The Homeless Millionaire

I left Jane's place around two in the morning. She said she needed a few hours of sleep before work. I suspected she'd call in sick in the morning. I'd very nearly fucked her to death.

I'd very nearly fucked myself to death, too. Although I became sober in the meantime, I had difficulty walking. My dick had been rubbed raw and I had to keep my legs well apart, otherwise each step brought a fresh rub and fresh pain. I was tired like hell, too.

On top of that, I got lost. It was night and all the streets, all the houses looked the same. I thought I was walking in the right direction but after a while I found myself on Hastings Street, well over a mile from home.

Fortunately an empty cab was passing by, and I flagged it down and got inside. The driver was a black guy with a developed sense of humour and we swapped jokes while he drove.

He told me a series of jokes about Kofi. Kofi was an ant with an elephant-sized ego. Accordingly, he spent a lot of time hanging out with elephants, which led to many interesting situations.

I particularly liked the one in which Kofi attempted to fuck a female elephant. He spent hours getting to the strategic spot. Just as he was ready to do business, the elephant farted and Kofi ended up on the ground, far away.

He got up onto his six legs and shook his head and growled that if it wasn't for the hurricane, he'd have fucked that old bitch to death.

I gave my guy a large tip and wished him a great day and he wished me a great day, too. It was Monday: Monday was a day that required a lot of hopeful wishing. He drove away while I stood on the sidewalk and finished smoking the cigarette I'd lit in the cab. I wasn't going to attempt to climb to my cave with a lit cigarette. I'd probably end up setting the place on fire.

It was well past three in the morning by the time I crept up the stairs and into my room. I didn't even switch on the light. I just got my infamous jacket off together with my boots, collapsed on the bed, and blacked out.

I woke up a few minutes past noon. It was very quiet and sunny: my room was full of beautiful, warm light. It was the first time that had happened to me upon waking in that room, and for a moment I seriously wondered whether everything was all right with my head. I couldn't detect a hangover! After a while, I realized all that walking and fucking had burned up the booze I'd drunk.

I got up and looked out of the window and saw that the sun was shining from a bright blue sky. I was reminded of Jung and his synchronicity bullshit. I'd gotten laid for the first time in months and boom, the sun was shining. In winter! In Vancouver!

It inspired me to pour myself some Bisquit to go with my morning, or rather afternoon coffee. I was a good boy; I didn't drink until after noon. From his perch on the cupboard, James was giving me the baleful eye. Maybe this was because he was leaning against Captain Morgan. A cruel asshole like Captain Morgan was sure to have done many awful things to monkeys and assorted apes. He likely killed some of James's many relatives.

James deserved better. Getting my second coffee necessitated moving the Bisquit bottle, and I put it down next to James, shoving Captain Morgan aside. But James still wasn't looking happy. Of course! He wasn't getting any exercise.

I wound him up and let him bounce all over my room, uttering joyous screeches. Then I smoked a joint and had another Bisquit and a short while later, I found myself down on all fours, bouncing alongside James and talking to him. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to understand me. My screeches were all wrong.

I got up and picked up James and put him next to the cognac so he wouldn't fall over, and even kissed the top of his head. He didn't look baleful any more, but he wasn't happy either.

I got the newspaper and leafed through it until I found the right picture. It showed some actress I'd never heard about, exposing her teeth and tits to the camera. I folded the paper so that the picture was on top and slid it under James and adjusted things until James was staring at the tits.

I thought for a while, then moved the whole ensemble onto the table and set it up for action and started painting James.

It was hell to get the picture in the paper right, particularly because it was upside down. After a couple of hours, I had to admit that it was impossible. Those photographed tits were really the centrepiece of the picture. That was what James was looking at.

I wolfed down some bread and corned beef, washed down with cognac: it made an interesting combination. Then I smoked a joint, and had another go.

This time around, I turned things around. The viewer was looking at those tits over James's shoulder. There was a slump to those shoulders that indicated James felt helpless. In the lower right corner, the key stuck in his back signalled to wind James up, and give him the power to act.

Night was falling by the time I was done with those two paintings. The Noyces would be coming home soon. I executed a bathroom run during which I discovered my dick had taken serious damage. It was coloured an angry, purplish red and the soap stung like hell.

It was okay. It would heal within a couple of days. I definitely didn't need to use it for erotic purposes in the near future. I was totally fucked out. When I thought about Jane in her shiny black rubber costume, I felt no sexual excitement at all, just a pleasant glow.

I wondered how much Birgit knew about her friend Jane. She obviously knew a bit: she wouldn't have urged me to see Jane, otherwise. Unexpectedly, I felt tears gathering in my eyes. The Noyces had been so nice to me! They cared about me! I felt like a traitor for moving out.

I returned to my room and examined the pictures I'd painted and decided James #2, the James waiting for someone to wind him up so he could get some action, was good enough to show to Chaz. I had a drink to celebrate and I was contemplating having another when the Noyces returned home.

It was obvious something was wrong. They were deathly quiet. They unpacked whatever they'd brought and went into the front room together with the little witches and didn't switch the TV on. I heard the murmur of a low-voiced conversation. A silence followed each utterance. There was something heavy going on.

I had the thought that maybe this was somehow connected with my long absence the previous day. Maybe they'd been worried, maybe they'd even—God forbid—called the police. I very nearly went down to assure them that I was back home in one piece.

Fortunately, I stopped myself in time. It was such bullshit. Stuff happened, and people assumed it happened because of something they'd done. They thought so because everyone, including myself, was full of shit and believed the universe revolved around them. The Noyces' odd behaviour wasn't caused by my long absence the previous night. It was caused by something else.

I found out what it was around an hour later. I was screwing around with one of those just-add-boiling-water meals when I heard Dave ascend the stairs to my room. By then, I knew his step well enough to know he wasn't feeling too good.

When he knocked, I put a lot of cheer into inviting him to come in. By the time he closed the door, I had already activated the Bisquit bottle. He looked at the drink I was offering him like it was poison. He took it, but the lack of enthusiasm was striking. It seemed Dave Noyce had lost his reason to live, at least temporarily.

"Preparing food?" he said listlessly, glancing at the reddish mess that constituted my spaghetti dinner.

"I'm not sure you can call it food," I said. "Maybe gut plug would be a better term."

"Why don't you use the kitchen? You can use the kitchen. It's in the lease."

"I'm not much of a cook," I said. "And I don't want to get in your way."

He dismissed that with a wave and a grimace, and finished his drink. I instantly activated the bottle.

"Thank you, Michael," he said sadly, watching the booze flowing into his plastic glass. "Thank you so much. You're a pal."

It was odd to be called a pal by someone I felt I was betraying, in a sense. He'd been so nice to me! And I was moving out. I had the disagreeable thought the Noyces were having difficulties finding a new tenant. Well, if they told people that place was a flat, they only had themselves to blame.

"What's wrong, Dave?" I said.

"Birgit lost her job."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Two months' notice, so she'll find something in the meantime. She's good. More than likely, she'll find something that pays better. But you know, it's still a bummer. It was unexpected, and totally unjust. She's good."

"Then why? I'm sorry. I'm being nosy."

"No, that's okay. Her immediate boss has a close relative who needs that job."

"Fuck."

"You know, that asshole is firing three people just to cover that up. That way, he can call it a restructuring. He'll fire three people and hire two to do the same amount of work. Give them nice-sounding titles so they're happy."

I was silent in the respectful way one is silent at funerals. Dave said:

"By the way, we've found someone to take the flat."

My teeth ached when I heard him calling that place a flat. I said:

"Really? That's great. One of the people that saw it yesterday?"

"Yes. I actually thought it was a pity you weren't around, because she's a really nice girl. She's got looks and intelligence and class. Her name is Jane."

"What?"

"No, not Birgit's friend. Another Jane. Tall blonde. She was wearing this long black leather coat and one of those long silk scarves and she looked a lot like this European actress, what the fuck is her name. I was surprised she liked the place. I think she took it because she and Birgit got on like a house on fire. She stayed for a good couple of hours, talking with Birgit. It was like instant bosom pals."

Dave didn't want another drink. He'd come up to tell me that my room was rented to someone else; he needed to get back to Birgit, and massage her bruised professional ego.

It was a relief when he left. I had a hard time keeping my face straight. Jane of the leaking sailboat was renting my room! It had to be her.

There was something spooky about all those Janes showing up in my life. Was it a sign? No it wasn't, but thinking it might be definitely was a sign—a sign that I was a superstitious moron.

"Maybe I got your sex wrong," I told James. "Maybe you're called Jane. Are you? Confess!"

He wouldn't. He gave me the glassy, oblivious eye.

"I'm going to paint you again," I told him.