The Homeless Millionaire

I had made absolutely no plans for the next day and this was good, because I woke up feeling bad. Not hungover, but sick. My stomach was still smoldering with resentment at the treatment I'd been giving it lately, and I had a cold: a headache, a blocked nose, and a river of slime running down the back of my throat.

My paranoid pal suggested that I'd caught the deadly flu. But I didn't feel a fever and actually felt a little better the moment I got out of bed. It was still early, dawn had just broken, so I took advantage and hit the bathroom before the morning pilgrimage began. I gave myself a scare because the moment I sat down on the can I let out a fart that seemed to rattle the window. When I exited the bathroom, I heard muffled voices and whispers behind the closed bedroom doors.

My pal promptly informed me that my fart had woken the whole household up. I knew that was bullshit, the shower was pretty noisy, and the basin tap always emitted a rattling, resonating burp when being twisted open after a long break: I could hear it in my room upstairs. But I still slunk back to my room like a dog that had just peed on the carpet.

I made myself coffee and took a couple of cautious sips and ate a slice of bread. It went down okay, and I risked a cigarette. My new plan for the day was to lie down on the bed and make plans for the next day. It failed because I fell asleep almost instantly, and woke up around noon.

The Noyces were healthy again: there was a lot of coming and going downstairs, and the TV was on. The little witches were watching Sunday cartoons: their squeals and giggles harmonized perfectly with the boings, zings, and bangs that usually accompany the adventures of humanoid mice or bunnies or bears or whatever the studio artists had come up with. I tried to imagine myself being one of those guys - there was a time when I seriously considered becoming one of them. It meant staying an artist while making a living. Luckily, I'd grown out of that.

My friend took this opportunity to remind me that I'd failed to collect at the gallery. He had become much more active recently. He seemed to have some kind of inside information on what was coming down the pipeline. It made him happy, and it made me scared, because he was only happy when he knew he was about to score big.

To counteract that, I started making practical, down-to-earth plans to improve my circumstances. First of all, I decided to move into action right away instead of waiting for Monday. Then I decided I'd humiliate myself and ask to borrow the Noyces' vacuum cleaner: I could probably roll a joint with all the pot I'd dropped on the carpet. There'd been a lot of cigarette ash flying around, too. At least I'd managed to keep the carpet free of paint and coffee stains.

I thought about asking to use the Noyces' laundry: they had a washing machine and a dryer in the basement. But that was going a little too far, and I resigned myself to making a trip to the laundromat. I became hungry while making all those sensible plans, and decided I'd pay a visit to the good old A&W. A fast food chain was always a good bet for a sensitive stomach. The fast food guys tested their product on guys with next to no digestive organs to make sure they were safe. They couldn't risk upset stomachs among mass clientele: they would get their asses sued into bankruptcy if that happened.

I got off the bed and got out my travel bag and packed it almost full of laundry. Naturally, that meant an encounter with the Rembrandt. It made me grind my teeth at my own stupidity. Why had I stolen it, why did I take part in that stupid caper? But once I knew about it, knew what was happening, I didn't really have a choice. It was doing it or regretting that I hadn't done it for the rest of my life. That was how stupid moves were made.

I put the Rembrandt under my pillow - great hiding place, my pal sneered - and zipped up the bag and got dressed for going out. I spent a minute with the door ajar and my head stuck out onto the staircase, trying to pick the right moment to escape the house. The Noyces were all gathered in the big room downstairs. The cartoons had ended and after a while it became apparent they were playing Monopoly: one of the little witches screamed joyously that Pall Mall was hers.

I became aware that I was acting like a fucking insect, sticking its antennae out of a hole to see if it was safe outside. It propelled me out of my room and I went down the stairs like a ghost - well, a ghost carrying a large bag - but it didn't help. Dave emerged into the hall when I was going down the last flight of steps and saw my bag and his eyes nearly popped out, as if I were a burglar about to escape with the loot.

"Hello, Dave. I'm really glad to see you're all feeling better," I lied.

He really wanted to know what was in that bag, I could see that. He thanked me and told me that Dr Rayne was a top-notch guy, and if I ever felt ill I should put my bet on Dr Rayne. He bought enough time with that to come up with a good bag investigation line. He said:

"Are you going away for a while?"

"No, why?"

He squirmed and said:

"Well you know, Christmas. Your folks are in Toronto, am I correct?"

"You are and they are," I said. "But I'm not going to see them this Christmas. I'm so glad you feel better. Birgit and the girls are better, too?"

I maneuvered him into assurances that all the girls in the family had recovered fully and I repeated that I was very glad and escaped without telling him what was in my bag. It gave me great satisfaction, and then some anguish while I was feeding at the A&W. My pal told me this was textbook neurotic behavior, and that I might as well slice off an ear and blow my brains out and then maybe, just maybe, someone would mention me along with van Gogh.

There were a couple of fat middle-aged matrons at the laundromat. They gave me hostile glances when I entered. They were standing by the front window, smoking and talking. The dryers with their laundry drowned out what they were saying. They fell silent when I came in and again when I moved near them to buy detergent from the vending machine. They resumed talking once I'd moved to the back and began fucking around with my laundry. They sounded bitter. Maybe they had upset stomachs.

My own stomach was fine again: fast food worked fast magic. I sat at the back of the laundromat pretending to myself that I was reading the newspaper I'd bought along the way. The matrons left when I was pretending to read about the cop killers who had been caught in a restaurant. One of them had committed suicide in jail. He'd wound a sleeve into a rope and tied it tight around his neck and then used his toothbrush as a twist stick.

This tied in neatly with what I was actually thinking about all the time: Christmas without my parents. With great shock, I realized this would be the first time ever. Josh had missed a Christmas or two, but not me, not until now. It was causing me great regret. I was almost ready to rush out of the laundromat and catch a cab to the airport and take the first available plane to Toronto. Then I realized my paranoid pal was dancing with joy.

I remembered that old saying: better the devil you know. I hated it. I thought it was a bullshit excuse for not taking chances. It meant choosing a life filled with regret over choices not made, things left undone. That was the main reason why I'd taken part in that fucking robbery and stolen the Rembrandt. I simply couldn't let something like that pass me by.

And now I was close to sniveling because I'd chosen to venture out without wearing my diapers.

Fuck you, I told my paranoid pal. He seemed to enjoy that and I'd have told him a great deal more but it was time to shift my laundry to the dryers. I had a double load that really should have been a triple but my stuff wasn't really dirty, it was all about giving it a fresh smell.

I lit a cigarette and put the notion of Christmas at home under review, again. Yes, it was sad I wouldn't be spending Christmas with my parents. And yes, it was good too. It was time I spent a Christmas on my own. Doing the right thing often hurt.

It's time to grow up, I told my pal. He was mystified. He just couldn't get his head around that.

On the way back home, I equipped myself with a takeaway combo from A&W and promised myself not to eat at the Park Pub in the nearest future.