Ro wants a pager so he can act like a drug lord on 'The Wire', but all I want for Christmas is somewhere to go for dinner, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
RONAN TELLS ME he’s got this connect, says my hoppers been dealing out of them vacants. “They better stay out of the ’jects, is all,” he goes, “else they gonna be praying Five-Oh make a move on them first – believe!”
I'm wondering, long term, am I going to regret letting him watch The Wire? He's there, "Still, you gotta let them mu'fuckers know that you can rag, you feel me? You ain't the kind gonna catch a nickel twirling no spider bags neither. They gotsto understand, you up the chain, yo. You be the king. And I be wearing your name. Word!"
This conversation, by the way, is taking place in Peats of – believe it or not – Pornell Street? See, I asked him what he wanted for Christmas and he said, like, a pager. So – as they say in Baltimore – here we is!
Now, I can already hear people – my critics, in other words – going, er, whatis he doing? His twelve-year-old son thinks it's cool to talk like a drug dealer – actually, he does the Omar Little walk brilliantly as well, in fairness to him – and the Rossmeister General goes out and buys him all the toys to go with it. My answer, of course, is that this is how I roll as a parent. It's like, yeah, I'm shelling out 200 snots on a state of the ort carrot – but I'm also making sure to give the kid plenty of stick along with it.
I'm there playing the responsible parent, going, "Bear in mind, Ro, even though dealing coke and smack isvery glamourous, it's also – like you often hear people say – a mug's game and blahdy, blahdy, blah. Okay? Lecture over."
The dude serving us arrives back from the little room at the back of the shop and slaps this pager, not much bigger than a credit cord, down on the counter.
“This,” he goes, “is a POCSAG-format, alphanumeric pager – it’s compact, it’s digital and it should be suitable for all your paging and data-sending requirements . . .”
Ronan closes his eyes and holds up his hand, basically telling the dude not to give him any sales horseshit. He's there, "All I gots to know is, if I gotta step up and use the bitch, that the juice gonna hold up – you feel?" The shop dude looks at mefor an explanation. I'm there, "I think he's asking what kind of, like, battery life it has?" The dude goes, "Oh, I'm glad you asked me that, because this model requires only a fraction of the charge-time of, say, a standard mobile phone. Plug it in for half an hour and it won't require charging for, well, two days minimum." Ronan nods like he's only sort of impressed?
The next thing, roysh, my phone rings. It's, like, Sorcha. "The old Bag for Life," I tell the shop dude. "Well, ex-Bag for Life. I better just take it."
"Ross," is her opening line, "were you looking for me? I had a missed call." I actually was. To be honest, roysh – and this is going to soundpathetic? – I'm kind of angling for an invite for Christmas dinner. Well, the old dear's in the States and the old man's obviously with Helen now, which means I'm on my Tobler. Of course, I can't come out and just say it. "Er, I was just wondering did you want me to swing into Blackrock College for you to pick you up a tree. Much as I hate supporting them. Sixty-six senior cups – I still think that's a misprint . . ."
"Er, hello?" she goes. "I told you, Honor and I are having, like, a livingChristmas tree this year? They're so much better than fresh-cut ones, because they continue to remove carbonfrom the environment all year round, as well as providing food and shelter for wildlife . . ." I'm there, "Oh, yeah, I actually forgot." In the background, Ronan's telling the shop dude, "See, this shit gotta be tight, so my boys can hit me when they need a re-up. Don't want no mu'fucken hop-heads riding my bumper like a bunch of beggin-ass bitches, you feel me?"
I try to come in at a different angle with her. “So,” I go, “this is going to be an amazing Christmas for you – I suppose it’s the first year that Honor really understands the whole Santa Claus thing.” It ends up going totally over her head. “Oh my God, yeah,” she goes, “we’re actually going to my mum and dad’s for the day . . .” I’m thinking, that’s that then. I’d be as welcome in that house as swine flu.
The shop dude's giving Ro a bit of spiel, going, "This model, I cantell you, is at the high end of the range. It's got a wideoperating voltage, an encoder that offers a flexible means of data interfacing and a memory capable of storing up to 200 individual messages . . ." Ro reacts like he's been shot. There's, like, a career for him on the stage if he ever wants it. "Yo, I don't want to be storingthem mu'fuckers. They evidence! Prima facie, yo!" The dude looks at meagain. I'm there, "Hang on, Sorcha," then I turn to the dude and go, "We'll take it."
Except now, roysh, he doesn't know whether to sell it to us or ring the Gords. I'm there, "Honestly, he's only pretendingto be a drug lord?"
“That’s right, shorty,” Ronan goes. “Five-Oh come asking, I’m a legitimate bidinessman – you feel?” The dude’s just there, “Errr, I’ll go get the box.”
"Wait a minute," Sorcha sudenly goes to me, "what are youdoing Christmas Day?" I'm there, "I'll probably just stay in the gaff. But don't you worry about me, Babes. Give me a tin of Quality Street and the TV remote and I'm as happy as hooker heels . . ."
“You are not spending Christmas Day on your own!”
"It's cool. There'll bea Bond on – there always is."
The dude arrives back, roysh, with the pager all boxed up. Ro tells me to get my roll out, which I do, then I stort peeling off the fifties. Sorcha’s in my ear going, “That’s it, you’re coming to my mum and dad’s with us.”
I'm there, "Er, hello? They hateme?"
“Well,” she goes, “they can put up with you for the one day of the year when we’re supposed to forget our differences. Come to the house for 10 . . .” and then she hangs up.
This amazing feeling comes over me – call it Christmas spirit, if you want – and I get this sudden idea. "Can I actually get twoof those pagers?" I tell the dude. Ro looks at me, confused. "The other one's for me," I tell him. "So we can – what's the word? – hollerat each other?" His face just drops – this is with, like, delight? He tells me I'm phat, which is meant as a compliment, and I'm left thinking, you know what? After themost depressing year of possibly any of our lives, this Christmas might end up being surprisingly Merry after all.
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