The Homeless Millionaire

I anticipated a very productive weekend with my easel, but it didn't turn out that way.

The weather turned ugly—rain mixed with snow—and the Noyces stayed home all day Saturday. I was hoping they'd go out to do their weekend shopping, but they didn't. The little witches below gave me hell. Julie claimed copyright to the name Robert. She also argued that Diane still had the same Ken doll, so she had no right to change its name.

The adult Noyces hid downstairs and let the witches fight it out; maybe sound didn't travel down the way it did upstairs. I couldn't fucking hear myself think. I found myself painting half-assed concepts and abandoning them midway through. The only good thing I did all day was a drawing of a quarrel between two old women. It was a close-up of their wrinkled, fiendish faces spitting venom at each other.

My inspiration and imagination were taking a holiday in Mongolia. Maybe they were strolling together through the market, and noticed two old women arguing at one of the stalls: the crones I'd drawn had slanted eyes. Or maybe my i & i were so weak they couldn't reach beyond what went on a floor below.

I was troubled by other distractions, too. I kept thinking about all that stuff my parents had sent me—freshly laundered clothes and so on. I carried ten pounds of new guilt, fresh from the farm. It made me feel like an asshole.

The mobile lip Jane business made me feel like an asshole, too. My murderous thoughts about the two witches made me a double asshole squared. To compensate, I did my best to control my booze and drug intake–I drank just a few ounces of scotch throughout the day, and smoked a single joint in two instalments. Maybe that was a mistake.

In the evening, the two witches moved to the ground floor for dinner and TV. I finally had some peace, but by then I felt too tired to keep working. I treated myself to a thin joint by the window, and wasted the rest of the evening. I pretended to think while smoking and staring at the walls and the ceiling. I pretended to read the newspaper I'd bought two days earlier. My just-add-hot-water dinner pretended to be a chicken curry.

Sunday morning brought a total turnaround. From the moment I opened my eyes, everything including myself was real. The weather was shit and the greyish, gloomy light softened contours: each shape acquired an extra, ghostly dimension, sometimes two.

I knew right away I was going to do some good stuff, and I did. By the time the Noyces concluded their bathroom pilgrimage, I had two pictures ready, two pictures that I could show Chaz.

One was a drawing of a vaguely historical landscape. It showed a dirt path curling around a huge tree, somewhere in the country. The path featured a man leading an ass pulling a small cart with solid wooden wheels. The cart was empty except for a couple of flaccid sacks, but the man and the ass were walking very slowly. They were tired, and yet they seemed hopeful. Maybe they were going home.

It was a good picture. That tree contained a multitude of meanings hidden in its leaves. It had been looking at travellers passing under its branches for a long, long time. It definitely knew something about life.

My second Chaz-category effort showed an elegant young couple walking down the street. The guy was talking to the girl, trying to persuade her about something. His head was half-turned—he was keeping an eye on the pavement ahead—he was a smart guy, a slick character. He had a briefcase in one hand and was gesticulating with the other, palm up. He was either offering something or preparing to snatch something away.

The girl at his side was looking at the ground. She was watching her step, she was a step away from making a decision. There was a twist to her lips which could be a smile or a sneer. It all depended on what that guy was telling her.

Was he asking her to go out with him? Was he asking her to stay? Was he trying to persuade her to have an abortion? Was she going to say yes?

That picture was a watercolour and I smoked a cigarette by the window, waiting for it to dry. The little witches were glued to the TV downstairs: it was Sunday cartoon time. I thought about mobile lip Jane again, specifically about my failure to call her. It made me aware that I had several calls to make.

I needed to call Jane anyway: she didn't know I'd seen her with her guy. She would be thinking, rightly, that I was a cad. I needed to call my parents to tell them I'd received the package and to thank them for everything they'd sent me. It had been fucking expensive, too.

I also needed to call Fiona. I should have called her ages earlier, to thank her for the party, though maybe not the very next day. I had every right to feel offended by her accusation of poisoning Darcy with my pot. All right: I did anticipate being entertained after firing the Cambodian torpedo. But I had no idea Darcy would puke on Fiona's patio. That stupid fuck was supposed to be an adult.

On top of all that, I wanted to talk to Harry. It had been ages since I'd heard his voice. That would be the one call I wanted to make. The others, not so much.

After a couple of cigarettes my newest picture was dry enough to store. I rolled it up and when I was putting it in my tube I saw it was getting pretty crowded in there. It was time for a count and quick review.

I had a total of eleven pictures, nine of which were intended for Chaz. In addition to these, I had the caricature of Detective Moore and that drawing of Klein I did when I learned about his death.

I unrolled it and looked at it and instantly knew what to do with it. I would give it to old Robinson.

That brought the total of the calls I had to make to five. Calling that many times from a payphone was a pain. I smoked a thoughtful cigarette and went downstairs.

The Noyce gang were unusually quiet; really, it was rather mystifying. The door to their living room was closed. I could hear signs of activity: a soft rattle, murmured remarks, the tick of something snapping into place.

I knocked and waited. No one invited me to come in, so I knocked again. I heard a shuffle and then the door opened just enough to show Birgit's face. She seemed tense. What the fuck was going on?

But Birgit's face brightened when she saw me and she said:

"I'm sorry. We've been playing with this puzzle and—but come in. You'll sort of have to squeeze through. Come in."

I squeezed through the opening and saw a half-completed, gigantic puzzle on the floor. They'd underestimated its size, and had begun working on it too close to the door. Or maybe what they thought was the centre turned out to be the edge. Either way, it stretched within a couple of feet from the door.

"Hello," I said. Dave raised his head and grinned and said hello; the two witches ignored me. They were totally focused on the puzzle. It seemed to show a bucolic landscape of some sort. Birgit said, pointing:

"Look."

I did. James grinned at me from a central spot on the wall. He'd been put behind a sheet of glass fastened with clips. He was in a place where he'd attract plenty of attention when the Noyces threw a party. He was sure to inspire people to have an extra drink.

I very nearly said he looked great over there, but bit my tongue in time and said instead:

"That's the perfect spot for him. Listen, Birgit, could I make a couple of local calls?"

"But of course! Sure. Use the phone in the kitchen for more privacy. I don't want to know what you're up to."

"I'm not sure I do, either," I said. "Thank you."

I withdrew, squeezing through the doorway, and had a look at the setup in the kitchen. The phone was mounted on the wall next to the entrance, but the receiver had a very long cord.

I lit a cigarette while deciding who to call first. I couldn't see an ashtray, so after dialling Robinson's number I parked myself by the sink.

He took a long time to answer the phone. I was close to hanging up when he finally did. He sounded very old, and he was slightly shocked to hear it was me calling. He was even more shocked when I said:

"There's something I have to give you. Could I come around, and drop it off?"

After the shock wore off, he invited me to lunch the next day. He began to give me directions how to get there and I was a little impolite: I cut him off.

"That's all right," I said. "I'll take a cab."

"What is this mysterious gift of yours, my dear boy?"

"A picture," I said.. "A memento."