The Homeless Millionaire

I was woken up the next day by knocking on my door and I just pulled the bed covers over my head and waited for whoever it was to go away. I felt drunk and hungover at the same time and I was in absolutely no shape to talk to anyone.

There was another couple of knocks and then the sound of someone descending the stairs, and from that I deduced it had to be Dave. He had a softer, lighter step than Birgit did. I wondered what his attempted visit could have been about, and tried to remember what happened after I'd gotten home the previous evening.

But I couldn't remember a fucking thing, except that the moment I got back to my cave I got going on the Johnnie Walker. I slid the covers off my head and looked at the table and sure enough, the big bottle was standing there, nearly empty.

Each heartbeat was like a sledgehammer inside my head and I lay still and focused on getting my breathing right and generally surviving the next few minutes. After a while I heard the Noyce gang leave and drive away, and following a short struggle I got out of bed, nearly falling over in the process. Somehow I made it to the table and grabbed the bottle and drank all the remaining scotch in two big gulps.

Boing! The room stopped swaying, and after a moment I was able to think, or at any rate connect basic facts together. I remembered the long cab ride from Tony's house and feeling stupidly pleased about signing that lease. I had felt it showed real courage and character and I was ready for another showdown with Detective Moore. Let the chips fall where they may! I didn't give a flying fuck.

I was pretty sure that I'd gone straight upstairs and connected with Johnnie Walker without delay. The problem was that I couldn't remember what took place later. The last memory I retained was of attempting to roll a joint and scattering weed over my newly vacuumed carpet and then crawling around on all fours, picking bits of weed out of the carpet pile. Everything after that was gone down a black hole.

I checked my beer stash and found that I still had two bottles left. I opened one and lit a cigarette, and remembered that I had taken a copy of the lease agreement: it was still in the breast pocket of my jacket. I got up and retrieved it, and was pleased to observe that I was moving around normally again.

The lease said the flat was mine as of the first of February, 1973. I folded it and put it in my night table drawer. I was no longer happy that I'd taken Tony's flat. The more I thought about it, the more stupid it seemed. I heard my pal stifle a giggle.

I sat down with my beer and a fresh cigarette and made a big, heartfelt effort to understand why the fuck I took that flat. It was more than asking for trouble, it was like walking into a roomful of psychos with I LOVE PAIN printed on your forehead. I finished the first beer and got another one, the last one left. This changed my mood into the sort of sad resignation people likely felt when they were about to be executed.

I could always back out of that deal, of course. I would have to kiss five hundred or maybe two-fifty goodbye. If I reneged on the agreement before January first, I could reasonably ask Tony to return half the money. Two hundred and fifty dollars was still a lot of money—but hey—I could make that kind of money in a couple of hours! All I had to do was to dash off a kickass piece, or maybe two that were merely good. Chaz would sell them for me. Chaz truly loved me: he'd told me over and over again he'd fucking kill me if I didn't deliver.

This thought calmed me down. By the time I was done in the bathroom, I'd convinced myself that I'd actually done the best thing possible. Tony would get two hundred and fifty dollars for my wasting his time, the equivalent of one month's rent without a tenant overhead. It was basically my personal Christmas present to Tony. He was a nice guy, he deserved it.

My pal pointed out that my new, good mood was caused solely by the scotch and the beers. I could fall into cesspit, I could be up to my chin in shit and I wouldn't mind as long as I was drunk enough.

I tried to do the proper thing and eat breakfast when I got back to my room, but it turned out to be a bad idea. I tidied up my room and found a few more crumbs of weed on the carpet and this inspired me to roll a joint. I smoked it with a fresh coffee, standing at the open window. It was a grey day and most of the snow had turned grey too and the world wasn't beautiful any more, it was preparing to die. It had to die before being reborn, that was the universal rule. The universe was merciless. It had no feelings and did not think. Everyone and everything was fucked.

The fresh air and the joint made me reconsider breakfast, but I still couldn't face corned beef and bread. I had to eat out. I put on my boots and got my wallet and discovered I'd spent a hell of a lot of money the previous day. With a shock, I realized that this was Friday and it would be Christmas Day on Monday and that I needed to hit the bank again. Like a fool, I'd neglected to withdraw any money for myself when I was getting the five hundred for Tony.

It was already one in the afternoon, and I got going instantly. I went to Robinson and Klein's Royal Bank branch because I figured I'd eat at the A&W along the way. Of course I passed by the office, and looked at it and felt nothing at all, this time. It did make me think it would be a nice move to call old Robinson with Christmas wishes, and ask about Klein's health.

It was a wise move that I ate first because the bank was a fucking horror scene. It was full of people wearing smelly overcoats and the floor was awash with mud and melting snow. It took me over half an hour to get my cheque cashed, and because of that I took more than I'd intended: a full five hundred dollars. I just wasn't going to put myself through another experience like that for a while. I still had well over a thousand left in my account, and rent deposits with the Noyces and with Tony Woods. Everything was cool.

I was hungry again after the bank ordeal, and I dropped a full twenty on lunch because I had one of those whims and ordered a bottle of wine with my steak. I felt great after that meal, and when I left the restaurant I got infected by the raging Christmas shopping fever and visited a number of stores.

I ended up with a bunch of Christmas cards that would arrive late anyway and three new paperbacks and two cartons of cigarettes, and then stood in a long lineup at the liquor store. It took almost as long as cashing that cheque earlier and I bought so much booze I had difficulty carrying it all.

Naturally, that necessitated catching a cab home. It had already gotten dark, it was beginning to snow, and cabs weren't easy to catch. I had plenty of competition, there was a guy a few steps up the street from me and he was semaphoring everything that remotely resembled a cab.

It took me almost twenty minutes to get a ride and the moment I returned to my room I realized that I had a lot of grocery shopping to do, as well. It would be hell on wheels the next day, I had to get it done. I needed help to get it done. So I tested out one of my purchases—good old Captain Morgan, bought for sentimental reasons.

Motivated by Captain Morgan, I went to do my shopping and missed the Noyces by a hairsbreadth. Their car passed me maybe fifty steps down the street. They didn't see me: I half-hid behind a streetlight post and anyway they probably were already looking at their house.

It was fucking madness to go shopping. It was dark and cold and snow was falling and turning instantly into mud when it hit the pavement, mixing with the sand and the salt. I wouldn't have been able to do it sober.

I managed to make it to the supermarket and got a mountain of stuff piled up in my cart and spent quite a while putting some of it back on the shelves. I still bought way more things than I really needed. I told myself I deserved a few Christmas presents. No one would be buying any for me, this year.

I was in a philosophical, benevolent mood by the time I reached the checkout register. The matron who manned, or maybe womanned the checkout smelled the booze on my breath and gave me a frosty look when I wished her a merry Christmas. My shopping filled five fucking bags that were going to be hell to carry.

I gritted my teeth and decided to hoof it all the way back home. I needed to teach myself a lesson.

It was like doing a fucking obstacle course, and I had to stop for a cigarette twice. On the plus side, it sobered me up a little without making me feel hungover. By the time I made it home, I was in better shape physically than I'd been all day. This was fortunate, because Dave ambushed me almost the moment I stepped inside the house.

"Been Christmas shopping?" he asked, grinning at my bags. I almost reached inside to give him a can of corned beef as a Christmas present. I mean, fuck. I said:

"Just getting the groceries. Everything will be shut for a few days."

"I went up this morning to see whether we could talk. I knocked for a while, but you must've been sleeping very hard."

I decided to level with him: he was a Johnnie Walker fan too, after all. I said:

"That's what tends to happen after a long stroll with Johnnie Walker."

He liked that; he knew it was true. He said:

"Well, what I wanted to talk to you about is that we're leaving for the holidays. Birgit found this fantastic deal and we'll be spending Christmas in the Caribbean!"

"That's fantastic!" I said. "Don't forget to visit Captain Morgan."

"Definitely," he said, grinning like a madman. "Most definitely."

"Where are you going?"

"Barbados."

"That's wicked."

"Very wicked. I can't wait. Anyway, what I wanted to know is this: are you going to be okay?"

"Of course," I said. "I've just bought a ton of food. I'll be fine."

"Well, I didn't mean food. I meant it's Christmas, and you'll be here on your own—"

"Dave, I promise to behave myself," I said, wondering whether it would turn out to be true.

"That's not what I meant either. I meant to say that it feels wrong to have you sitting here all by yourself for almost two weeks."

"When are you coming back?"

"Evening of January first. It will be a hell of a day."

"Yeah," I said. "I heard from a good source that being hungover on a long flight is hell."

"It is," he agreed. "But you know, I'm kinda looking forward to it. Who is your source?"

"My father."

"He sounds like a fun guy."

"He's a diplomat," I said. That struck Dave off balance and we grinned at each other for a while and then he said see you later and fucked off, and I could finally get the shopping up to my room.

I was very pleased by Dave's news. I loved it. I loved the idea of being on my own, and free to use the bathroom whenever I had the whim to do so. I was looking forward to many quiet mornings, without any giggles and squeals coming up the heating duct.

I rubbed my hands, and began to unpack my shopping.