The Homeless Millionaire

By noon next day, both portraits were on their way to Toronto.

It was fucking crazy. I woke up just as the Noyces were leaving, and right away getting those portraits sent was the most important, urgent task I had to do that day. I whizzed through my morning routine as if I were late to an important meeting; I told myself I had to hurry because it temporarily wasn't raining. Then took out everything but my mother's portrait from the tube.

Father was still spread on the table, where I'd left him to dry. It was another good effort: his portrait was as good as my mother's. It showed his Face #1—being a professional diplomat, he had a multitude of faces. Face #1 was pleasantly bland, friendly and competent. He was the guy to turn to when you needed help to solve an important problem. Not just any problem; his eyes and the set of his mouth discouraged bothering him with trifles.

I knew he'd like it a lot. I knew both of them would like their portraits a lot. Their arrival in the mail would be like a bombshell. It would send shock waves through the household for many weeks. It would be the last thing they'd ever expect to receive in their mail.

I was an expert, a fucking champion at lobbing bombshells into other people's lives, no two words about it.

That day, it turned out to be a task that required plenty of determination. I visited three stores before I capitulated, and bought a white plastic tube that cost double of what I wanted to spend. I chose white because I figured I'd simply write the address on the tube with the indelible marker I'd bought along with the tube.

This turned out to be unacceptable. I was warned: my tube drew many suspicious glances while I was waiting in line at the post office. It was the post office I'd used when working at Robinson & Klein, and at first I had the notion other regular users were recognizing me.

Then I had the thought that they were recognizing me as someone the police were looking for. My mouth went dry with tension. I was convinced there would be a chorus of shouts if I tried to slip away. So I remained in the lineup, shuffling forward a few feet every few minutes.

When it was finally my turn, I had to clear my throat to speak. I put the tube on the counter and had the impression everyone in the fucking room turned to look at it. It definitely impressed the teller, she gave me an uncertain smile and asked me to wait a moment.

I was almost sure she was going to instruct someone to call the cops while she detained me by inventing assorted little difficulties. I'd have left if it wasn't for the fact that she'd already taken the tube from me. It had my name and address written on it—it was mandatory to include a sender's address. Of course I'd given my address on Yale, but I'd still be there for more than three weeks.

I was close to making a break for it anyway when the teller returned. She informed that I'd have to purchase a couple of officially approved postal address labels, fill them in, and stick them to the tube: luckily, they were self-adhesive. The she told me how it would cost to send my tube by air mail and I had to ask for a repeat: I couldn't believe my ears.

"It's because of the dimensions," she said.

"But it's thin. It's less than six inches, in diameter."

"Unfortunately it's the largest dimension that counts, and it's a yard long. And it weighs in at over two pounds."

I pulled out a ten-dollar note and said:

"You know something? Let's go the whole hog. I'd like to send it registered mail."

I exited the post office a few minutes later, and found out that it had begun to rain. It wasn't too windy, and I could deploy my new umbrella. I was hungry—I'd had a skimpy, hurried breakfast—and I estimated I was no more than a five-minute walk from the all-day breakfast place. So I went there and really did myself well. I went for their Breakfast of Champions deal featuring extra eggs and double bacon and sausages and fries.

I couldn't move after that for a while, so I smoked and drank coffee until the need to take a leak forced me to get up. I did my business and paid and went home.

When I got there, I got confirmation there really was something wrong with me that morning. I'd visited three art supplies stores, but failed to buy any art supplies. I was running low on everything: charcoal, pencils, paint, paper. I also wanted to buy a couple of small round brushes, a number two and three. I used those two sizes a lot, and it would speed things up if I had a couple of each. I wouldn't need to do so much rinsing while painting.

Following my failure to buy any art supplies, I spent a couple of hours lying on the bed and smoking cigarettes. My legs ached in a pleasant way from doing all that walking.

I wasn't being lazy, oh no: I did a lot of thinking. I began with a critical analysis of the post office situation, specifically my attack of panic when I thought I was about to get nabbed by the cops.

I decided it had been moronic. Thinking someone would recognize me based on a brief description in newspapers a couple of months earlier—that really was paranoia squared. Of course, there was a tiny chance there was cop among the customers, someone who had repeatedly looked at my poster photograph in some police station. But it was really tiny.

No, what had attracted everyone's attention was that fucking tube. The teller had wanted to see it and I stupidly stuck it through the opening in the glass which likely looked very odd, POST OFFICE CLERK ATTACKED BY A WORM FROM OUTER SPACE kind of stuff. No wonder I'd attracted attention! Had I seen someone doing something like that, I would've been staring, too.

There was no need to fear recognition in public as long as I didn't do stupid things such as sticking a gleaming white phallus-like object in a clerk's face.

That was when my paranoid pal showed up. He was dressed exactly the way I was, and he was also smoking a cigarette, although of course he wasn't lying down.

My pal told me there was plenty of need to fear Detective Moore. All those sightings that were reported to the cops by the cooperating public, the reports Harry told me were being tossed into the trash—Detective Moore had a special interest in those. He wouldn't hesitate to go through a lot of trash in order to find something that would let him put his boot up my ass. Doing that was very high up on his list of priorities.

My pal ended his exposé by reminding me of my upcoming move to 1431 Fulton Avenue. He was of the opinion it wasn't a good move. I'd been definitely recognized by the guy from Salmon Arm. He had reasons to believe I'd be living there. If he had the kind of mentality that made a security guard job enjoyable, he'd already told the cops he'd seen me.

Those were valid points. My pal was pleased I accepted them as such. He shut up and fucked off. Once he was gone, I could zero in on the problem.

It all really came down to a single point, a very important point. What kind of life did I want? A normal life, or the life of a killer wanted by the cops? I could carry on as normal, or I could run and hide and lie to everyone I met. I couldn't imagine myself living a life like that.

There was no choice but to carry on as usual. Usual meaning normal, without waving any tubes, no shouting or screaming except in very special circumstances.

Lying on my bed was proving to be a stressful and tiring experience. I felt I could really use some relaxation. I could see Captain Morgan across the room, and he could see me.

He was too far away for me to see his face, but I knew it was a friendly, smiling face. He wanted to get together. He sensed that I wanted to get together, too. Why resist it? It would happen sooner or later, anyway.

I agreed it would. But not right away, not that day.

I heard the Noyce car drawing to a stop outside. Car doors opened and slammed shut. I heard Dave call out:

"I'll be back in about an hour!"

One of the little witches screamed joyously. Birgit and the other witch remained silent.

I tried to unravel this mystery right up to when I went to bed, with no success.