The Homeless Millionaire

Fiona's family home turned out to be located not that far away; I'd expected a remote residence on the fashionable fringe of the town. However, the distance couldn't have been greater in other respects. The address was 4731 Belmont Avenue, and my cab fare came to five bucks with tip. That's how much it cost me to travel into a different world.

It was a world inhabited by very wealthy people. The grandly named Belmont Avenue was actually not much wider than a footpath. It gracefully curved between the fancy fencing enclosing very private, very expensive land; elegant mansions lurked discreetly in the wooded grounds. I saw a fence that consisted of a stone base and posts linked by wrought iron bars imitating arrows pointing at the sky. Climbing vines curled around the arrow shafts; here and there, a bunch of grapes peeked out between the metal leaves.

That fence featured two gates which were minor works of art in wrought iron, as fancy or fancier than the gates at Versailles or Buckingham Palace or some other place like that. One gate was dedicated to vehicles, and the other for pedestrians. The two entrances were cobbled with stones of different color - black and grey slate for the cars, ivory and a lighter grey for the pedestrians. I sneered at that: this was just fancy color-coding for drunks unable to find their way in, or out.

I took note of all these details because the features described belonged to 4731 Belmont Avenue, the venue of the party I was going to. I paid the driver and he drove away as quietly as he could: that was the impact of Belmont Avenue. No one wanted to fuck with the people living on Belmont Avenue. If you tried to fuck around with those people, you just disappeared.

I definitely didn't want to fuck with them in any way. I stood in front of the designated pedestrian traffic gate in front of Fiona's home, holding my bottle of Dom Perignon in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I went through two cigarettes before I decided I was brave enough to enter the premises while wearing my sale-priced Canadian Tire outdoor jacket. If anyone threw me a bad look, I could brain them with my expensive champagne. That bottle cost a couple of days' worth of work for most people. It had cost more than my fucking jacket.

I might have smoked yet another cigarette while hesitating to enter, but my hand or rather foot was forced by a car approaching up Belmont Avenue. The gate for pedestrians was unlocked and I pushed it open and walked in and followed the curved path to the front entrance of the house. The car that had forced me to move didn't stop, it continued down the street. I could see nothing but treetops where it went. Possibly the car was piloted by gangsters who wanted to execute a hostage in a secluded but fashionable spot on New Year's Eve. Anything was possible in this world, including a Canadian Tire sale outdoor jacket ascending the steps to one of the most pricey homes in Vancouver. My bottle was my only defense.

The entrance to Fiona's home featured a portico with columns worthy of an ancient Greek temple devoted to an important god. I hovered by one of those columns for a while, gripped by new indecision. There were absolutely no party sounds coming from the inside. According to my watch, I was the correct fifteen minutes late. Being slightly behind time was the correct, polite thing to do, because all party hosts found themselves running late with their preparations at the last moment.

Once again, a car forced me into action. This time it was a cab that stopped right in front of Fiona's home, and I had no choice but to press the bell button. A series of chimes rang out, a whole fucking sonata or fugue or whatever. A couple of people had got out of the cab, a girl and a guy; they were obviously coming to the party. The guy threw me a glance before bending down to pay the driver.

The front door opened making next to no sound; expensive front doors often did that, they opened soundlessly. I turned to face the entrance with the smile I'd ripped off my diplomatic father - it was the smile he wore when conducting difficult negotiations, such as persuading my hysterical mother to relax. I was preparing a little speech about how I was sorry to be a bit early when in fact I was a bit late, but what I had to say died before it left my mouth.

The person that had opened the door for me was Fiona's father. I had no difficulty recognizing him, even though I'd never met him. He looked different from his photographs. He looked exactly like the way I'd painted him in the portrait that was too good to give as a gift. The light left half his face in half shadow and the pupil of his eye on that side seemed bigger than the other one. I said:

"Good evening, I'm Michael, Michael Ryman. Fiona's invited me to a party, but I guess your name isn't Fiona."

He laughed. More than that: he shouted with laughter. He threw his head back and closed his eyes and let out a short bellow. Then he looked at me and said:

"Come in. I'm her father. Fiona!"

He nodded at me, and fucked off. I entered to see him disappearing up a very decorative, very expensive oak staircase. He likely had important, private business to attend to, up there.

I stood in the vestibule and hastily shed my Canadian Tire jacket, wondering about the butler. Did the McKays have a butler? If so, where was he? He'd probably run down to the wine cellar in hysterics when he saw my jacket approach the front door. I hung my scary jacket up all by myself on the coat rack to the side of the door, then turned the rack around so that my outer wear wasn't on full frontal display. Some of Fiona's guests might need an ambulance if my jacket was the first thing they saw upon coming in.

"Michael!"

It was Fiona. She was grinning from ear to ear and advancing towards me in very tall, very elegant high heels. She was wearing a reddish brown suede miniskirt and a golden blouse with sleeves puffed at the cuffs, cut so deeply it showed the sides of her tits. The decolletage was decorated by a ruffle that was so delicate and fine it would be hell to paint, with light reflecting on the shiny fabric in a dozen different ways. It was such a sight that it was guaranteed to make one stare at Fiona's cleavage, which I guessed was exactly the intent of the designer of that blouse. The people who designed such clothes were almost always old, lecherous guys.

It definitely took good taste and plenty of experience and a dirty mind to design a blouse like that, and it looked good on Fiona, very good in fact. She wasn't wearing a bra and she had breasts that would make a sculptor sigh with longing: not small but not too big, taut and pert under the shiny fabric. It was a fucking pity she had that DO NOT TOUCH sign hung from her neck, too. I said:

"I tried to be on time and it seems that I've come early."

"Don't be silly," she said, and looked at the bottle I was offering her. "Champagne! How sweet. Let me chill it. Come on in!"

Her last remark wasn't directed at me. The people who had got out of the cab were climbing the front steps behind me. I glanced round at them with the mandatory smile and nodded and said hello and went deeper inside the house, firmly dissociating myself from the Canadian Tire jacket.

I found myself in a huge salon or drawing room that was mostly mahogany and leather. A fancy cornice ran round the wall and the ceiling featured a rosette from which a huge fan was suspended, with blades that brought to mind nineteenth century clippers racing to deliver tea to good ole England before it went stale. A big stereo set in a corner winked at me mysteriously with a tiny green light. There was a record on the turntable, but it hadn't been turned on to play: the tone arm was resting in its cradle.

I walked up to the record player for a closer look. The album on the turntable was Exile on Main Street, Rolling Stones. They'd played songs from that album during the show I saw at Maple Leaf Gardens, and did it so badly I never wanted to hear those songs again. I hoped Fiona would switch records before she started playing any music.

I heard Fiona out in the hallway telling people to make themselves at home. By a curious coincidence, my eye fell on what was perhaps the most interesting piece of furniture in that room: a big wheeled bar. It had an array of glasses and an ice bucket on the top shelf and small, highly disciplined army of bottles on the bottom shelf, with the taller bottles standing at the back.

I decided to make myself at home. I walked up to that bar and gave it the discerning eye. At that point, the couple who had arrived after me walked in and I was obliged to look at them and smile and say:

"Would you like something to drink? There's a wide selection of drinks available."

"Why not, man," said the guy. "A scotch for me and a gin and tonic for the lady. Am I right?"

He put his hand on the back of the neck of the girl he was with and squeezed and she giggled and said that yes, he was right. I got busy with their drinks instead of mine, silently cursing myself for my good manners. It crossed my mind that maybe I shouldn't have come wearing a fucking tie, even though the tie in question was my Old Faithful, the black knit number that could be used in a variety of ways.

After shedding their overcoats, the guy and the girl stood revealed as wealthy hippies. The girl wore a long, flowing dress with an exotic print and an equally exotic shawl on her pare shoulders. The guy had long hair and an untrimmed mustache and wore a long, collarless shirt; his jeans had bell bottoms big enough to completely cover his feet. They both had about four wristbands apiece, and the girl had three thin necklaces of tiny seashells and coral beads: maybe there was siren's tail hidden under that dress. They obviously had to come from wealthy, respected families to come to a New Year's Eve party dressed like that.

"I'm John," said the guy, "And this is Joan."

"I'm Michael, nice to meet you," I said. "I shall now make myself a drink."

Wealthy and respected or not, they drank like thirsty proletarians. The guy was holding his empty glass out for another hit before I'd even managed to have a sip from mine. I gave him a family-sized scotch and quickly moved away from the bar, pretending to examine the room. He could make the second drink for his own fucking girlfriend all by himself.

There was a huge double door in the back wall, and I guessed it led to a dining room. The doorbell chimed, playing a new melody, and I heard new noises in the hallway: hurried footsteps on the staircase, clatter of high heels, and a short, low-voiced conversation between Fiona and her parents: her mother sounded almost exactly like Fiona, when the two of them talked it was uncanny. Then Fiona's father stuck his head into the room and wished me and the hippie couple a happy new year and fucked off before we could wish him one, too. A big car engine growled nearby and when I looked at the front window I saw headlights slash the darkness outside.

A whole bunch of people was coming inside the house, there was a babble of excited voices and a delighted squeal or two. The car had stopped in front of the entrance and I guessed Fiona's parents were about to be driven away to a party of their own.

"Hey," said John the rich hippie. "Hey!"

I looked at him. He was holding the scotch bottle up for my attention, and grinning like a madman.

"Sure," I said. "Sure. Why not."

He was an okay guy, after all. When I gave him my glass for a refill, I had the thought that maybe later I would offer him a joint. I had brought a total of eight joints; one of these was rolled with the Cambodian killer weed. It was tucked away separately to prevent accidental use.

"It's going to be a hell of a party," said John, activating the scotch bottle.

I was beginning to agree.