Brigita doesn’t sit up. She doesn’t have to. She never slumps or slouches. But it looks like she’s just sat up, all set for the argument.
–Why would I need a pimp, like? she asks.
I slouch – further. I’m sliding under the table. My chin is the only thing holding me up.
–No reason, I say. –I was just – sorry. I was being stupid.
–Yes, she agrees.
–But look, I say.
I sit up.
–I love this stuff, I tell her. –You’re an entrepreneur.
She doesn’t look flattered. She’s way ahead of me. She’s way ahead of all of us.
–And so am I, I tell her.
–You are what?
–The entrepreneur thing, I say. –I’m well into all that.
It’s true. Before my descent into mushroom hell, I saw opportunity everywhere I strolled. I was all set to conquer the world. Then – well – the world moved house and never told me.
But I’m back.
Even now. You’ve probably been thinking, He’s only a waster, not even a student, sponging off what’s left of the State. But you’re wrong. I – what’s that phrase the oldies use? – I earn my keep. You know when something wakes you up at five in the morning and you realise it was the letterbox downstairs and that someone’s after putting a flyer or a leaflet through it – At this hour?! Well, that’s me. Three weeks ago it was menus for a new Chinese takeaway called the Democratic Garden and a Sorry I Missed You card from a Fianna Fáil TD who, three weeks after the election, is probably doing what I do, putting menus through letterboxes for a living. This morning – yes, that was me – it was one of those Leave Your Old Stuff Out For Charity Next Tuesday leaflets. I don’t know what the charity is but the dude who paid me is called Bugsy.
Anyway. I work. I always have. I’m quick. I used to be, and I am again.
Brigita is staring at me.
–I’ve grown up with Irish girls, I tell her. –The house was full of them.
Between ourselves, that’s a lie. I’m an only child, and my ma was never a girl.
–I went to school with Irish girls, I tell Brigita.
That’s true.
–I’ve fallen in love with Irish girls.
That’s true as well. (see ‘dramatic exit’, ‘bitch’ and ‘fucked off to Australia’).
–So, I tell Brigita. –I can bring a certain cultural expertise to the table.
My timing is perfect. If this was a play, here’s what you’d read next: Enter an Irish girl. Because Aisling has just walked into the kitchen.
Enter Aisling, an Irish girl.
Brigita looks at me and smiles. I should tell you a bit about Brigita’s perfect teeth – but I won’t.
–Hi, Aisling, say Brigita. –Would you like to earn some money?
Aisling shrugs.
–Not really, like, she says.
–Hey, Ash, I say. –Want to make some blips without having to do much?
–Cool, says Aisling.
I smile at Brigita. And, in fairness – as the oldies say a lot these days – she smiles back.
–Okay, she says. –You can be the pimp.
Aisling takes her face out of the empty fridge.
–Pimp?
–It’s a private joke, I explain.
–Joke? says Aisling.
She looks at me, then Brigita, then at me again.
–Let’s get something, like, crystal clear, she says. –I am so not riding – Hang on, would this be for money, like?
–No, no, I say. –There’s no sex involved. It’s cool.
You should see me. I’m impressive – although, admittedly, I can’t see myself. But I’m calm. I’m not blushing. I say ‘sex’ without wanting to die.
–It’s not that escort poo, is it? says Aisling. –Dinner with, like, old men talking about their children. Boring.
–Nope, I say. –Nothing like that. You’d be acting.
–Acting?
She likes that.
–Yes, Brigita agrees.
I can see it on Brigita’s face: she’s annoyed. She’s taking her idea back. But then she looks at me, and smiles. We’re a team.
–Like in a play? says Aisling.
–No.
–A movie?
–No, I say. –It’d be more like reality TV.
–Cool.
–But without the TV.
Aisling isn’t happy.
–No way, she says. –Fuck off, like.
I look at Brigita. She shrugs. She could topple regimes by shrugging. Ten Shrugs That Shook The World.
Anyway.
Aisling has forgotten about us. She has a cup of stale cornflakes and her DS, and she’s off to the room she shares with another Aisling.
Exit Aisling, an Irish girl.
–It is a good idea, says Brigita.
–What is?
–A reality TV programme.
–About training Irish women to be Latvian?
–Of course.
Life’s getting better and better.
–Great, I say. –And I have the name for it.
–Yes?
–Sham, I say. –It’s good, yeah?
–No, says Brigita. –It is called West Sex East.
Continued next month
© Roddy Doyle 2011
