The Homeless Millionaire

It was raining cats and dogs next morning—not a good portent. I went through agonies when deciding what to wear. It had to fit both the office and the gallery. Eventually I thought fuck it, and put on my office gear.

The Noyces ambushed me on my way out. The speed with which they popped out when they heard me coming suggested they'd been lurking right behind the kitchen door, ready to spring. They were grinning like crazy when they wished me good morning and I felt obliged to grin a little, too.

"So today is the big day," Birgit said. I instantly felt irritated. I said:

"Yeah well with this weather, all bets are off."

"It won't stop anyone from coming," said Dave, as if he was a fucking authority on show openings. "It's not stopping us."

"You're coming?" I said, horrified.

"Later on, yes. In the evening. We'll be in the area anyway, so we'll pop in for a look."

"That's great," I lied. "Have to run now. I start at nine on Saturdays. See you later."

"You didn't take the day off?"

"No," I said, and escaped into the rain.

I half-ran to the office, the joke hood on my jacket failing to prevent my head from getting wet. I was furious. That was just what I needed, my landlord and landlady popping in for a fucking look. I had the terrible thought that they might actually buy something. If they did, they'd expect me to kiss their feet each time we met. I really hoped they wouldn't show up.

I was at the office a couple of minutes early. Robinson was already in, and he'd been in for a while: he'd made himself a pot of tea.

"Good morning, my dear boy," he practically sang out when I came in.

"Good morning," I said, forcing myself to smile.

"Nasty weather," Robinson remarked as I hung up my jacket. "Reminds me of my time in the war. Was like this more than half the time. Often worse, actually."

"Did your ship have an open bridge?" I asked, a little malevolently.

"Oh no. Goodness me, no. But you see, when one held watch one had to venture outside anyway. Couldn't see a thing through the windows. A little like trying to look through a waterfall. We had radar and sonar of course, unfortunately both very primitive. A shoal of fish would send everyone to battle stations."

"Did that happen often?"

"Too often. Stay out of war if war happens, old boy. A gentleman shouldn't get involved in vulgar fighting. A gentleman settles differences over a drink, following a good dinner. That's why he's called a gentleman."

"If only everyone saw it that way," I said.

"Yes. Oh well. I should tell you most of my appointments for today have been cancelled. I came in early today to find out what was what. Unfortunately the one appointment that still stands is at noon. I remember how important it is for you to leave as early as possible. And I promise to do my utmost to return quickly."

I made the usual noises about it being fine and no problem at all, and escaped to the annex to dry my hair with the paper towels. While I was doing that, I reflected that most of my announced fine, no problems were bullshit. Most of the time it wasn't fine; most of the time it was a problem, too. I wondered whether that was true for other people, and decided it probably was. Everyone, including myself, was constantly spewing bullshit.

Robinson wanted a fresh pot of tea. I made it and took him his cup and refilled it every few minutes like a fucking waiter.

"Do you like cherries, old boy?" he asked me when I was refilling his cup for the third time.

"I do," I said. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Exactly. Exactly! I want you to consider how utterly cunning cherry trees are. Like all living things they have this drive to multiply. So they coat their seeds with a hard shell and a delicious exterior and colour it red so that it's visible from a distance. Birds and whatnot come along and gobble the fruit and swallow the pit. They can't digest it because of the shell. They get rid of it when they defecate, much later and at some distance from the tree. And so the seed ends on a freshly fertilized patch of soil, hopefully to start a whole new grove of cherry trees. The devilish cunning! Plants are very clever, my boy."

I privately wondered whether Robinson talked to his ficus tree or cactus or palm or whatever plant he had at home. I said:

"I think plants are very agreeable. They know their place and never attack anybody and all they need is some sunlight and water. But apparently killing them for no reason and eating them while they're still alive is okay. I haven't heard of anyone go on a plant-free diet because plants are the most noble and inoffensive form of life."

My little speech made Robinson smile. He said:

"Actually, raw meat is supposed to provide all the nutrients a human body needs. Not that I can imagine living on a diet like that, it would be perfectly awful."

At that point, the telephone on his desk rang—a rare occurrence—and he snatched the receiver with speed that would have shamed a veteran gunfighter.

"Jack Robinson speaking, good morning," he said, and gave me a fuck off glance. I returned to the annex and ran a rag over everything as usual. I was hoping Robinson's caller had phoned to cancel the twelve o'clock meeting.

But it was not to be. The phone actually rang twice more, raising my hopes each time. Robinson made some calls, too. He spoke softly and I couldn't work out what he was saying. I felt banished to that fucking annex because Robinson was sitting at his/my desk and I didn't have the nerve to ask if I could sit at Klein's.

Just after half past eleven Robinson rose and I hurried to help him with his coat. I hoped he'd get to the meeting early and wrap it up in fifteen minutes and find a way to teleport himself back to the office.

"Be back soon," Robinson said as he was leaving.

I spent half an hour sitting at my desk and smoking. The cigarettes left a bad taste in my mouth and I knew another coffee would make it even worse. As noon approached, I started imagining the scene at The Space. It was still raining, maybe not as strongly as in the early morning, but still hard enough for people to stay home in spite of free booze.

Robinson shocked me by returning at ten to one, and calling a cab for me right away. He pulled out a five-dollar bill and insisted that I take it. My cab came and Robinson patted my shoulder and wished me luck. He definitely had grounds to consider himself a gentleman.

My cab ride turned out to cost three bucks, including tip. I asked the driver to drop me off half a block from the gallery. I took three steps and the rain died, just like that. I stopped and looked up and saw a lighter circle in the grey sky over me. My paranoid pal giggled. He'd never left me—I could always feel him hovering in the background—but he'd been very quiet lately.

Maybe Mr. Chance wasn't taking his calls? It made sense, because Mr. Chance never took calls from anybody. That old bitch Fate, she was open to negotiations. She wanted to be entertained. But Mr. Chance didn't give a fuck because he had his shot glass and his dice. That was all the entertainment he needed.

I identified The Space from a great distance: the front door had been propped open and there were clouds of blue smoke floating out from within. As I drew nearer, I began to hear the droning babble of many voices. They sounded joyous, which was a good sign. This was immediately followed by a bad sign.

The bad sign in question adorned the front of the gallery. It said: The Space Presents THREE NEW FACES WITH MAGIC HANDS. It sounded like something Chaz would come up with over one of his gin-and-tonic breakfasts. I made a mental note to find out who had come up with that horrible line.

The place was packed. Everyone was wearing their coats and drinking and smoking and talking. I had to say 'excuse me' five or six times just to get inside. I stood on tiptoe and saw that the reception counter had been turned into a bar manned by a very serious-looking kid who was currently busy with a cocktail shaker.

It looked very promising so I excused myself repeatedly and pushed my way there and had to wait for ten minutes while the kid dealt with his backlog. I didn't recognize anyone in the sea of faces around me. I kept standing up on tiptoe but I couldn't see Chaz or Harry or even Melanie. I was close to despair, but luckily Mr. Chance got going on my behalf.

I saw Chaz and Harry and Melanie emerge from his office at the back. They had the unmistakable life-is-good glow that shows on people who have just done some very good drugs. Almost the moment I saw them, the serious-looking kid behind the bar handed me my drink. I'd ordered a double scotch on the rocks and he'd poured me at least a triple. I was beginning to like that kid.

I did the tiptoe thing again and this time Chaz spotted me and yelled 'hey' so loudly the people around him cringed. He began pushing through them like a tank, simultaneously waving at me to come closer.

"So you've made it," he grinned at me when we finally linked up. He didn't offer to shake my hand. He had a big, half-full tumbler of what looked like scotch in his right hand, and it looked like it had been welded there permanently. His left hand was thrust deep into his trouser pocket. It could be doing all sorts of things down there.

"Sorry I'm late," I said. "I just couldn't leave earlier."

"It's fine, it's fine. You got a drink? Good."

"Hey, man," said Harry, appearing by Chaz's side. He sounded odd.

"Harry! Great to see you. How have you been?"

He had been fine. His mother hadn't. Gina wasn't fine either; she'd caught the flu and banned Harry from the premises, arguing she didn't want to infect him.

I told Harry that I was fine, and that I'd just been given a raise by my employer. It went on like that for a while, long enough for Chaz to disappear: an angry-looking chick with coal-black hair and makeup that made her look like a raccoon had shown up and pulled on his sleeve and whispered something when he bent his head. Then she went off and he followed her and people were actually making way for the raccoon without her having to speak. She was definitely Someone.

"Listen, I've got to go," Harry said. "My mum's really sick. But I brought something for you."

His hand nudged mine and I caught on and discreetly took the plastic bag of weed and slid it into my pocket.

"Just half of what I owe you," said Harry. "I'll get the other half within a couple of weeks. Okay?"

"Absolutely no problem," I said, and it was one of those times when I really meant it.

"Your pictures are over there." He pointed over the head of a guy with long blond hair and mutton chops and a nose that featured a couple of tiny white flakes on the nostril.

"I'm scared to look," I said. Harry laughed.

"Don't worry," he said. "They're good. Give me a call tomorrow, maybe we can get together for a beer."

"I will."

A moment later he was gone and so was my drink and I went to discuss business with the serious-looking kid. I got another triple and had a swig and finally felt brave enough to go and look at my stuff.

It wasn't easy. The guy with the cocaine-powdered beak was particularly offended he had to move. I had the impression he didn't like my tie and jacket ensemble, either.

But I persisted, and eventually I caught sight of one of my drawings between two people that had just stopped talking to each other, and moved apart. It was my infamous beer bottle. I tried to get closer for a good look and bumped into a tall girl in a long leather coat that smelled nice. I heard my paranoid pal clear his throat, but I ignored him. I wanted to see my pictures on display.

I managed to manoeuver around another couple of people and saw my drawing in all its glory. It had a very tasteful thin black frame and there was a little orange sticker in its upper corner. I pushed closer and saw that the sticker featured a single word:

SOLD

I stopped breathing. I think my heart stopped beating for a moment, too. I had a swig of scotch and was about to have another when a familiar voice said:

"Well, well, well. Look who's here."

I turned and found out the voice belonged to Jane.