The Homeless Millionaire

I had eight portraits of Fiona's father ready by the time the sun set the next day.

There were four watercolors and four drawings: two charcoal, two pencil. Two watercolors, one charcoal, and one pencil were really good. Two watercolors, one charcoal, and one pencil drawing were excellent.

Just one of the two excellent watercolors was more than that. It was as close to brilliant as lay within my possibilities. It was the very first watercolor portrait of Fiona's father that I'd completed, drunk and stoned, the one in which I fucked up the pupil of his left eye by pressing too hard with the paintbrush.

It reminded me of something I'd heard while helping my father furnish the house when we were settling back in Toronto. He had his eye on a big, beautiful rug; I think it was a Tabriz. It was fucking expensive and he examined it as closely as he could without using a magnifying glass, and found a tiny fault in the weave. Somehow it made him very happy, and pulled out his checkbook right away.

I was surprised by that for two reasons. The first was that my father liked to use his professional, diplomatic skills to negotiate a better price on almost everything he bought, particularly on expensive items such as that rug. But he didn't haggle at all over it, he just wrote out the check right away.

The second reason was that he'd found a fault in the weave. Surely that justified a lower price? I asked him about that when we were driving home with the newly bought rug. It was so big it didn't fit in the trunk, we struggled to bend the thick roll in the back of the car, and one of its ends rested on my shoulder - I was sitting in the front passenger seat.

What I heard was that the guys who were making those carpets in shithole mountain villages around Tabriz actually screwed up the weave on purpose. They were the finest carpet weavers in the entire world, and they purposefully made a mistake in each carpet they wove because only Allah could be perfect.

I was very impressed until I worked out that it made an excellent trademark. There was a healthy business sense hidden behind all that religious idealism. If someone wanted an authentic, top-notch Tabriz rug, all they had to do was to look for that flaw. It was impossible to fake, because it was the perfect flaw. It made the rest of the rug harmonize in a new way.

That fucked-up pupil in Fiona's father's eye worked exactly like that.

However, it was the second excellent watercolor that was the perfect Christmas present. It hinted at what the flawed-but-perfect portrait shouted out. I was sure Fiona's father would be pleased with it. I even engaged in a bit of wishful thinking about his wealthy friends lining up to commission portraits from me. If that ever happened, my charitable act - giving the portrait to Fiona free of charge - would turn out to be an astute business move. I could charge at least double of what I could have charged her. Had she paid for it, subsequent clients would expect a similar price.

She would be getting a present, too. Actually, she would be getting three. I had no use for that first, brilliant portrait. I couldn't sell it, at least not in Vancouver, because the buyer would likely recognize whom it represented, and all kinds of unpleasant shit could evolve from that. Same applied to the two really good drawings. I thought briefly about hanging all three in my room, but the thought of Fiona's father giving me the eye when I woke up was simply too much.

I cleared the table, laid out the four portraits on it, and spent some time looking at them while sipping scotch, smoking, and jerking off about my talent. The Noyces were moving around more than they had the previous day, and I heard the little witches giggle a couple of times. It seemed things were on the up and up. All that stuff I'd brought back from the pharmacy was working.

I decided I'd treat myself to a meal and drinks at the pub - didn't I deserve it? As I was dressing to go out, I had the thought that I really had a lot of phone calls to make. I had to call Fiona. I had to call Harry. And I had to call my fucking family and tell them that I wouldn't be around for Christmas.

That last thought almost made me stay home. It totally destroyed my mood, and I didn't feel like going out any more. I made a major mood reconstruction effort by drinking a big glass of scotch and smoking a joint. I rolled a couple to take with me, and left during a lull in the Noyce activity downstairs.

The pub was packed and I almost turned away and went somewhere else but I was fucking hungry, and the Park Pub had good food. So I elbowed my way to the counter and got a pint of Toby and ordered a burger with fries and waited for it while looking for a table to sit down. All the tables were taken, there was a free seat here and there and one table where an extra guest might be actually welcome. It was occupied by three young females who didn't touch their cocktails and kept smoking and whispering among themselves and eyeing various young males.

The young males didn't respond because all three girls were really ugly, and I ended up eating at the counter. It had its advantages: I got fast service and after three pints I got a handful of change from the bartender and went to the foyer to make my phone calls, taking my fourth pint with me.

I called Harry first and got him on the second ring and updated him on the latest developments. Everything was cool, he'd pick me up in his car early Tuesday morning and we'd have breakfast at a place he knew near the police station - how was that? It was great, it was so good that my paranoid pal became alert. I told him Mr. Chance occasionally threw a good roll my way.

I called Fiona next, without much hope of actually getting her - it was nearing seven on a Friday evening. To my great surprise, she was there. She sounded positively enthusiastic, if slightly high, and suggested she would drive over to my place after noon the next day and I foolishly agreed and gave her the address. I really didn't want any princesses stepping into my hovel.

After hanging up, I smoked a cigarette and drank most of my pint and decided I'd meet her in front of the house, with the portraits rolled up in my tube, and tell her about the frightful epidemic raging in the Noyce household. She'd have no choice but view the pictures in a bar or a restaurant or back at her place, and I'd probably get a couple of free drinks out of that.

That left the phone call to my parents, and this required a fifth pint. I got one, and noticed the three ugly girls had an equally ugly guy seated at their table. I smoked a cigarette by the payphone, practicing my elocution until I didn't sound drunk, at most a little tight. Nearly seven on Friday night, my parents were sure to be preparing to go out or have people over and definitely too busy to put time and effort into biting my head off. And anyway, Mr. Chance was giving me one good roll after another.

I lit a fresh cigarette and had some beer and dialed the dreaded number. My father picked up the phone right away and he sounded as if he was expecting someone to call. That someone wasn't me, he went speechless when he heard my voice.

I apologized profusely for not staying in touch and explained that my show had been a great success, and made me so busy I didn't know my ass from my elbow half the time. I told him all my pictures sold within the first hour and that I was collecting a check from the gallery the next day. My father continued to be speechless, so I added the gallery was planning another show of mine in the spring.

It blew him away. I guessed he'd anticipated I'd do well, because a son of his simply had to. But he didn't expect I'd do that well, and his diplomatic cover-up skills failed him. When he finally said he was happy to hear all that he sounded like a guy who had just been told the amputation of his legs had been a great success. Then he cleared his throat a couple of times and added:

"I expect that given all this, you'll be staying in Vancouver for a while."

"Yes," I said. "And I'm afraid I can't come over for Christmas."

There was a longish silence after that. Eventually he said:

"That's disappointing. Your mother will be particularly disappointed."

"I'm sorry," I said. "There's just too much at stake for me here. Oh, by the way, I've also been commissioned to do a portrait. I'm turning it in tomorrow, actually."

That did it, it was a direct hit below the water line. Any recriminations he might have prepared about my sounding drunk and refusing to come home just sank without a trace. He said:

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Go on," I said noncommittally.

"Can you repeat everything you told me to your mother? I'll get her for you."

"Of course," I said, and lied:

"I wanted to talk to her anyway."

It was a while before she came to the phone. She was making me wait for all the waiting she'd done for me. I lit yet another cigarette and drank more beer and didn't really care. That was good, I was friendly in spite of her being hostile when she did come to the phone.

I repeated the speech I gave my father, with less feeling because I was repeating myself. I made one change - I told her right away I was not coming for Christmas.

"I'm glad to hear you're such a success," she lied.

"I'm glad to hear that," I lied.

"We'll all miss you," she lied. There was no fucking way Josh would miss me.

"I'll miss all of you too," I lied.

And so it went, the way it usually does. Lies are to human relationships what oil is to an engine: essential lubrication. I ended by lying I'd call on Christmas Day. I knew they always got a lot of calls on Christmas Day, and that I could safely claim later that their line was busy.

All that lying took a toll, and I had to have another pint. Then I spent almost all the money I had left on seven bottles of Toby to take away, and staggered home.

The house was dark and silent and I became very aware of how drunk I was when I went up the stairs. I did my best to ascend quietly but the stairs creaked and squealed in a way that clearly announced someone pissed out of his mind was climbing the staircase.

I undressed and smoked one of the joints I'd rolled earlier and spent half an hour by the open window, smoking cigarettes and staring into the night. I was totally bombed, my head was swimming and when I tried to think of something it shattered into disjointed images without rhyme or reason. My paranoid pal kept shaking his head and telling me that I would regret everything the next day.

I thanked him for suggesting that I do the portrait of Fiona's father in watercolor. Of course he'd done that because he was sure I'd fuck up in a monumental way, so my thanks really stung and he shut up. I heard a badly muffled cough that suggested one of the adult Noyces had been standing at the window a floor below, watching their tenant in the midst of an alcohol-and-grass induced mystic trip.

So I smoked one last cigarette and shut the window and went to bed.