The Homeless Millionaire

I didn’t enjoy the meal that followed, even though it was great. It took me a lot of effort to keep my act together. Robinson noticed, naturally. He asked gently if there was something wrong. I told him his story had reminded me of various good deeds of mine that didn’t turn out so well in the long run. I gave him a couple of examples and we both laughed, but my smokescreen didn’t quite work: he knew something was off. When I was leaving, he apologized for introducing an unpleasant note by reminiscing about the war, and talking about Schmidt.

We parted best of friends, exchanging the usual declarations about getting together again in the future. But we both knew it was unlikely.

I had to keep a straight face during the cab ride home, but once I was back in my room I immediately fell to pieces.

That Schmidt business was going to haunt me for the rest of my life! My paranoid pal agreed, grinning. He informed me I was making sure of that by moving into 1431 Fulton Avenue.

He looked set to deliver one of those lists of his, a litany of my misdeeds and moronic moves and other manifestations of record-breaking stupidity. So I turned for help to Johnnie Walker, and gave my pal the old one-two, right in the face.

He was stunned. He staggered, turned round, and walked away. I stuck out my tongue at his retreating back. My triumph inspired me to roll and smoke a joint. It was big mistake.

Suddenly, my lunch with Robinson and his Schmidt story seemed preordained. What was the chance for Mr. Chance to roll this particular combination? It was so tiny it was invisible. It was smaller than winning the lottery twice and getting struck by a lightning, all within the same year.

I got really bombed that day. I sat at the table, drinking and smoking and staring at the wall with increasingly glassy eyes. Every glass of scotch increased my conviction I'd been wrong about Mr. Chance.

I knew he was lazy. A fat, constantly drunk slob like him would slack off a lot of the time. He'd just sit there sweating and snoring, with his dice in one hand and an empty glass in the other.

Who was in charge then? Life went on when Mr. Chance was off the job. Things didn't come to a stop because he was asleep. What was the active force when Mr. Chance wasn't in charge?

Fate. It had to be Fate.

The universe constantly strived for balance. There had to be force opposing the randomness of chance. By definition, it would be the opposite of chance: a force imposing order on the stream of current random events.

Everyone believed that it was the present—what was happening NOW—that really mattered. The present created the past, and shaped the future.

But it was the past and the future that gave meaning to the present. What happened earlier and what would happen later determined the importance of what was happening now.

The present was ruled by Mr. Chance, the lazy slob—all those indescribably boring days, weeks, months when nothing really happened!

The past was ruled by Fate. Unlike Mr. Chance, Fate had a plan that reached far into the future. Fate wanted to rule the future; to do so, it had to control the present. The present became a battlefield on which Fate and Mr. Chance fought over what would happen next.

But as time went on, as more and more events passed into the past, Fate grew in strength. It became the dominant force. As someone clever had once said: show me your past, and I'll show you your future.

I couldn't stand it. It felt crushing. I had to keep drinking to survive. I kept at it until the lights went out.

I was still drunk when I woke up the next morning. My newly installed radio clock told me it was 10:38. I got up and banged back two big shots of scotch and two coffees. My lungs seemed to work a hell of a lot better after I'd smoked four cigarettes.

I did the bathroom thing and had more scotch and embarked on a run to the A&W. I was literally running part of the way, it was raining like hell. I ate myself stupid and bought three combos to take home. When I was passing the entrance payphone, I was reminded of my planned phone calls: to my parents, to Fiona, mobile lip Jane, Harry. I'd actually called Fiona and Harry from the Noyce kitchen phone after I'd talked to Robinson, but they had both been out.

I couldn't handle talking to anyone that day. I went home and up to my room and undressed and collapsed onto my bed and blacked out.

When I woke up again, it was 4:29 PM. I stared at the blinking red colon until the numerals changed into 4:31. Then I got up and ripped the radio clock's plug out of the socket and put the fucking thing into the closet and out of sight.

By the time the Noyce gang returned home, I was close to finishing a painting of Mr. Chance. He was wearing a banana-yellow summer suit with chocolate stripes, and a round straw hat with a flat top. Its rim was tilted over his eyes and he was asleep in his rattan chair, fat thighs splayed, the hand with the dice resting on one thigh and the hand with the empty glass on the other. He was drooling out of the corner of his mouth and had a bag of fat under his chin. He just couldn't care less about anything, least of all about the chaos he brought into people's lives.

I was pretty drunk and the stripes on the suit gave me a lot of grief where the fabric bunched and folded. I spent as much time on those fucking stripes as I did on the rest of that picture.

I was smoking a post-picture cigarette when I heard someone climbing the stairs to my room. I thought it would be Birgit, but it was Dave. He seemed to be moving around with more confidence, these days.

"Hey, Michael," he said when I opened the door. "You've got a phone call. Want to take it in the kitchen? You'll have privacy, we're all in the living room watching TV."

"Sure, thank you, Dave," I said. I noted with alarm that I was slurring. Dave noted that too, and grinned.

"Okay," he said. He turned round and I waited until he was down a few steps before following him downstairs. He turned his head to grin at me again before going in to join his gang.

"Thank you," I said again, just in case, and went into the Noyce kitchen.

The receiver was lying on the counter next to the door. As I picked it up, I had a stab at guessing who it might be and came up with mobile lip Jane.

I was wrong. It was Chaz. He said:

"Hey, hotshot. How are you getting on?"

"I'm fine," I said on automatic. I cleared my throat and added, speaking slowly and clearly:

"I've just this moment finished a painting that I think you'll really like."

"Great," he said. He didn't sound too enthusiastic. But then he said:

"How about getting together so you can show it to me? Along with everything else you've got, of course."

"Sure," I said. Something was off; my heart was beating wildly, but maybe it was just trying to deal with all the booze and the smoke.

"Six o'clock Friday evening suit you? At my office? We'll have plenty of time to look at your stuff and talk and have a drink."

"Yes, that's fine," I said. "I'll be there at six. Chaz?"

"Yeah?"

"What is it?"

He laughed.

"I see your radar's in fine shape," he said. "That's good. There was someone in here asking about you. I'll tell you about it when I see you, it's nothing pressing."

"Is it something I should worry about?"

"No," Chaz said. "I don't think so."

He didn't sound convincing. I said:

"Why can't you just tell me what's it about?"

"It's kinda delicate. I'd rather discuss this face to face."

"Who was it?"

"I'll see you Friday, Michael," said Chaz. "That's the nineteenth. I'm writing this down in my appointment book as we speak, so you'd better show up, or I'll have to shoot you."

"I'll be there."

"Good. You know, if the stuff you're bringing is as good as the last batch—we both know it should be better—you might as well leave it with me for the spring show. Unless you're one of those guys who need to jerk off over their latest masterpiece before they can start working. If so, I'll let you take one or two back home."

"Thank you, Chaz," I said. I meant it. Suddenly, it felt like I was back in business, and everything else was unimportant.

"See you Friday," Chaz said, and hung up.

I returned to my room deep in thought. My mind was whirling, trying to come up with the right face. Who could be asking about me at the gallery? An admirer? An enemy? Cops?

I closed the door to my room and retrieved my last remaining A&W burger combo. I happened to look at James while I was doing that. He seemed to have something to say.

I stepped right in front of him and looked him in the eye.

"What is it, James?" I asked.

His eyes were glistening with merriment. He wanted someone to wind him up so that he could bounce around and screech. I wasn't sure I could handle that.

"We'll do that tomorrow," I said.