The Homeless Millionaire

Next morning, I went into a painting and drawing frenzy.

I had tons of supplies, including just enough booze to keep my hand oiled. I also had over half an ounce of weed. I painted and drew a total of fourteen pictures over the next two days. Most were shit. But two definitely were good enough for Chaz.

One was a drawing of a guy getting out of his car in front of the family home. I'd actually watched something similar happen out of my front window. My first thought was that Birgit wasn't the only one to get fired. That guy was utterly defeated. He didn't have the energy to close the car door properly—he had to lean on it to make the lock click shut.

Of course, the opposite could be true. He'd gotten a big promotion, and went on a major bender. Maybe he'd even fucked a prostitute. Now he was returning home, feeling guilty and hungover. You never really knew, with other people. You never really knew what went on in another person's head.

In my drawing, it could be anything. It was up to the viewer.

The second outstanding piece was a watercolour. It was a picture of James: not a portrait. It focused on what was about to happen to James.

James was sitting sideways, leaning against a wall. His head was turned and he was looking into the viewer's eyes with happy anticipation. There was the shadow of a hand on the wall, stretching to turn the key inserted in James's back.

"You'll make me a lot of money, pal," I said to James.

Two good pictures in two days was a decent pace. However, by Wednesday evening my back was hurting like hell. It wasn't an ache that would pass after taking a break, not any more. It was a permanent pain. I'd spent something like eighteen hours over two days bending over that fucking table and that was the price.

I hoped that a full night's sleep would help, but it didn't. My back felt okay when I got up. But when I bent down to insert a fresh filter in my coffeemaker, I actually whimpered with pain.

I was screwed. There was no way I'd be able to work, unless I thought of a way to hover over the table like a fucking helicopter.

I waited for the Noyces to leave, drinking coffee and smoking and casting glances at my bottles. The Bisquit was gone, and there was maybe an inch of Captain Morgan. Things didn't look good.

They looked a little better when I examined my dick while taking a shower. It was getting back to normal. But it was still sore, sore enough to make me wince when I thought about sex.

While I was shaving, I wondered about the Jane who would take over my room. I wasn't quite so sure any more it would be Jane of the leaking sailboat. Long leather coats and long scarves were in fashion. Blondes were in plentiful supply, even though half of them were false.

But Dave had said the Jane had looks, intelligence, and class. This narrowed the field down considerably. That whole Jane business was crazy. I couldn't fucking move without bumping into a Jane.

I returned to my room with the Jane identity problem still unresolved, and discovered that I'd run out of bread. That did it. I decided I'd give myself a full break and go out for breakfast and then do some shopping. I needed bread and booze and the cigarette situation wasn't looking good, either. I'd been smoking up a storm while I was working.

I was descending the stairs when I heard the front door open.

It was Birgit. She was taking off her coat as I went down the last flight of steps. She glanced at me and I said hello and smiled with extra warmth. People who got fired deserved some extra warmth.

Birgit gave me a weak smile and said:

"Going out?"

What the fuck was the matter with people? I felt like asking her if she had just come in. I said:

"You're back for the day?"

"Yes. I don't feel well."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. I wanted to ask a couple of questions about the latest Jane, but Birgit clearly didn't feel like talking. As I passed her, I asked:

"Can I get you anything? I'm going to do some shopping."

"No thank you Michael, everything's fine."

It wasn't fine, but what the hell.

The sun was out again that day: it was amazing. But it was fucking cold, too. I was puffing steam like a fucking locomotive. I slipped a couple of times on patches of ice, and slowed down.

As luck would have it, I ran into the first black leather coat plus long scarf ensemble the moment I reached Hastings. It belonged to a middle-aged woman who was also wearing a black fur hat. I counted two more long-coat-and-scarf combinations before I reached the all-day breakfast place. There was another long-coat-and-scarf inside, and it was worn by a pretty blonde, too.

But the Jane also had looks and intelligence and class. None of the four women I'd noticed scored in all three categories. The pretty blonde in the breakfast place had as much class as a pink plastic lawn flamingo, maybe less. The way she lifted her coffee cup and smoked her cigarette and fingered her scarf suggested an intelligence in the upper double digits, at best.

I got myself one of those special-deal family-sized breakfasts and ate slowly and methodically: it was so fucking cold outside. Halfway through, I realized this might very well be the day on which my easel would arrive. I nearly choked gulping down the next few mouthfuls and then I realized Birgit was home. Mr. Chance was on my side.

I counted five more long-coats-and-scarves—five!—when I was shopping. The majority—three—were black. Two belonged to blondes. One was nice enough for me to follow her through a couple of aisles, until I had the disagreeable thought that I was acting like a creep.

I visited the liquor store and purchased two big, muscular Johnnie Walkers. My back gave me a kick when I bent down to pick up all my shopping bags. As could be anticipated, I ended up loaded like a fucking camel.

I managed to wave down a cab and was home a few minutes later. The kitchen radio was playing a song, some kind of weepy ballad about love. There was a giant package with FedEx stickers standing in the hallway. I nearly pissed myself with joy.

Birgit appeared in the kitchen doorway, and said:

"A courier brought this for you. I signed for it."

I wanted to tell her I loved her. I said:

"Thank you so much. This has made my day."

"What is it?"

She was referring to the package. It was a big cardboard box, almost as tall as me. It was almost twice the size of my folded easel. I had the thought that maybe my father hadn't folded it for shipping. No, that was impossible; he was far too clever to even think about doing or maybe not doing something like that.

"It's my easel," I told Birgit. "I've been working using the table. This will make it easier."

Her eyes seemed to flash when I mentioned work. She said:

"You've been working a lot?"

"A lot. Too much. At least that's what my back is telling me."

"Your back?"

"I've got a pain there. You know, from bending over the table."

"Bending over the table," she repeated, somewhat dreamily. She gave a little start and said:

"Yes, that can do it. Preparing food for everyone… You know, I'd love to see what you've painted in the meantime."

The glitter in her eye told me there was more to it than love. She wanted to see proof of what I'd been up to.

"Sure," I said. "Just let me take all this upstairs."

"I'll help you."

I tried to dissuade her, but couldn't. When Birgit set her mind on something, it felt like being pursued by wolves. I felt sorry for Dave as I climbed the stairs. I wondered whether he'd ever really proposed marriage to her. It was likely her that had proposed to him.

Birgit had insisted she would carry the box with the easel. It was heavy, and it didn't make sense—I'd wanted to unpack it downstairs, and save myself some trouble taking out the trash. But I gave in meekly and couldn't help thinking that Dave did a lot of that on a daily basis. He needed all the Johnnie Walker he could get. I decided I'd invite him for a drink when he came home.

When I opened the door to my room, I felt Birgit taking note that I'd left it unlocked. I made a mental note to always lock it from now on. It would be a symbolic gesture—the Noyces had at least one spare key—but maybe it would make Birgit feel guilty if she decided to examine the room in my absence.

We went inside and I set down my bags and took the big box from Birgit and set it against the wall across from my bed.

"You're not going to unpack it?" she asked. She sounded disappointed.

"I can do it later," I said. "You wanted to look at my stuff. There's something on the table you might like."

I undressed and unpacked most of my shopping while she looked at the picture of James on the table. I caught her glancing at the model: James was seated atop the folded newspaper on the cupboard, next to the empty Bisquit bottle. Maybe Birgit was looking at the empty bottle, not James, and trying to work out my daily alcohol intake.

I left the Johnnie Walkers hidden in the shopping bag. Taking them out might make her feel alarmed—nearly half a gallon of whisky could seem a bit much. Also, if I took the booze out I'd have to offer her a drink, which meant I'd have one myself. I didn't want to start drinking as yet. I said:

"Would you like a coffee?"

"No, thank you," Birgit said. She looked at me and added:

"So that's why you bought that monkey. Dave and I wondered about that. I'm sorry, this sounds like we're gossiping about you constantly. It's just that Dave noticed it last time he was here, and couldn't understand why you would buy something like that."

"I don't understand it either," I said diplomatically. "You like the picture?"

"It's fantastic."

"Fantastic?"

"I mean good. It shows reality. It really… That's what life is like. We sit and smile and hope something nice will happen. But you never know what's on the way."

Wow! I was impressed. I'd have never thought of that. I said:

"You like it?"

"I love it. I think it's great."

"Take it," I said. "It's yours."

She stared at me as if I'd just grown a pair of wings.

"You're giving it to me?"

For fuck's sake! What was the matter with people?

"Yes."

For a moment it looked as if she might rush around the table and hug me. I didn't want her to hug me, so I got busy. I grabbed the box with my easel and moved it half a foot to the side, as if it made any difference.

"There," I said, in a deeply satisfied voice. I glanced at Birgit. She was leaning over the table, looking at the picture and grinning from ear to ear.

"Birgit," I said. "Could I ask you a question?"