The Homeless Millionaire

It definitely wasn't a good time to leave the party.

It was just past two in the morning on New Year's Day. There was a snowball's chance in hell of catching a cab. It was dark and cold and I was feeling disappointed, which made everything seem twice as bad.

However, I was also drunk and in possession of several joints. I lit one as soon as I exited the grounds of Fiona's family home, and decided that I'd walk all the way to Yale Avenue. I wasn't afraid of getting lost, all I had to do was keep going east and as close to the shore as possible. Fiona's home was just a few hundred yards from the bay, just like mine.

Smoking my joint, I walked down Belmont Avenue. There was a party going on three houses down from Fiona's home: they were playing Procol Harum, they were into the slow dance stage already. I walked on and after a while I couldn't hear any music any more, there was just me and the dark night and my smouldering roach.

I took one last hit and threw it out and seriously considered finishing off the Cambodian torpedo. But that carried a substantial chance of my being found the next day frozen to death in the middle of the forest, miles from Vancouver. I didn't know this part of the town at all, and the overcast sky meant I couldn't get a navigational fix. It would be easy to go south instead of east after being hit by the Cambodian torpedo.

I quickly began regretting being stoned, anyway: walking one block seemed to take forever. Belmont Avenue ended at a T-junction with what seemed to be a huge park and I could either plunge into the trees or turn south. I chose the safe route, and turned south. I looked at a street sign along the way and found I was walking down Discovery Street. It seemed very appropriate.

I began thinking about the discoveries I'd made that night. Ludo's pearl of wisdom about selling art to corporations stood out. I wondered whether Chaz was aware of that angle. He had to be, he was too smart to let something like that pass him by.

The problem was that I hadn't made a name for myself, yet. No corporation would buy art created by a Mr. Nobody. I remembered that I'd promised Chaz I'd try painting with acrylic. He was expecting to see me before the end of the month, and he was expecting me to bring at least twenty pictures that would blow his mind! I found myself gritting my teeth and solemnly swearing to go into a working frenzy the moment I got home—well, maybe after I'd had a bit of sleep.

My promise must have been noted by by the cosmos, because right away I was passed by cab that stopped maybe fifty paces down the street. A guy got out of the cab and promptly fell on his ass, delaying its departure. It really was a chance from heaven and I broke into a trot, arriving by the cab just as it was about to drive away.

Fifteen minutes and five bucks later, I was home. I was sorry to arrive so quickly; it had been a very pleasant cab ride. It was warm and the cab's interior was scented with a mix of perfumes worn by previous passengers, and I allowed myself to luxuriate in the victory I'd won over Darcy. Making Darcy puke on Fiona's patio was infinitely better than spilling a drink on his crotch.

I gave the driver a big tip and wished him a happy New Year and he wished me one too, and altogether I was in a happy mood when I entered the house. It changed completely by the time I'd climbed the stairs to my room.

The Noyces were arriving that evening. They were coming back from their Barbados holiday. They'd have been up partying at least as long as I did, and they'd show up hungover and tired and foul-tempered. And that was when I'd hit them with the news that I was moving.

I was obliged to give them a month's notice. If I wanted to move out on the first of February, I had to let them know on the first of January. It wasn't a nice way to start someone's New Year even when they weren't hungover and tired and depressed upon returning to their everyday reality.

It was fucking inhuman to give them notice that evening. I wrestled with that problem for a while, smoking a cigarette and circling my room. My orbit brought me near the back window sill, where I'd deposited my private bottle of Dom Perignon. I'd put it there in the hope it would chill a little. I didn't want to put my Dom Perignon in the communal fridge. It would carry the wrong message.

I wasn't feeling tired at all, I was wide awake: I'd prepared myself to go until dawn, and it was only three o'clock. So I grabbed the bottle and admired it for a while until I was reminded how I'd fucked up when trying to draw it. I opened it with an unnecessary bit of violence that resulted in champagne foaming over my hand, and dripping on the rented carpet.

It hadn't really chilled on that window sill, it was still warmish. But it was still fucking good. Good booze was always good, regardless of serving temperature. I drank a couple of glasses really fast, and was inspired to finish off the Cambodian torpedo.

There was no need to smoke by it by an open window—any scents transferred via the ducts of the heating system were sure to be gone by the time the Noyces returned home. But I opened the front window anyway and fired my torpedo and then quickly went and turned off the light. I didn't want half the street to see me smoking a joint.

I did want to smoke it by the front window though, because there was a party going a couple of houses down and across the street and the noises I could hear were interesting. They were playing Jesus Christ Superstar, the rock opera, specifically the number in which Judas decides to betray Christ. It was a good dance number with a great bass line, but it still seemed an odd choice for a New Year's Eve party.

They switched the music off the moment that number ended and there were squeals of laughter for some reason. I tried to work it out and couldn't and had just killed the Cambodian torpedo when my pal said:

It's a message for you.

I took a look and sure enough, he was there. He was holding a glass of champagne just like me, and wearing my party clothes. He had a mischievous look on his face that I disliked very much.

I told him to come up with a translation, or go fuck himself. I told him Ludo was making up to half a million dollars per deal, and that Chaz had said I was better than Ludo. I told him I was about to draw something really good.

I just had to have another go at that champagne bottle. It was unbelievable how badly I'd fucked it up on my previous attempt. Getting it right would erase that failure from my mind.

Of course, I wasn't about to draw it while there was still some champagne left inside. I wasn't about to go crazy trying to get all those rising bubbles right. I finished off the bottle in record time and placed it on the table and fucked around with my lamp until the light was exactly right.

I went with charcoal first, and was blown away because I nailed it first time and in under five minutes. It was fucking brilliant. That bottle might have been empty, but it radiated with promise. It was a symbol for all the joy and happiness in the world. Unlike my famous beer bottle, it wasn't dancing, it was standing still. But it was so happy it was about to explode.

If Chaz wanted solid proof of my talent, this was it. He'd said something about range. Fine.

I did the bottle in pencil next. That didn't take five minutes. It ended up taking over five hours. My hand was on fire when I was done. Every single muscle, every tiny tendon was screaming for mercy.

It was worth it. That drawing was the closest I'd ever come to Rembrandt's genius. It was just a stupid empty bottle, but it contained all the basic truths of life. It hinted at the joy with which it had been emptied, and glowed with the satisfaction of a task achieved. There was a hint of sadness that henceforth, it would be used to store inferior liquids, or maybe broken and thrown out. The high moment of its life was over, but it had accomplished its purpose.

The thousands of fine lines I'd drawn showed all that and even more. They showed whatever the viewer wanted to see. It was genius.

My pal took this opportunity to pop up again, and remind me that I was completely drunk and stoned. It was true; while I was working on that bottle, I repeatedly consulted Johnnie Walker, and smoked all the ready-rolled joints left over from the party.

I told my pal we'd talk again the next day. He fucked off, disappointed. He'd been hoping for a chat.

I really wanted to do a watercolour next. I really did. But I just couldn't fucking do it, I was way too tired. I was also too excited to sleep. So I spent a couple of hours smoking and circling around the room and drinking scotch and water and looking at the two drawings I'd done and mentally masturbating like a madman over my own talent.

I'd needed plenty of assistance from the joints and the booze, it was true. But what I'd done was fucking good—that was true as well. I had two pieces I could safely show to Chaz.

A new day had begun in the meantime, the first day of the year. It featured a salt-coloured sky and a damp chill that really hit me when I was airing out my room. I spotted an orangey pool of vomit on the sidewalk in front of the party house where they'd been listening to Judas. Was that a message for me, too?

But my friend wasn't around to answer. I'd fucking kicked the shit out of him with those two drawings. He was sitting under a rock somewhere and waiting for better times.

I told him better times were sure to come around sooner or later. Change was the only constant. It was all a matter of time.

Then I went to sleep.