The Homeless Millionaire

Saturday began with an almost cloudless sky and I got up, got dressed, and left, postponing morning ablutions for a later time. I walked all the way to the all-day breakfast place as if I'd had a jet engine installed in my ass. This no-hangover business was serious stuff. Maybe it was time for some moderation in this area. A few more days like that, and I'd be ready to jump off buildings in the belief that I could fly.

I got a shitload of art supplies. I also did some serious shopping at a nearby supermarket. It had a liquor store attached. I could feel myself smirking horribly in a superior way as I walked past its entrance. When I became fully aware of it, I instantly felt bad.

It was human to be weak. Smirks of superiority from a position of strength were what turned humans into assholes. I hated people like that. I had to get drunk again soon to avoid becoming one of them.

I bought a ton of stuff at the supermarket, most likely to compensate for not buying any booze. Together with the art-related stuff, it was just too much to carry. I had to take a cab home.

I waddled up the front path like an overloaded penguin. I climbed the front steps one at a time. I opened the door and got my stuff inside and it was clear I'd have to take it upstairs in instalments. The TV was on in the front room; through the closed door I heard one of the little witches say something, and giggle. Birgit shushed her.

I chose to take the supermarket stuff up first. When I descended the stairs for the rest, I found Dave standing in the hallway and looking at all my art store purchases. I'd bought six large drawing pads and another six in smaller sizes. Together with other stuff, it was enough to fill three large bags.

"Hey, Dave," I said. "How is it going?"

He shrugged the way people shrug when they don't know what to say.

"Okay, I guess," he said, making it clear things could be going much better. He added:

"By the way, are you going to be around tomorrow?"

"At least part of the day," I said. "Why?"

"We've got a couple of people who are interested in renting your flat. They'd like to see it. What time would be a good time for you?"

Flat? Was he out of his mind? It was a fucking room, basically. Large, yeah, but still a room.

"Anytime in the afternoon is fine," I told him. "I guess you could make it earlier too, if you need to."

"No worries. Afternoon is fine." He smiled at me and I remembered that I wanted to give him James, for Julie.

"There's something I want to give you," I said to Dave. "Care to come up with me?"

"Sure, no problem," he said with new enthusiasm and I realized, a little too late, that he thought it was an invitation for a drink and/or a joint. I led the way upstairs feeling a pleasant dread.

It was becoming pretty obvious I'd be having a drink, my first drink in a while. What was disconcerting, I didn't feel happy about it. Just a couple of days earlier I'd been convinced I'd be jumping with joy when that moment came! Life really was full of surprises.

Dave insisted on carrying one of the bags; maybe it made him feel like an artist. I decided I'd offer him a drink before the James business. I would crack open that bottle of Bisquit cognac I'd bought last year, specifically just over a week earlier.

"Wow. Genuine cognac!" said Dave, when he saw what was going on.

"Genuine beyond doubt," I said, twisting the cap off the bottle. It felt like sacrilege to pour that stuff into my plastic glasses.

I wet my lips while Dave flung his drink into his maw and immediately became very talkative.

"This is the perfect ending to a good day," he announced. "Today was the first bearable day I've had since my holiday."

"Getting used to the suffering?"

"That too. But I also scored a couple of times."

"Let's score again," I said, refilling his glass.

"Thanks, man. Thanks! I finally got that fucking doll for Julie."

"What do you mean? They're hard to get?"

"Well not that hard to get, but expensive," Dave said. "I thought I'd spot one on sale eventually, and I did. Do you know how much they charge for a fucking Ken doll, pal?"

"No," I said. "And I don't want to know."

Dave laughed, and clapped my shoulder: Bisquit was working. I still hadn't drunk a drop. I said:

"So cutting to the chase, a new prince Charles has laid claim to the throne?"

"No," said Dave. "His name is Robert. Sometimes it's Sundance too, it seems. Most of the time it's Robert."

"Interesting," I said. "Any idea why?"

"We let the girls watch Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the other night. It looks like Julie has fallen in love with Robert Redford."

"She could've chosen worse," I said. "So it's Robert versus Charles now?"

"Not quite," Dave said. "Diane is having seconds thoughts. Charles has been absent from the screen, lately. And she was also greatly impressed by Robert Redford."

"I think all things considered, Robert is the better choice," I said.

"Yeah. Say, why aren't you drinking?"

"I don't know," I said. "I kind of—maybe later. You know, Dave, I overdid things a couple of times during the holidays."

"Everyone did. That's what holidays are for. That's why they're called holy days."

This was a Saturday, a holy holiday, and Dave practiced what he preached: his glass was empty again. He made a feeble protest when I set about filling it, and said it was going to be his last drink. He didn't sound convincing. I said:

"Those people that want to look at the room. What time are they coming?"

"I haven't fixed a time yet. I wanted to talk to you first."

"Thank you," I said. "Let's make a deal. I'll clear out around noon, and it's wide and open for viewing until, uh, at least four. That suit you?"

"How about one to five? Would that be good, too?"

"Sure," I said. "Sure."

It broke the mood, talking about stuff related to my moving out of there. Dave finished his third glass of cognac and thanked me and I thanked him and opened the door for him and even watched him make his way down the first few steps, just in case.

I closed the door and stepped away and looked at James and said:

"Looks like it's you and me, pal."

I wasn't going to give James to Julie after all. He didn't stand a chance against the Sundance Kid. He would be gathering dust, forgotten in a dark corner. I promised myself I'd make sure James got plenty of sunshine. Then I set about unpacking the art stuff.

It took me a while to do that, and put everything in its proper place. My room really began to look like a studio: it was full of art materials. Suddenly, I felt sharp regret that I hadn't taken my easel when I was leaving home.

It wasn't as if I absolutely couldn't do without it. But it came at a cost: my back began to ache after a couple of hours spent bending over the table. An easel would have made things so much easier. Easier and faster, too: I'd produce three pieces in the time it presently took me to do two. I wouldn't need to take so many breaks—well, that was a sword that cut both ways. I liked my breaks.

Of course, I couldn't help but think about the easel I'd left in Toronto. It was a nice easel. It was one of the very few presents I'd received from my parents that I really liked.

I started thinking about how to ask them to send it to me. I congratulated myself on sending them those portraits. Once they got them, they couldn't refuse to send me my easel. They might even offer to send it without my asking.

Chaz was breathing down my neck. I had a hell of a lot of pictures to complete within the next twenty days. I had to have my easel. For maximum benefit, I had to get it back fast.

The portraits I'd painted wouldn't arrive until the middle of next week. I couldn't wait that long, and anyway there was something slimy and scheming about waiting with my request until my parents got the portraits.

However, I really didn't feel like calling them right away. Next day was a Sunday, traditionally the day for conducting family business. I'd time my call to coincide with with the end of their dinner, ideally ten to twenty minutes after they'd eaten. Everyone lowered their defenses after stuffing themselves with food. Their mood was guaranteed to be better, too.

I'd call them in the early evening, from the pub. And in the meantime, I could put some of those art supplies I'd bought to use. I really didn't have a lot of time left to come up with the goods for Chaz.

My glass of cognac was still standing untouched on the cupboard. When I was bouncing over Europe, I heard this story about the dogs sent out to look for people who got lost among the snowy peaks of the Alps. The dogs, mostly of the famous St Bernard breed, carried a flask of brandy attached to their collars. That brandy saved many lives.

I decided I'd treat that glass of cognac the same way. If it survived the next twenty four hours, I'd drink it before going out to call my parents.

"I'm the blue-eyed man of steel," I said to James while waiting for the coffeemaker to do its stuff.

You're so full of shit your eyes are brown, James seemed to say. I stepped back to view him from a better angle and decided that I'd misheard him. He was the friendliest monkey in the world.

But when I got down to work, I caught myself giving him suspicious glances.