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August 30 - August 31, 2023
The Irish is coming from inside your hotel room! I can hear him slithering across the carpet toward me.
He also was probably doing a lot of squats because his butt was magically delicious.
She paces the trashed hotel room, wearing half my clothing. She looks like some undercover biker chick on a drug bust that went south. I’m into it.
“Aye. In my heart and in my soul. But you also reside there now. In my heart and in my soul. And I have dual citizenship, so I can live in the States whenever I want. But I’ll take you and your son to Ireland one day, and you’ll fall in love with it as hard as you’ve fallen in love with me.” He gives me a wink and then pulls out his phone and opens up an email app.
“To you, Cora. Since you blocked me, I had no way of contacting you, even though I had a great deal I wanted to say. But a thirteen-year-old girl named Piper gave me the idea to set up an account for you and write to it. I’ll deny it if you tell anyone else, but I’ve been taking a lot of relationship advice from teenage girls since I met you.”
“But we need to make a rational decision about this, and I can’t make rational decisions if I’m having orgasms all the time. No sex for the month.” He strokes his chin, as if he’s giving careful consideration to this proposition. “What if I promise neither of us have any orgasms when we have sex?”
“Careful, Uncle Nolan,” she warns. “I like you, and I know women think yer cool or whatever. But you’re old as feck.”
I find parking just outside the entrance to the building. In New York. Every time I use this parking power, a little bit of my allotted Irish luck is used up. It’s a little-known fact that it is a limited resource. And I know I used a fuck ton of it getting Cora back in my life. But like I said.
“Fuck yeah, let’s get some fucking Froyo!” he says, and we laugh.
“Aye. To Cora.” I look off into the distance, making the ancient melancholy face of my people.
“I was being poetic. She’s gone. She left me. She’s not dead. And if she was, I wouldn’t be mourning with you ya gobshite, lookin’ like you’re about to attack Leonardo DiCaprio in the woods!”
I snort a laugh. “You are not mysterious.” “Screw you, man. I’m wicked mysterious.” “You’re as mysterious as a loud fart,”
“Stop trying to make Chumbawamba a thing when we’re sad, ya shite. No one’s interested!” “That’s a great song, mothahfucka! It’s inspirational to millions of—”
I scoff and shake my head. “Even if you could get past her emotional defenses, how are you going to deal with the cognitive dissonance, never mind the sunk cost fallacy?”
“Ashton Skywalker Delaney—you tell me what’s going on right now.”
Maddie clapped her hands and squealed. “Skintight dress? All dolled up?” We nodded. The expression on Mr. Cannavale’s face told me he didn’t like that at all. Too bad for him. Me—I was surprised how much I was looking forward to it.
“Yes, actually. We just wrapped shooting my show for a couple of weeks. I won’t even make you go through my agent, and I’ve been working on a particular accent which I think will work quite nicely.”
“Yeah, but I’m also a cab. Look at my hat. I can do both. I’m a CabUber. I’ll get ya there wicked fast. Hop on in.”
