every instinct in my body is telling me to go back to the sack to watch Jeremy Kyle, it’s the title that appeals to that little bit of – I suppose you’d have to say – ego in me?
“I like this,” I go, waving it at him, so he hands me the rest – a big brick of 500 of them. I’m staring at them, thinking, I can’t focking wait to flood Krystle and Residence with these, let the girls out there know that not everyone in this town is suddenly eating the Bentleys early bird and using public transport.
“Before we, er, enter the breach,” the old man goes, “I thought I might outline for you your areas of responsibility,” and of course that brings me back to earth with a bump.
“Responsibility?” I go. “See, I knew there had to be a catch.” He waves his hand at me. “Now, don’t go worrying your head,” he goes. “It just involves overseeing the, er, overall business and practice of the company. Perhaps supervising in the areas of, er, marketing and business development. And, em . . .” Then he suddenly hits me with it.
“Well, obviously collecting sacks of documents from offices and feeding them into the shredding machine in the back of the van.” I’m there, “Manual labour!” “Ross . . .” he goes, but I’m like, “Dude, it’s manual focking labour. And I told you a long time ago that me and it were going to lead separate and exclusive lives . . .” I reach for the handle to get out, roysh, but I’m ashamed to say that he’s too quick for me – he basically centrally locks it?
“Please,” he goes, “just . . . just hear me out.” I shake my head. “You’ve some set of towns on you, I’ll give you that. Go on, let’s hear it . . .” He takes, like, a deep breath. “Okay,” he goes. “I don’t know if I ever told you this but, when you were born, I had three wishes for you. One – that you would one day captain Ireland at rugby union . . .” I’m there, “Okay, move on.”
“Two – that you would find a beautiful girl and settle down . . .” “You should have switched me and Drico in Holles Street by the focking sounds of it. What was the third?”
“Three,” he goes, like it’s the biggest wish of all, “that you and I would one day build a business together. And build it the only way I know – from the ground up.” He gets all, I suppose you’d have to say, misty-eyed then? “Ross,” he goes, “I’m not always going to be here. You know, sometimes I wonder will I live long enough to see us come out of this recession. Oh, don’t you worry, when I die, there’ll be plenty of money left for you . . .”
My eyes, for some reason, wander to the handbrake – it’s, like, an automatic thing? “But I want to leave you something else, something that you and I created, with O’Carroll-Kelly and Son over the door. And I hope, when I finally do pop off, that you . . . well, you won’t have to change the sign at all. It’ll still say O’Carroll-Kelly and Son.” He’s talking about Ro. He’s always known what buttons to push with me. I end up staring into space for, like, ages?
“Well,” he eventually goes, “what do you say?” but I don’t say anything, I just nod and he storts the engine and we head for our first pick-up of the day. I can’t say where it is, of course, because you might actually bank with them. “My brains and your brains . . .” the old man goes, then shakes his head. I’m staring at my business cords again when it suddenly hits me. I go, “Is portner not spelt with an o?” And he doesn’t answer – probably too busy thinking, this goy is going to keep me on my serious toes.
rossocarrollkelly.ie
