The Homeless Millionaire

By ten o'clock, it was clear that this was indeed going to be one hell of a party. There was someone new arriving every couple of minutes. After I'd revealed to John the hippie that I was from Toronto, he explained to me that things were more relaxed on the west coast: people frequently came to parties an hour or two after the scheduled blastoff time.

"It's known as Lotus Land, man," he told me while we were keeping the scotch bottle busy. "People here are way more laid back. Toronto... I spent some time there, man. Everyone running around with fire up their ass. You made the right move, leaving that place behind. I wouldn't want to live there even if they paid me."

Understandably, I liked John for saying that and maybe we'd have even become friends. But Fiona interrupted my conversation with John by dragging me off to introduce me to a whole bunch of people. I cut that short by taking her aside and explaining that I didn't want to be introduced as an artist. She found it difficult to understand.

"But why?" she said. "You ARE an artist."

"Most of the people who call themselves artists aren't," I said. "And a lot of them are jerks with an ego problem. Real artists don't run around shouting they're artists. When someone introduces themselves to you as an artist or writer or musician or whatever, you know right away you're dealing with a conceited asshole."

"And you're not a conceited asshole?" she said, and giggled.

"I just don't want everybody to know right away," I said. "You could tell them that I'm from Toronto, instead. That way they'll take pity on me, and make an effort to be extra nice."

"Well, you can do the introducing yourself from now on," she said, and fucked off to switch on the music. I didn't want to introduce myself to anyone. I already had a solid buzz from the scotch and I was feeling pretty happy all by myself, thank you. I couldn't even remember the names of the people Fiona had introduced me to already, and I was sure they didn't remember mine.

There was quite a crowd gathered around the wheeled bar, so I backed into a corner with my glass with the intent to smoke a quiet cigarette and take in the scene. But that plan was rendered null and void because Fiona put on Exile on Main Street, very loud. She played All Down the Line which is basically a number about getting hammered, and it struck the right chord with the masses: quite a few people started jiving right away.

It didn't strike the right chord with me because I didn't want to listen to the Rolling Stones. They used to be my favorite band, but after that godawful show of theirs I saw in Toronto I didn't want to listen to them ever again. It was as if I'd been betrayed by a good friend.

The big double doors to the dining room at the back had been thrown open in the meantime, so I went in there to check what was on the menu. There were plenty of good things on the menu. The sideboards were groaning under the weight of assembled food, and there was a neat line of opened wine bottles standing in the center of the dining table, surrounded by glasses and cutlery and plates and bowls of all shapes and sizes.

Looking at all that food gave me an appetite, but no one was eating yet: the only people in that room were a couple of Filipino maids who had just brought in even more stuff and were busy arranging it on one of the sideboards. I didn't want to be the first to start stuffing my face, so I went to the big french windows at the back and opened them and stepped out into the back patio.

It was a surprisingly nice night, with stars peeking out here and there between the clouds, and it didn't feel cold at all. I lit a cigarette and sipped my drink and tried not to hear the music coming from inside the house. I'd already done more socializing in the past hour than I'd done all week, and I wasn't in a hurry to get back into the thick of things.

Smoking my cigarette, I reviewed my first impressions of Fiona's friends. Quite a few had shown up in hippie gear, but I was fairly sure their hippie activities consisted of stuff like smoking a joint while floating around on a mattress in the swimming pool at the back. John, for example, turned out to be a guy who was studying to become an architect. Fiona had told him about me, and he confided he'd thought about becoming a painter. However, he'd decided he wasn't cut out to starve in a garret.

"I mean there's just no way I'd put myself through all that shit," he told me. "I've only got one life, and I intend to make it as comfortable as I can."

"Yeah, that's definitely the wrong mindset for an artist," I said. "I understand you don't believe in reincarnation?"

He laughed, then bent towards me and said in a low voice:

"I think it's a ton of bullshit. But don't mention it to Joan, she's heavily into that stuff. She thinks she was a princess or someone like that in a previous life. You know why I think reincarnation is pure bullshit?"

I told him I didn't, but was curious to find out.

"All those guys and girls claiming they've lived a past life," he said. "Did it ever strike you that they all were aristocrats or philosophers or artists or some other shit like that? Give me a fucking break. None of them were fucking peasants or lowly workers or slaves, they were all princes or princesses or kings and queens. And the fact is, there was a whole fucking lot more peasants and slaves in the past ages than there were kings or queens. If half of all these claims about past lives were true, there would've been no working class at all, man. Just kings and queens riding around in carriages driven by dukes or counts or barons, at the very least. What a crock of shit."

"What about Joan?" I asked. "Who was she, in her most recent past life?"

He groaned and rolled his eyes and said:

"Let's change the subject, man. Let's just drop it."

After I'd finished my cigarette on the back patio I went through a short period of indecision, then finally got out one of the standard joints I'd brought and lit it up. I selected the thinnest joint of the lot but it blew me away anyway, it was instant lobotomy. I got so stoned I was scared of going inside and joining in the festivities. So I stayed out in the back and smoked cigarettes and lost all sense of time while disconnected thoughts floated in and out of my mind without any conscious effort on my part.

Around my fourth cigarette I started feeling cold, and went back in. They'd moved on to Deep Purple and Machine Head in the meantime, and almost everyone was dancing like crazy to Highway Star. Even the people who had moved into the dining room were making dance moves while stuffing their faces from plates held in their hands.

I helped myself to a heap of potato salad and smoked salmon and a few slices of salami. This necessitated getting a glass of white wine: there were several varieties available. I got a glass of Chablis and retired into a corner where I could put down the glass on a sideboard and do some serious eating.

The food was delicious, way better than what I'd had in recent months, and I got myself a second helping and another glass of wine. I was about halfway through that when I saw a guy that seemed familiar, even though I was sure I'd never met him. He was tall, with medium-long blond curly hair and brown eyes. He seemed to appreciate the potato salad just as much as I did, which perhaps meant some sort of spiritual bond.

With a start, I realized I wasn't alone any more. My paranoid pal was back. He was dressed as smartly as I was, and he was also drinking white wine. He raised his glass to me in an ironic toast and I knew something was up even before I heard a familiar voice say to me:

"Hello, Michael. Fiona was telling me you're here."

It was Jane, Jane of the leaking sailboat. She had her hair in a long pageboy cut and was wearing a very short, very elegant black mini dress made of some exotic matte material. Her legs, in black stockings, seemed to go all the way to her armpits. She wore black high heels and very little makeup. She didn't really need any, she looked stunning. I was doubly stunned because it dawned on me that the curly-haired guy who'd seemed familiar was none other than the famous Darcy.

"Well hello, Jane," I said. "Yes, I'm here. So are you, it seems."

"It just seems so? Why? Are you on acid?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "Am I? This potato salad is wicked. Did you try it?"

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

She was very forthright, the way people sometimes are when they've had a couple of quick ones. She was halfway through her current glass, and it was a big glass, still half-full of some reddish cocktail and decorated with a slice of orange. I found it difficult to reply because I realized that in fact I had been trying to get rid of her.

"I'm not trying to get rid of you," I lied. "I was simply recommending the potato salad."

Quite rightly, she didn't believe me. She said:

"Oh, I see. You're thinking Dick is here, too. Well, you can relax. He isn't here. He's partying with his friends tonight. And Fiona doesn't really count Dick among her friends."

"Fiona is a hell of a smart woman," I said.

"Jane?"

It was that fucking Darcy. He'd crept up on us unobserved, and was smiling at Jane while giving me the evaluating eye.

"Darcy, meet Michael," Jane said. "Michael, meet Darcy."

"We've almost met once before," I told him. Thankfully, I was holding a plate and a glass and didn't need to shake hands.

Darcy looked nonplussed by my statement: perhaps he thought I was referring to a previous life. He asked Jane if she'd like to eat something and Jane said she would and told me she'd see me later and they fucked off. I kept my eye on them, and it was obvious they were planning to return to my corner of the room. I finished what I still had on my plate in record time and drank the rest of my wine, and went to deposit the dirties on the wheeled trolley standing by the doorway into what I presumed was the kitchen.

It indeed was the kitchen. I put my head inside, and saw it had a huge bay window turned into a breakfast nook. There were a couple of pictures flanking that nook and the one closer to me was the apple picture Fiona had bought at the show.

It was the first time ever that I saw a picture of mine displayed in someone's home. I had to light a cigarette to calm down. I thought about going to the back patio again for a review of my new status but Jane and Darcy had taken station right by the french window, blocking that escape route.

Suddenly, I felt totally alienated from everyone around me. It was almost as if I were a fucking ghost or a visitor from another planet. The hubbub of excited voices, the thumping music - it was like traffic noise in a busy city. I briefly wished I was back in my soon-to-be-vacated room on Yale Avenue, with Johnnie Walker keeping me company. Johnnie, and maybe Harry, too. I remembered my birthday in the cottage on the island. It had been the best birthday I'd ever had. I missed Harry.

But I didn't get to miss him for very long because Fiona showed up and grabbed my arm and said:

"What are you doing here? Come on and dance!"

She gave my arm a pull, grinning madly. There were numerous cocktails powering that grin, and the Do Not Touch sign hanging from her neck was slightly askew. I followed her into the front room where a major circle jive and mental jerk was taking place to Led Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love.

Once I started moving the feeling of alienation drifted away. After that number ended I got myself a fresh scotch, noting that the J&B had been replaced by a bottle of Haig. Haig really delivered the goods, and I was still dancing when suddenly all the lights came on and the music stopped and Fiona called out:

"Get ready everybody, it's five to midnight! I need volunteers to open and pour the champagne."

I didn't volunteer. My shirt was sticky with sweat and I forgot where I'd put my jacket. This was very serious - there were all those joints hidden inside. I located it after a short but frenzied search. It was draped over the shoulders of a girl I'd danced with in the meantime and I retrieved it after a mumbled apology and ran a quick check on the pocket contents while the crowd around me started chanting the countdown to midnight.

"...three...two... one!" they screamed, and there was an explosion of popping champagne corks and Fiona shouted:

"Happy New Year! To all of you!"

"And to you too," I heard my pal say.