The Homeless Millionaire

I cheated, and got an extra glass of champagne by pretending I was getting it for someone else. Well, it wasn't really champagne. The masses were pouring my Dom Perignon down their throats, while I got a sour-sweet German bubbly imitating champagne. I cheated, and I was cheated; it was all fair and square.

I didn't want to go through the routine that followed: people kissing and wishing each other all the best and so on. It felt so fake. Me and my pal and my two glasses of imitation champagne escaped through the French window to the back patio of Fiona's home. I toasted my pal first; I knew he would appreciate it.

"Here's to you," I said, and had a look inside and saw my pal was also raising his glass in a toast. He was smiling a smile that looked sincere! He seemed to like me! That was a first.

I drank my second glass wishing myself all the best and I suddenly understood why my pal was smiling. We were becoming one, me and him. I'd fucking missed him when he'd disappeared—that was the ultimate proof we really had a bond. We weren't going to fight any more, we would be allies from now on. There would be empathy and cooperation and maybe even a little bit of love.

I put down the empty glasses on the casual table to the side of the patio entrance. It was another minor work of art in wrought iron: its top consisted of a whole field of metal flowers. I lit a cigarette, thinking that maybe I should smoke another joint instead. The New Year had just begun. It was a just a stupid, arbitrary date, the New Year really began when the days started getting longer. But it was a good excuse for smoking a joint, anyway.

After careful consideration, I selected one of the ordinary joints: I wanted to keep the Cambodian torpedo for a truly special moment. I had hit it off with a couple of girls while dancing inspired by Haig, and I'd actually started thinking that maybe I should try and get laid. It had been a while.

I smoked that joint right down to the last shred of cigarette paper and stopped giving a fuck about anything. I stared open-mouthed at the sky for a while: there was a total of maybe five stars visible, it was getting more cloudy. I checked for my pal, but he was no longer visible. If we really had merged into one, I might never see him again. It made me feel sad.

I heard the music start up again inside: Rip This Joint from Exile On Main Street, and I groaned. One part of me wanted to step inside the house and get myself a fresh drink in spite of the music. The other part of me, equally strong, wanted to remain on the patio smoking a cigarette with my mind freewheeling without any steering on my part.

I compromised by lighting a cigarette, and going inside for a fresh drink after I'd smoked it. There wasn't anyone in the dining room, they were all busy whooping it up in the front room. I deposited my empty glasses on the dirties trolley, and inspected the dining table.

The prawn salad was all gone, which was no surprise. There still was some smoked salmon left and I went for that, adding a couple of slices of bread. Of course that necessitated a glass of wine. There was no Chablis or anything decent left, just a couple of bottles of sweetish German white.

At that point I was willing to drink anything as long as it contained alcohol, so I didn't mind. I selected the biggest glass available and filled it with wine and ate and drank. Then I stepped outside again for a cigarette and a joint, not necessarily in that order. I was hesitating which to light first when the French window opened, and someone joined me.

The someone in question was a much older guy that I definitely hadn't been introduced to. His hair was half black, half salt and his goatee was black flecked with silver. He had the look of someone important trying hard to appear as one of the boys. He was dressed in black jeans and an elegant shirt with the top button undone; his black tie was loose. He grinned at me and said:

"You must be the guy Fiona told me about. You're a painter, right?"

"If Fiona told you that, it must be true," I said.

He laughed, and stretched out a hand.

"Pleased to meet you," he said. "My name is Jeff. But I'm known as Ludo in so-called artistic circles."

"Michael," I said, shaking his hand. So this was the famous Ludo Chaz had told me about! Chaz had said Ludo was new and hot, and I'd assumed he'd be a young guy, at most a few years older than me. The guy in front of me definitely wasn't fresh out of the factory where they made Ludos. He looked forty, more or less.

"I think Fiona told me you're new to Vancouver," said Ludo. "Is that correct? Where are you from?"

"Toronto," I said. I stubbed out my cigarette and pulled out my pack to have another and offered the pack to Ludo.

"Thanks," he said, pulling out a cigarette. We lit up, and he added:

"Toronto's becoming hot these days. I'm trying to arrange a couple of shows in Toronto."

"Toronto, hot? You must be fucking kidding."

"I'm not," he said. "A lot of money is moving from Montreal to Toronto because of all that Quebec independence bullshit. Practically all of the big corporations are moving their head offices to Toronto."

"You're saying that makes Toronto hot? You're running a corporation?"

"I wish," he laughed. "No, I'm just trying to make a living doing what I like to do. Listen, no offence meant, but I gather you're just starting out. Is that correct?"

It was, no two words about it. After I'd admitted it, Ludo said:

"I'm going to give you a tip. A solid gold tip. If you want to make top dollar, you've got to score with the corporate world. Ever been to a big corporation's headquarters?"

I told him I hadn't, no.

"Every single room, every bit of space is decorated by a picture," Ludo told me. "Not reproductions. Original art. Corporate bigshots love original art. They score a lot of points with original art at the office."

"How so?" I asked.

"It projects the image that they are thoughtful, sensitive people with refined tastes, not just a bunch of greedy money-grabbers. Supporting the arts makes them like the popes and kings and assorted aristocrats who commissioned artists to paint a church, or a flattering portrait of themselves. Of course it doesn't hurt that they can write it off their tax, and that the stuff they bought appreciates in value."

I laughed and said:

"I never thought about all that. That's clever."

"Yeah," Ludo said. "Corporate headquarters are usually full of clever people. Anyway, what I'm leading up to is this: if you want to become one of those lads that have to change their country of residence for tax reasons, if you want to own a yacht and sail around the Mediterranean seeking inspiration— I beg your pardon, do you actually want to become one of those guys?"

"I take it you do," I said. I offended him.

"I am one of those guys already," he told me. "I was asking whether you want to become one of us, too."

"It would be nice," I said. "I especially like the idea of Mediterranean cruises on private yachts."

He wasn't offended any more. He laughed, and said:

"Well, in that case make sure a few international corporations choose to decorate their offices with your art. We're talking hundreds of thousands of dollars per contract here, could be half a million. I'm talking from personal experience."

He gave me a triumphant grin and I was desperately trying to think of a suitable riposte—I mean, how the fuck was I supposed to argue with half a million dollars—when Fiona saved my ass. She opened the French window behind us and stuck her head out and said:

"What the hell is going on here? Some sort of artistic conspiracy?"

"Yes," I said, and reached into my pocket and pulled out one of the regular joints and held it up for inspection and admiration.

"Why not," Ludo said.

"I'm not sure I should," said Fiona. "I'm the bloody hostess. I'm supposed to make sure everyone is having a good time. That's why I looked in on you guys, to make sure you were having a good time."

"The hostess is entitled to have a good time, too," I said. I lit the joint, and passed it to her.

"Fuck this," she said, with such vehemence that Ludo and I exchanged surprised glances. She took the joint from me and really surprised me by burning through a third of the joint with a couple of tokes. Then I remembered the way she drove that little Sunbeam of hers, and I wasn't surprised any more.

She passed the joint to Ludo who instantly showed he was a veteran at that kind of thing—he took a series of small tokes without letting his breath out and passed the joint to me only when he looked as if he was about to burst. A single pass, and almost the whole joint was gone. It was a cigarette-sized joint, but still.

I finished it off and dug a fresh joint out of my pocket. Once again, I held it up for approval.

"Oh no," said Ludo, surprising me. "I'm good for now."

He abruptly turned round and went back inside the house. I looked at Fiona. She grinned at me and blew smoke into my face and I saw that the DO NOT TOUCH sign was missing.

I put the joint back into my pocket and leaned forward and kissed her.