The Homeless Millionaire

I woke up to another grey day the next morning feeling very off-color myself. I was reminded that I had made this resolution a few days earlier to drink alcohol just once a week. It obviously wasn't working out. It was a pity, my mind liked it. Unfortunately, my body was lodging a strong protest.

I remembered reading several articles that claimed life was at its most beautiful when you were straight all the time. This was bullshit. Life was infinitely more beautiful when I was completely hammered, of course as long as there were no concurrent, unpleasant physical symptoms.

I decided I'd face the ugly reality, and abstain from alcohol that day. Of course smoking pot was permitted, it would be absolutely necessary to in order to survive the break with booze. It was a really very brave decision. I still had three handsome bottles sending me smiles: another big Johnnie Walker, a bottle of Bisquit cognac that I'd bought because it was the Christmas season, and dark Captain Morgan. Captain Morgan was a little worse for wear, but there still was plenty left: I'd bought a forty ouncer.

"Some other time," I said to my bottles. Then I made myself a fresh pot of coffee. My drip coffee maker was turning me into a full-time coffee fiend. I was beginning to drink more coffee at home than I used to at the office, and I drank coffee almost incessantly at the office because there was nothing else to do.

I stood at the window with my coffee and smoked and watched people go to work. It was that time of the morning, just after half past eight, and cars were being started up and driven away all along the street. The closer it got to nine o'clock, the more interesting things became. A guy across the street and three houses down got hysterical because his car wouldn't start. He screamed at his wife to call him a cab - he was so loud that I actually heard every word - and then walked up and down the pavement in front of his house, smoking a cigarette. He went through two cigarettes in the six or seven minutes it took the cab to arrive.

Right after it did, a clone of the Noyce family emerged from a house further down: parents and two kids, a boy and a girl just a bit older than the two witches. The parents made the mistake of getting into the car first. There still were small grey clumps of old, dirty snow along the kerbs, and the boy took this opportunity to scoop up a handful. He squeezed it into a ball and threw it at the back of his sister's head and scored a spectacular hit.

She uttered a piercing shriek and the parents shot out of the car like a pair of cops who have just spotted a wanted criminal. The little girl really got a bad deal: she had her backside smacked just like her evil brother. There were more shrieks, too anguished to be amusing, before they all finally drove away.

But the best performance of all was put on by a woman who lived in the house almost directly across the street from mine. She began the show by running out of the house and then running back inside a couple of times. Each time, she re-emerged holding a new gift bag and I guessed she was taking Christmas gifts for people she worked with. She also had a briefcase and put everything down when she was unlocking her car and then went into brief hysterics because she'd put one of the gift bags down on a wet spot.

She spent almost a minute wiping it and actually blowing air at it. She was close enough for me to make out the expression on her face. It was hilarious. I really regretted that I hadn't smoked a joint, because watching her stoned would've had me rolling on the floor.

But the best was still to come. She finally put everything in the car and got in and drove out and hit the lamp post while reversing to turn around. The car was moving very slowly and the rear fender took all the damage but there still was a very satisfying, loud thud. The car's engine stalled and I waited impatiently for her to get out and assess the damage. I was sure I'd be treated to a very special face.

I was disappointed. She didn't get out of the car at all. It stood there for maybe half a minute - I couldn't see what was happening inside. Then she restarted the engine and drove off and I saw the rear fender wasn't even dented. Well, she'd been going at most a couple of miles per hour when she hit the lamp post. It had been a good show, all the same.

I did all the usual morning things: bathroom, breakfast, another coffee and a cigarette. The I lay down on my bed and put my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling and eventually went back to sleep.

I woke up feeling a hell of a lot better. I saw that it was already afternoon, and this made me jump off the bed as if I were late for something. But I wasn't late for anything, because there was nothing happening in my life. This was odd: from another point of view, there was a lot happening in my life. I had a show coming up and I was moving soon - two big events. Both had the potential to transform my life completely, especially if the Salmon Arms guy convinced the cops that the killer they were looking for could be found at 1431 Fulton Avenue.

Was I inviting a catastrophe by moving there? The answer to that had to be connected to that fucking number: 431. It was there for a reason. I tried to work out whether that number meant good or bad news. The catalog number of the Rembrandt I'd stolen featured 431. The phone number for Jane of the mobile lips featured 431. And I'd run into 134 pretty often, too. I was presently living at 134 Yale Avenue! Intending to move into a 1431! It was madness!

It really was. I went into full prehistoric savage mode. I circled my room smoking like a maniac and drinking coffee until my ears buzzed. I couldn't decide whether 431 and 134 meant good news or bad news. Sometimes it was bad and sometimes good and sometimes both. And sometimes it was good then bad then good again, like with 134 Yale Avenue. I loved it when I saw it and it turned out to be horrific but it transpired I couldn't have hoped for a nicer landlord.

I went on like that for quite a while, easily passing all the tests needed to qualify for mental asylum. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer and ran down and stole some ice and enlisted Captain Morgan to help me out. He did.

Captain Morgan reminded me that I was supposed to call Fiona after Christmas, and ask if her father liked the portrait. I had nothing to fear there; it wasn't as if she could ask me for a refund. I equipped myself with a fresh drink and cigarettes and went downstairs to call her. By the time I reached the phone, I'd convinced myself that she'd probably went off for a holiday somewhere exotic - she was on her Christmas break from the university and she was rich, so why not. But I called her anyway, and to my surprise she was there. She actually answered the phone!

When she found out it was me on other end she sounded very pleased. She wasted no time in telling me that her old man loved the picture. Her mother loved the picture, too. Everyone loved the picture. Did she tell me they'd all loved the apples, too? It looked as if I was a very popular guy in the McKay household. Josh would have been jealous to know how popular I was. I made a mental note to tell my mother I was friendly with the richest family in Vancouver. I was sure she'd pass it on to Josh, sooner or later.

The climax came when Fiona said:

"Have you made any plans for New Year's Eve?"

"Uh, no I haven't," I told her. "I mean I was planning to spend it by myself and meditate on the meaning of life with Johnnie. He's a friend of mine."

"Will Johnnie be upset if you cancel?"

"No, no. He's a very understanding guy."

"You must come to my party, then. Consider yourself officially invited."

"You're throwing a party?"

"Yes."

"You're sure you're not going to Barbados or Jamaica?"

"If I went down there, I'd go to the Bahamas," she said. "Dad owns a place there. No, I'm spending this whole holiday in Vancouver and I'm throwing a New Year's party. Would you like to come?"

"Yes," I said, with some hesitation and she misinterpreted it and added:

"You can bring Johnnie or Jeannette or whatever she's called with you, if you like."

"Thank you," I said. "I think I'll come by myself."

"Jane will be here, too," she said, and gave me the address. She wanted to give me directions too, but I told her I'd take a cab. I asked her about the time.

"Anytime between eight and ten," Fiona said. "Now I really have to go. I'll see you then!"

I told her she would and we disconnected and I returned to my room deep in thought.