The Homeless Millionaire

I drank the brandy exactly a minute past noon. I actually waited with the glass in my hand, glancing at my watch, to make sure no one could accuse me of drinking in the morning.

I had a good, celebratory reason to drink that brandy. I'd ended up producing three watercolours the previous evening, and two of those were good enough to show to Chaz.

The one that wasn't good enough showed my paranoid friend. There was a lot of green and grey and black. It wasn't completely bad, it was just a touch away from being bad, like giving my pal red lips or a bit of makeup.

My pal wasn't that kind of guy. That painting wasn't true.

The two that were true depicted fantasy landscapes. Fantasy, because they were imagined by me. I thought a mountain would look good there and a meadow over there, and so on. A clump of trees? A patch of mist? Some clouds in the sky? It wouldn't hurt to include some action—birds? Mammals? Snakes, lizards?

I was inspired to include a bunch of mosquitoes in one of those pictures, and it was real hell to get that right. I regretted not buying an extra fine brush, a number one, the previous day. I put the final touch on the mosquitoes using a new technique: I smeared paint on my lips, put them close to the picture, and whistled. I tried it out first on a blank sheet, of course, and instantly saw it that it would work well. Maybe Pollock had a point, after all.

They were fantasy landscapes and they weren't. They weren't because human imagination was very limited: it created new stuff out of old stuff. Those guys back in ancient Greece, they nailed down all the basics and all you could do was interesting new variations on the same old themes.

Nothing people could imagine would ever be really new. It was always built on what had passed.

And so, in all probability, my fantasy landscapes were collages of landscapes I'd seen at one time or another. A mountain peak from Austria, a tree from Sweden, rocks from England—that's all it was. I couldn't do more. No one could. Art reflected life, not the other way around.

I went into a really heavy trip that Sunday morning, staring at those landscapes. Partly, it was due to the fact that I'd smoked my first joint in several days before viewing them. Okay: for the most part, it was due to the fact that I'd smoked my first joint in days prior to viewing them.

But drugs didn't bring anything new. They just brought certain things to light. The landscapes I'd painted were great. Everyone who viewed them would feel a pang of longing. Later on, maybe they'd get drunk and mumble something about moving to a new place, quitting their job, changing their lives—that picture they saw was changing their lives! It was real art!

The next day, if they remembered anything of what they'd said, they'd feel embarrassed and drop it into the mental trashcan overflowing with uncomfortable thoughts. For the rest of their lives, they'd sometimes think about that moment, especially when high and/or drunk. Nothing else would come out of it. That was it, the end. That was the maximum impact I could hope to have.

It took more than even the most brilliant painting to change a life. A flash of light from a new direction; would you turn? No, it was better to follow the light in front, to stay on the path. It was safe.

Things got really complicated after I smoked that joint, and for a moment I considered skipping the call to my parents. But I couldn't do that. I had to have my easel. If I had my easel, those landscapes would've been even better.

The brandy reinforced that conviction. I could feel its effect the moment it was in my mouth. When it hit my stomach, it was like an explosion of fireworks. All my senses seemed to sharpen.

I felt an overwhelming urge to drink again. Well, that was how drugs worked. I cheated with a cigarette and gradually grew to enjoy my new psychic plateau. My new plateau included James. He seemed sad. I had the thought that maybe I should take him to the pub.

James was going to thrive under my protection. We'd become the best of buddies. I would always be there for him, and he would be there for me. I knew what I could expect from him, so he could never let me down.

And I wouldn't let him down, either. Young women were so fickle! Giving him to Julie would have sentenced him to a horrible fate. Sooner or later, a Charles or Robert or maybe even another James would appear and my James, the James I loved, would—I didn't even want to think about it. The combination of brandy and weed had made me so sensitive I was ready to start crying over a dead insect.

There was a very valuable lesson in all that. If one stayed straight for a few days and had a little bit—wow! The universe beckoned from all sides. That had to be where the whole myth of pain being good got started. Pain was good because when it went away you felt great. Yeah, sure, fantastic deal. Gimme more.

I resisted the gimme more mentality until one o'clock. I promised myself a pint as soon as I got to the pub. I couldn't wait to drink again. A single taste did it. There were good reasons why alcohol was so popular.

I got dressed and went downstairs a few minutes before one and it made Dave very happy. He was circling the hallway like a fighter on combat air patrol when I came down.

"Hi," he called out, grinning widely. "Going out?"

I felt like saying that no, I'd put on my fucking outdoor jacket and came downstairs to tell him that I was staying home. But I stuck to the script.

"Yeah," I said. "I'll be back around six." I had no idea why I added an hour to my agreed coming-home time. I was probably trying to humble Dave by being generous.

He beamed at me.

"Maybe we can have a drink when you return," he said.

"Maybe," I said mysteriously, and left.

It wasn't raining so counting my blessings, I went for a walk in the park prior to the pub. It was a Sunday, so there were lots of people around. Several dogs attempted to make friends with me. One actually stopped in front of me and stuck his ass up into the air, tail wagging, and barked at me playfully. I had no fucking idea why he did that. Maybe he wanted a portrait painted.

The children that were around did not want to make friends with me. They looked at me suspiciously, some sucking their thumbs. I walked away quickly.

There actually was a lineup to the payphone at the pub. It was the first time I'd seen that. I went inside and found a nice secluded table and had a club sandwich with fries and a pint of Toby. Suddenly, I felt as if I’d just returned home.

I got another pint and saw that the phone was free. I had plenty of change; there were no excuses. Armed with a fresh cigarette, I dialled the number of the family home in Toronto.

My father answered the phone. He was surprisingly friendly. He told me that I should’ve called collect to save money. The reason behind all this friendliness and generosity was revealed when he said:

“Your mother tells me you had a nice talk the other day.”

Of course! My mother had stopped reproaching him for raising me so badly. I was sure he’d heard plenty of that after I’d left. I said:

“Yeah, well... Actually, I’m calling to ask for a favour. I really need my easel. I’m supposed to present a bunch of pictures to my dealer in a couple of weeks. You know, for that famous spring show of mine. Having an easel would speed things up.”

“Of course,” he said. He didn’t sound happy about it, though. He added:

“I take it you won’t be visiting us in the near future?”

“I just don’t have the time, Dad. I’m working my ass off. Honestly. It’s not like everything I paint is brilliant. It took me several days to paint a couple of pictures that are good enough to show to Chaz.”

“Chaz?”

“That’s the name of my guy. One of the partners in the gallery that’s showing my stuff.”

“I understand,” he said, in a tone that indicated he’d feel happier without this new understanding. I added:

“I thought about buying another easel. But they’re expensive, and anyway I really like the one I have. Will you send it to me? By courier? I’ll cover the cost.”

“Don’t worry about that. What’s the address?”

I gave it to him, and added:

“I’m only here for three more weeks, though. I’ve found a better place, and I’m moving on the first.”

“I’ll make sure to get it off to you tomorrow. You should have it within a couple of days.”

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. My father broke it first. He said:

"How are you, generally speaking? Healthy? Eating well?"

"Oh yes," I said. I thought for a moment, and asked:

"How did your meeting go?"

"Meeting?"

"Or conference, or whatever they are called. Mum said you had one."

He sighed.

"It was something I'd rather forget, frankly," he said.

I really wanted to chat with him for a while—he was sending me my easel. I just couldn't think of anything to kickstart the conversation. I did very nearly ask him how the weather was over there. It was good that I didn't. It would've been a supremely stupid thing to say to a professional diplomat.

Fortunately, Mr. Chance rolled me a good one. My father said he had to go: him and mother were invited to a game of bridge. He told me they'd be staying there for dinner, as if he expected me to call them again that day. My mother was busy dressing to go out, and I didn't have to talk to her.

I hung up and realized I hadn't asked about Josh. I'd wanted to ask about Josh, seriously. I was interested in hearing any new lies he might have told them in the meantime.

It was only twenty past two, and I'd told Dave I'd be back at six. I cursed myself for that. Three and a half hours more! I wanted to be working.

Of course I could have gone for another walk in the park: it still wasn't raining. But I told myself it would, soon: it definitely looked that way.

My table was still free, so I went inside and got another pint of Toby and sat down. I lit a cigarette and drank and the feeling I was home was even stronger than earlier. It seemed my genetic makeup predisposed me to lead this kind of life: drink and smoke. It probably wasn't good for my life expectancy.

I started thinking about life expectancy and related matters and decided that leading a healthy life in order to stay alive longer wasn't worth the trouble. Judging by what I'd seen and heard, old age was shit. I agreed fully with Schopenhauer who'd found it mystifying how everyone wanted to live to an old age. As he put it, old age was the time of life when you woke up in the morning and thought: today is bad. Tomorrow will be worse. And so on, until the worst day of them all arrives.

He definitely had something there, and I thought I'd celebrate that with a third pint. I was about halfway through when someone said:

"Do you mind if I join you?"

It was Jane of the mobile lips. She was standing next to my table and holding what looked like a martini. She probably chose a martini because then she could do interesting stuff with the olive on the toothpick.

I'd checked the time when I was getting that third pint, and I knew that it wasn't even half past three. Still over two hours to go! I definitely wasn't going to look for a new place to drink just because mobile lip Jane showed up.

I said:

"Sure.. Sit down."