Thursday May 1st/2014
It is a struggle to put your life on paper when as of recent, your entire life seems to revolve around a bar (a bar that if I had any wits, it's details will never meet these pages), and little else. All I seem to be doing these days is working. And drinking. But those two tend to come hand in hand when you're a blossoming british bartender. When I'm not pouring jager, or serving pint after pint, or sweeping up broken glass or yelling at customers to STOP HITTING THE PING PONG BATS AGAINST THE TABLE, I am one place, and one place only…
Over the past few weeks, I have found myself lost in another dimension, an Irish oasis, tucked away from the rest of the city. A world filled with youtube videos of Christy Moore, Luke Kelly and the Dubliners, and Ronnie Drew. I am constantly being educated on Wexford and Kilmore (do you even know how many castles are in Wexford??? Or that strawberries are just as much, if not more, of a commodity than potatoes over in the 'sunny south east'?). The IRA is discussed in many a conversation, even though I still have very little concept of what it is. Phrases like "What's the craic", "Come on to fuck" (not what you think it means, get your head out of the gutter), "shifting" and "Spastic" seem to make their way into my daily vocabulary, and my ability to identify an irish accent has become practically flawless. There are moments when I question whether in fact, I am even still in London. I am in London, nestled in a tiny room inside what can only be described as the definition of a bachelor's pad in Clapham North. The Irishman's abode.
Christopher Liam John Whelan. The man is utterly impossible. Impossibly obnoxious, and ignorant, and childish, and stubborn as all hell. He literally drives me crazy. Chris has this incredible ability to make my blood boil on a regular basis. He's stupidly sexy, and ridiculously funny, and annoyingly adorable. I have this bizarre urge to want to kiss him and kick him, simultaneously. Basically, the bastard has me falling head over heels, and I could kill him for it. For weeks, I've been consumed by infatuation, a fatally addictive emotion, and a high that I just can't seem to come down from. When I'm not with him, I'm texting him. When I'm not texting him I'm Facebook messaging him. When I'm not abusing all forms of electronic communication, I am constantly thinking about him. Mother fucker. Why is it that the universe insists on having such a corrupt sense of humour. You're walking down the streets of London, basking in single-hood, and loving every minute of it, and BAM. Christopher Whelan. It's been two months since I finally accepted his date proposal, and although I still refuse to categorize what it is we are, I may as well sign my single life away, rais the white flag. My fate is inevitable. And I seem to be the only one in Clapham that thinks I have a say in the matter.
Fate. What a funny thing. Do I believe in fate? When I first moved here, my brother and I sat for hours over wine, meat, and cheese discussing our feelings on the matter. Recent happenings that make Josh firmly believe in fate and the universe's influence on our lives. I was, and still am, unsure of what I believe. Do I think there is a higher power that controls the comings and goings of my life? Is nothing coincidence? I don't know. But I find myself wondering more and more, especially since I moved to London. So many changes have occurred since I arrived here, major changes, that I can't help but question the source of these changes. Take the Alexandra for instance. What was the point of it? I so easily got the job, loved the job, lost the job. Just like that. So what was the point? One could argue that Chris had something to do with it. My first official shift was the day I met him. I got canned almost immediately after we started "seeing" each other, and found a job ten times better the next day. Fate? Was Chris the reason for my brief encounter with The Alex? Was I only meant to work there long enough for him to come into my life? Him and all the other amazing people I have met during my time there? Still, to this day, the people I call friends, the ones I most love to spend my time with are the regulars from The Alex. So maybe that's all it was. A meeting grounds for all those important to me now, those that make me call London home, and actually feel like it's the truth. Or maybe it was just dumb luck. A brief stint in a bar that happened to carry with it some good people. Whatever it is, things happen over here in the strangest of ways. Sometimes the shittiest of ways. And yet I always seem to come out on top, better off than before. So does it really even matter who or what is behind it all? If anything, London has taught me that there is no sense in trying to plan or control anything because when it comes down to it, absolutely nothing in life is in your control. For a woman with control issues great enough to be institutionalized over, this realization was tough to swallow, but a long time coming. With planning comes expectations. With expectations comes disappointment. If you drop all expectations, you learn to go with the flow. Take life in stride and actually look forward to the unknown. From being fired, to becoming homeless, and then becoming homeless AGAIN (I'll explain later), it's all made me see that life goes on. Simple as that. So why worry? And I don't. Because everything always works out in the end, rarely the way we want it to, but I'm currently learning that's half the fun.
Last week was Bernie's birthday party. After weeks of listening to me blab on about my sexy irishman, the Mulrooney/Donaldson clan decided it was time to meet him. To have me bring him to the party at the Britannia, our favourite "baby friendly" pub in East London. Baby friendly pub. Jesus. I was undecided whether I wanted to bring my plus one, and over-analyzed his invite for an unhealthy amount of time (some things will never change). In reality, though we'd been spending a substantial amount of time together, we'd really only ever been on one date. Most of our time, all of our time, had been spent in our secluded irish oasis, population: two. I actually had very little knowledge of what Chris was like outside the Alex, or the confines of his bedroom. I had no idea how he would be around "my people". And I wasn't sure I was ready to find out. But my current mantra of releasing expectations and flow going found me lying in bed next to Irish, a week before the party, invite lingering. But when I opened my mouth to ask, I suddenly felt like a foolish little school girl, offering a boy a spot on her dance card. For the first time in my life, I was lost for words. I would look at him, go to speak, then don a slightly retarded face and blank. My mouth would open but nothing would come out. Finally after several failed attempts, he was the one that spoke.
"Is there something you'd like to ask me, Chelsea?"
"Ummmm…" Quick, Reject, use your words. "Nah, I'm good. Well, maybe. Nope. Nothing to ask…. I mean it's nothing. Not a big deal or anything. It's cool." You're an idiot. "But like, maybe… if you wanted…. (clearing of throat, remind myself to breathe). I was wondering if you…. would maybe… want… to-be-my-date-to-a-birthday-party-next-weekend? (swallow the vomit sitting in my esophagus, and pretend like it ain't no thang)
"That's it? Pause. "That's all you wanted to ask me?"
Pause. "Yes…?" (Apparently I no longer knew)
"Ya, sure."
Wait, what? Ya, sure? Just like that. Ya, sure?
"……….Really?"
"Ya, why not?"
"Cool. Alright." You're an idiot. "Alright then. Cool."
Such an idiot.
And so Sunday came. We met at Clapham North station. He smelled amazing and I was nervous. And sweating. He looked good. It's cool. I'm cool. As we made our way towards Hackney, my nerves relaxed station by station. Turns out he's still funny outside Clapham. And then this happened.
"So what time do you think YOU'LL be leaving the party tonight?"
….
My face may have answered long before I did. Are there different rules to dating in the UK that I am not aware of? When two people attend an event together, as a date, do they not also leave together? I started to sweat again.
"Oh, were you planning to leave before me? More important plans pending back in Clapham?" I think I may have suddenly got angry.
"Well, I just wasn't planning to be out all night."
"Alright then. Good to know." Yup, definitely angry.
Silence.
He playfully pushed me away (I wanted to push him into the oncoming tube) and said something like, "Stop crying". A phrase he would continue to use all too often in the coming future, and a term that to this day, boils my blood just as much as it did in that moment.
This should be interesting.
We arrived, barely, considering I managed to get lost walking to a pub I've been to more than enough times to know better. But it's me and therefor typical. The pub was empty. We were thirty minutes late, but even more typical, the Mulrooneys wouldn't arrive for another fifteen. At first, it was only us and them. A perfect opportunity to observe this wild creature away from his natural habitat (well we were still in a pub, so not too far away, but far enough). But no. Instead, this happened.
Bernie begins, "So Chelsea, we have something to tell you…"
"Oh my God! You're knocked up again."
"Why does everyone keep saying that? No." And that's when the bomb imploded. I remember very little of what was actually said, partly because of the blow, but mostly because all my attention was focused on not bursting in to tears. Public displays of emotion, in general, are an absolutely no, but public displays of emotion sitting across from the stupid ginger beard are a death warrant. No.
"We're moving back to ireland. We're moving to Dublin. All of us."
My mouth cracked open as my eyes shifted back and forth from Angela to Bernie, to Bryan who was staring intently at his ale. Then Bobby. I swallowed the urge to cry, then the urge to yell, and finally the urge to throw something directly across the heated outdoor wooden hut we were all awkwardly sitting under. Silence hung, along side anticipation, as I fished for something to say.
"What?"
The explanation was simple and logical (two things I am rarely familiar with). It made sense for them to go, but I didn't care. It was too much about me right now to bother with the fact that this was probably the right move for them.
"No. You can't go."
"I told you we shouldn't have said anything to her until later." Angela finally spoke, and I wished she hadn't. We met each other's gaze. She looked sad for me and my eyes became wet.
"You can't go. You're my family."
"You'll just have to come visit lots. We'll have a 'Chelsea' room!"
"I'm keeping my key. You're not leaving."
That funny thing called expectation. All this time I was worried about Chris getting on with my suto family, only to find out they weren't even sticking around. The irony. I was a mess inside. And as much as I kept reciting my new found mantra, I felt like epic shit. But it was Bernie's birthday, and they were here now, and I still loved them, despite hating them. So we drank (I drank a lot). We drank, and laughed, and I forgot to be sad. People slowly arrived and I quickly got drunk. I hadn't even thought about Chris and his interaction with my traitor family, until Bernie came up to me.
"You're crazy. We love him."
I scanned the patio and saw him smoking and conversing with Angela, and smiled. I instantly felt calm. Happy (The fourth cider may have assisted with this). He looked over at me and winked. Together, they walked to me and Bernie, and as Angela passed, she gave me a squeeze and a grin that was impossible to misinterpret.
"Do you want to get a drink with me at the bar?" Chris asked.
We stood at the end of the long, wooden, Britannia bar, our cider and lager in front of us, the party behind.
"You ok?"
"Not really. I know it'll be good for them but they're my family out here. They're everything to me."
"Stop crying."
Again, with my favourite phrase. He nudged me hard enough that I needed to catch myself from falling over (cider number five?) and I laughed.
"Spastic." He said, and shook his head.
Chris never left that night. Instead we left together, just the way traditional Canadian courtship intended. We walked the dark streets towards the tube, hand in hand, goofing about like a couple of kids, my cheeks sore from laughing. On the tube home, I fell asleep on his shoulder.
Back in my Irish oasis, lying in Chris' bed, wrapped in his arms, I closed my eyes. The last thing I heard before the night ended was,
"You don't have to be sad. You still have a family here. I'm your family."
