The Homeless Millionaire

I woke up the next day with an intergalactic hangover that made me press my face into the pillow, moaning at intervals, until I felt so thirsty I had no choice but to get up.

I thought I'd throw up when I lit my first cigarette - it took a supreme effort of will not to start retching. After that cigarette, I finished the joint that had knocked me out, and it actually made me feel better. I aired out my room, and the cold air forced me into action.

There was a multitude of unappealing sounds coming from downstairs: plenty of coughing, blowing of noses, and even some low-key crying from one of the little witches directly below me. Her sister started making fun of her, and she stopped crying and started screaming for Mommy. It was a mistake on her part. Mommy was in a fierce mood that morning. Mommy gave the two witches a bollocking that shut both of them up for quite a while.

I waited until Birgit went back to her bedroom, and executed the bathroom run. I needed a new piss bottle; the one I had showed signs of wear in spite of my caring for it as if it was precious china. I spent as little time in the bathroom as I only could: with all those casualties in the house, there was a high likelihood of one of those are-you-going-to-be-in-there-much-longer dialogues conducted through the door.

When I was back in my room, I forced myself to eat a slice of bread washed down with coffee. I tried an apple, but couldn't really handle it. I left it half-eaten on the table and checked the time - it was already past noon. So I got dressed and left for the pub, running a check on myself in the big hallway mirror by the entrance. I looked hungover like hell, but this was a Sunday and chances were I'd fit right in at the pub.

There was quite a crowd inside. Three tables were enjoying a Sunday lunch, and there was at least half a dozen people at the bar counter. I was relieved to see most of them looked the way I did. I didn't fuck around, I ordered two pints and drank the first one in three attempts, still standing at the bar. One of the human wrecks at the counter was watching me, and we exchanged conspiratorial smiles. Then I took the second pint to the most secluded table that I could see.

I felt much, much better after that second pint and a couple of cigarettes. I hit the can and ordered a third pint and was waiting to collect it when cowgirl Jane entered the premises, accompanied by an older guy - there were silver streaks in his hair here and there, even though his face indicated he was in his middle thirties, at most. It was evident from the way the two of them moved that they'd spent part of their morning fucking each other.

Jane didn't notice me, and went to a table at the other end of the pub from mine. So, I was able to drink my beer in relative safety. I got a good look at her guy when he was ordering drinks at the counter. He got a lager and a shandy, which let me sneer inwardly at pansy drinkers. I had to admit he was good-looking, and he was behaving with the sort of quiet confidence that follows a job well done. It probably meant he'd fucked the bejesus out of Jane.

I had wanted to eat at the pub too, but Jane's appearance changed that. I drank that third pint and slunk outside as stealthily as I could. Then I went looking for a restaurant where I could have a Jane-free meal.

I found a small Greek place that didn't have a booze license after twenty minutes of walking around. I was hellishly hungry by then, but I would have walked more to find a licensed place if it weren't for the hunger. The weather was quite nice that day, no rain and there was even a bit of sun showing between the clouds now and then.

The Greek joint turned out to be a good choice because they had very reasonable prices and good food. I ate kickass souvlaki with rice and salad and had a cup of very strong coffee and a cigarette. Then I set out to continue my search for somewhere to get drunk.

It took me to East Hastings Street, the high street in this area. It had numerous bars and restaurants sprinkled along both sides of the road, and I chose an Irish pub that was about half-full. There were many people around my age inside and quite a few were medicating themselves with alcohol after their activities the previous night. I felt right at home and had a pint of Guiness and then another. It was fucking expensive and I switched to some sort of red Irish ale which tasted a lot like pale Canadian ale: not too good. But that actually was good, because I was beginning to feel hammered and slowing down with the drink was highly recommended.

Sitting in my dark corner with my beer, I finally had to admit I was jealous about Jane. The way things initially played out, I'd begun to think of her as an easy conquest. She was already mine, and the notion of her fucking another guy was very disagreeable. I hadn't gotten laid in three months, and started thinking about getting myself a prostitute.

I had done that twice before, in London, and quickly found out it was risky business. It was great if you found the right prostitute and fucking awful if you didn't. I got lucky my very first time, unlucky the second and hadn't tried that ever since.

In the end, I decided against hiring a prostitute: I was too hammered already to pick the right one. Alcohol made all women seem much more attractive than they really were, and looking for a prostitute while drunk promised to be a recipe for disaster. That second prostitute I'd been with had turned me off sex for many months. I also spent a lot of time reading about venereal diseases and constantly checking myself for relevant symptoms. I definitely didn't want to go through something like that again.

Eventually, inspired by all the loose change rattling in my pocket, I tried to call Roch from the payphone by the lavatories. I found I'd forgotten his number, as well as the number to his parents. I smoked a cigarette by the payphone trying to recall the right sequence of digits while my paranoid pal was hooting four three one, four three one, four three one. There was quite a bit of traffic - there was quite a lot of beer drunk in that pub - and after a while, I began to get curious glances from people commuting to the can. So I gave up on making any calls and had a couple of more beers. I tried to drink as slowly as possible, but they seemed to be gone in an instant.

My paranoid pal was dancing with joy: he just couldn't wait for what came next. I became aware of him when I was about to order another beer and changed my mind and lit a cigarette and went outside.

It was already night and the wet road glistened dangerously under the streetlights. I turned west instead of going east and only realized that when I finally registered I was walking through totally unfamiliar surroundings, seeing places I hadn't ever seen before. I turned around and after a lot of walking recognized Willingdon Avenue. I turned into it and after a block reached the corner of Albert Street. Robinson & Klein was right on the corner of Willingdon and Albert. I steeled myself not to look at it as I passed but of course I did glance over my shoulder and it made me feel like crying.

I stopped at a well-stocked convenience store, and it was around six before I got home, carrying a couple of paper bags with my shopping. The Noyce gang were firmly shut in their cells. I got to my room and it dawned on me I should have asked if I could get them something from the store. But it was too late for that, and anyway I felt fucking tired after all that walking.

My shopping included another just-add-boiling-water meal labeled as spaghetti bolognese with real meatballs. I was very careful to add exactly the right amount of water. It wasn't as bad as the curry but it came close. I'd bought some teabags and made tea to wash it all down and away, and the tea had no taste at all, it was like drinking slightly bitter water. So after a moment's sad reflection, I finished my morning apple - it was turning brown - and treated myself to a coffee and a cigarette.

It was Monday the next day, the first Monday in a while when I wouldn't be going to work. I sat at the table and smoked and thought about what Robinson had told me, and about giving my wonderful career a push. It scared the shit out of me. I tried to tell myself I should be jumping with joy at this chance to really grow wings as an artist. I reminded myself that this coming Saturday, I would pay a visit to the Space Gallery, and most likely collect a check even bigger than Robinson's. I had more than enough money to settle my debt with the Noyces, rent out a new place with an ensuite bathroom, maybe even a small studio apartment, and still have enough to live on for at least three months. Wasn't that just the situation I'd dreamed of, just a few weeks earlier?

It was, and it scared the shit out of me for some reason. I smoked a joint, and it scared me even more. I forced myself to draw something, anything, and ended up doing a portrait of my paranoid pal. He looked a lot like me.

I tore that portrait up and trashed it and spent some time looking at the photographs of Fiona's father. He struck me as an obnoxious asshole and I regretted agreeing to do his portrait. I put the pictures back in their envelope and picked up the newspaper I'd bought a couple of days earlier and hadn't even looked at, yet. Christmas sales were in full swing and half the newspaper consisted of ads. I looked at those instead of reading the news and listened to the intermittent coughing from downstairs.

After a while I couldn't stand it any longer, and went to bed.