The Homeless Millionaire

Sunday began on a peaceful note: the Noyce gang, worn out by their excesses the previous evening, slept in until very late. I woke up around eight thirty, and spent nearly a full hour staring at the sloping ceiling in perfect silence, trying to imagine how I would feel in a week's time.

On Friday, the first of December, in one hundred and twenty hours, my pictures would go on display with price tags attached. I had wanted and waited for this to happen for the past four years of my life. Success!

Sadly, over those four years I'd also learned this kind of attitude often resulted in an anti-climax. Success was almost always disappointing, almost always failed to measure up. Success meant getting to the top and finding out that in spite of all the fanfares and applause you were alone up there, and that the only way forward was down. In a way, hitting rock bottom was better because the only way forward was up.

I dragged my ass out of bed as soon as I was reminded of that, and drank five coffees and smoked half a pack of cigarettes and examined my little bag of pot from all angles. But whichever way I looked at it, I had at most five skinny joints left in there. I knew I'd need at least two of those on Thursday evening, along with several beers. I was going to be half-hysterical otherwise, with my paranoid pal putting in the boot where it hurt most. I'd have a sleepless night and would go through hell the next day, wondering how things were going at the gallery.

Around eleven o'clock, I came to my senses and took advantage of the Noyces' continuing slumber to execute my bathroom routine. Rinsing out my pissbottle, I noticed that it was developing a well-used look: the plastic wasn't so clear anymore. I needed to replace it with a new model, along with a lot of other things in my life.

I returned to my room in the nick of time: the witches below had already started whispering and giggling. A moment later, a series of muffled coughs announced the adults were awake too. I caught myself listening to all that as if it was a fucking radio drama. I slapped my face a couple of times and ate the usual breakfast and halfway through the final apple I decided I would go for a walk in the park. It wasn't raining, there was a bit of sunshine now and then. I was also curious to find out whether I would meet G. Papadopoulos taking out his bottle for a walk.

Of course, I did my best to time my moves and make a stealthy exit. I failed. Dave had snuck downstairs undetected and he popped out of the kitchen, looking somewhat disheveled. He was wearing a clumsily tied robe over his pyjamas and hadn't shaved or combed his hair. However, he was also wearing a wide grin, and held a bottle of beer in his hand.

"Fancy a beer, ghost man?" he asked. It was clear he was still high from the party.

I was a little slow in telling him I was going for a walk and his grin disappeared and I realized my evasive tactics were beginning to annoy the Noyces. I looked at the bottle in his hand and saw that Dave was drinking Toby. That did it.

"Sure," I said, and the grin reappeared.

It was my first drink in quite a while and boy, did it ever taste good. Dave watched me drink with an appreciative eye and when I forced myself to stop he said:

"Don't worry, you can have another. I've got a shitload of beer in the fridge. Couple of people didn't show up, and the ones that did brought plenty of booze."

I smiled and thanked him, noting the glance he gave me when he mentioned people not showing up.

"Cheers," said Dave, raising his bottle.

"Cheers."

He made a point of finishing off his bottle so that I'd follow suit. I did, and offered him a cigarette after accepting a fresh Toby. I gave him a light with my Zippo and he coughed a bit on the lighter fluid fumes. I didn't, I had gotten used to them. I kidded myself they were part of my transformation into an all-round tough guy.

"You were on your way out?" asked Dave; he'd finally noticed that I was dressed for the great outdoors.

"Yeah. It isn't raining for a change, and I thought I'd go for a walk."

"Hey. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"I'm sorry, it's just that, how can I put it, you seem to like your own company."

"I don't."

Dave laughed, and said:

"We missed you last night. Birgit told me you had a stomach problem, but that's nothing a few scotches can't fix."

"It put me in a foul mood," I told him. "I'd only fuck up your party. I thought it would be wiser to stay away."

Dave's smiling nod told me he wasn't buying that at all. He said:

"You don't like music?"

"I do," I said, really surprised. "What gave you the idea?"

"You never seem to listen to any. Hey, I'm not complaining. The guy we had before you—Jesus. Black Sabbath every day."

"I don't have a radio or a cassette player or anything," I said.

"I can lend you a transistor radio."

"Thanks, Dave," I said, putting as much gratitude as I only could into my voice. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm fine. I don't need a radio."

"You don't like music." This time, it was a statement, not a question. I said:

"Well I guess you could say I'm temporarily disillusioned about music. I still like it, and I'm sure I'll start listening to it again—sometime."

Dave was silent and looking at me expectantly. I said:

"I saw the Rolling Stones last summer in Toronto. It was a major disappointment."

"Really? I saw them live too, and thought they were great."

I shook my head.

"The whole show was just a fucking shambles," I said. "Keith Richards was so fucked up he nearly fell over twice. He didn't play the guitar, he just hit it at random. Jagger kept running around like a crazed cokehead and he was so out of breath he couldn't sing. The sound was shit, Maple Leaf Gardens is a fucking hockey arena. I tried not to listen, just watch, and it dawned on me the whole thing was just a lot of bullshit. Next day, I tried to listen to a couple of albums, and each song was dripping with bullshit, too. So I stopped listening to music. It'll pass."

Dave's nod resembled a doctor's upon hearing that indeed, the X-rays had confirmed terminal cancer. We drank and smoked silently for a while and then he said:

"You should meet Jane."

I very nearly dropped my bottle.

"Who?" I said.

"I'm sorry. Birgit's friend who was here last night. They work together. But Jane's much younger, she's about your age, maybe a couple of years older. Hard to tell these days. Anyway, Birgit told her about your being an artist and she wanted to meet you. She does a bit of painting herself."

"Maybe another time," I said.

"Sure," Dave said. "Sure." He tilted the bottle to his mouth and finished it off and wiped his lips and said:

"Believe me, you want to meet her. She's a looker." He winked.

I finished my second beer quickly and thanked him and left, all thoughts of beautiful Janes vanishing as soon as I stepped outside. Gusts of wind were whipping up dead leaves from the ground. I walked quickly, glancing now and then at the big round oil storage tanks to my right. Seen through a web of bare tree branches, they seemed menacing, and I thought that was the number one candidate for a drawing that would go on the last page of my sketchbook.

There were quite a few people in the park, which was to be expected due to the clement weather. I didn't see G. Papadopoulos, although I walked from one end of the park to the other, examining every bench along the way. I needed to take a leak increasingly badly, but there were too many people around, too many people with dogs and kids. I didn't want to be standing behind a tree with my dick in my hand when a little girl spotted me. It could lead to complications.

So I did what I had to do, i.e. paid a visit to the Park Pub and of course felt obliged to buy a pint to justify my pissing on the premises. It took a superhuman effort of will not to have a second, but I succeeded and was rewarded the moment I left the pub: I saw Harry's Volkswagen coming down the street.

He was driving in my direction and flicked his indicator on as soon as I started waving, and parked right next to me. He switched off the engine and got out and stretched his hand out across the roof.

"Hey," he said. "I was just looking for you. Left a message with your landlord. He told me you'd gone for a walk and I thought maybe I'd spot you on the way home. And bingo! Here you are."

"You want to go for a drink?" I said, shaking his hand, my tail wagging wildly.

"No. Can't. Got stuff to do. Listen, what I came over to tell you is that I ran into Chaz last night. He told me to tell you the show you're in opens this Saturday, at noon. They're throwing a cocktail party and Chaz wants you to be there. You probably want to be there, too," he added, grinning.

"Fuck," I said. "I work Saturdays."

"So take time off."

"I'll try."

"Don't try. Just do it. I gotta run. Talk to you Wednesday evening?"

"Sure," I said.

"Your landlord nearly pissed himself with excitement," Harry said. "Almost as if it was his own show. Later."

And he got into his car and drove away.

I remained standing on the pavement, stunned. I hadn't thought Chaz would introduce my stuff as part of a new show. I thought that he'd hang up a couple of my pictures when space became available after the first of December, maybe add one or two later to replace something he'd sold. I definitely didn't expect to take part in a show opening featuring free cocktails. It was like a gift from heaven.

I didn't want to go home. There was nothing for me to do there. So I went back to the park and walked back and forth smoking cigarettes until I had just one left. Then I went to the A&W and treated myself to two burger combos and dragged out eating the second combo until it was way past dark and time to go home.

I bought the Sunday paper on the way home and when I got there, I found that the whole Noyce family was out. I got to my room and found Dave had taped a note to my door. It said:

Hey. Your friend Harry was here and asked me to pass on this message. Your presence is required at The Space gallery at noon this Saturday Dec. 2nd for the opening of YOUR SHOW. Congratulations!

Dave

So it was now my show. What bollocks. I made myself a coffee and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes and spent the rest of the evening smoking, thinking, and reading the newspaper.

There was nothing about Schmidt or the robbery in the paper. There was a real studio for rent—it included a kitchenette and a bathroom—for just $45. There was a special offer at the IGA near me, two cans of corned beef for 99 cents.

There was hope.. Things were looking up.