The Homeless Millionaire

The triple baking soda cocktail tuned out to be lifesaver. When I woke up I felt as if I was going to die at any moment, but at least my digestive system was okay.

I immediately began to abuse it with whisky and coffee and nicotine. I was careful to stop as soon as I felt okay. Of course this translated into being slightly drunk twenty minutes later. I was taking a shower when that happened and I actually started singing. I sounded so awful I stopped right away.

Freshly shaved and perfumed, I got dressed and hoofed it all the way to the all-day-breakfast place. I was encouraged to do that by the weather: it was cloudy with breaks, as a weatherman or weatherwoman would put it. No rain!

Unfortunately, that meant the air smelled of rot. I walked into a couple of particularly foul stink mines on the way. They seemed to be the spots where all the neighbourhood cats were defecating. Fortunately, I was smoking yet another cigarette when that happened. I was so lucky to be smoker.

I arrived at my destination too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, so the place was nearly empty. The staff were happy to hear me order their double-breakfast special. A guy was constantly hovering nearby, and refilling my coffee cup. I kept him busy. I needed a lot of coffee.

My plan was to eat myself stupid and return home and have a refreshing snooze, just like a python does after swallowing its prey. Food and sleep! Life revolved around food and sleep. Well, there was also all this activity needed to secure food and sleep, increasingly fine food and sleep as one got richer.

I'd be attending to the money end of things in the evening. As I ate, I tried to calculate how much I'd make from the pictures I would be taking to show Chaz. My most pessimistic estimate still came out at over two thousand dollars. And that was for less than a third of the pictures that would be exhibited in my show!

Chaz would need a total of about forty pictures to fill The Space. A single good show could set me up for the whole fucking year. No luxuries, but enough to take care of the bills, and provide me with good food and drink and smoking material. It would even be enough to cover some weekend entertainment; nothing too crazy, taking in a movie and getting drunk in a bar once a week.

As I concluded my meal, I was reminded I still had all those phone calls to make. This wasn't a good time to make them, but I thought maybe I'd at least get one name off the list.

I stopped by the entrance payphone and called my parents. I waited for a hell of a long time for someone to answer the phone. While waiting, I was reminded of the call I'd made to the Jane from Myrtle Street, the Jane that had rented the current Brightstar, Inc. office. She'd told me she would kill me if I called again, but she'd obviously thought she was talking to someone else. I regretted the fact that I'd thrown away her number. I wanted to call her again, just for the shits and giggles.

I hung up and redialled the number of the old family home on the off chance that I got a bad connection the first time around. But once again, no one answered and I lost all inclination to make any more phone calls. I hung up and went home and it was good I did, because halfway there all that food hit my stomach and I barely made it up the stairs to my room. I fell asleep the moment I lay down on my bed.

It was dark when I woke up and when I found out it was already five, a slight panic ensued. Fortunately, I was feeling well enough again to get my act together quickly. Not fast enough, though. I was creeping down the stairs with the intent to call a cab when the Noyces returned.

They caught me just as I was raising the receiver of the phone in the front hall. I felt compelled to explain what I was doing, and Dave instantly offered to drive me.

"The car's still outside," he said. "And I need to get a couple more things and get gas. I might as well give you a ride."

"It's a long way to the gallery."

"That's okay."

He had a reason for being nice. We’d barely gotten going when he said:

"By the way, Mike, what are your plans for tomorrow? Because John is coming round, and he'd like to take a few measurements in your room. We've invited him to lunch—early afternoon? Would that be okay?"

"Sure," I said. I had no plans for Saturday afternoon. I had no plans beyond six o'clock on Friday night.

"Great."

I glanced at Dave and saw that he was grateful so I pounced immediately. I said:

"That girl that's moving into my room, I mean into the flat. I think I might know her."

Dave grinned.

"That would be nice," he said. "She's a real looker. But I have to disappoint you, pal. There's no way you might know her unless you've been living in Seattle."

"She's American?"

"Yes. Come to join her boyfriend, who's skipped the draft."

There was no point in asking if, by any chance, she had a brother named Richard, popularly known as The Dick. The new Jane's American pedigree ruled out her being Jane of the leaking sailboat.

"Is he moving in as well?" I asked. I added quickly:

"I'm sorry, I'm just curious. You don't have to tell me that."

"There's nothing secret about it," Dave said. "No, he's not moving in. I gather he'll be staying out of sight in a cottage out of town. It's boom time for fucking cottage owners, I truly regret that I don't own one. Rented all through the winter, most of them. To rich American kids who want to stay out of sight until the war is over."

"Really?"

"Really. A bit of cold won't kill you. It's better than a hot jungle crawling with Viet Cong. I saw on TV the other night the traps those guys set up in the jungle. Heavy duty medieval stuff, man. Sharp wooden stakes smeared with shit so that you catch an infection in addition to getting skewered. Or you might trip a wire and a grenade explodes in your face. Fuck, man. The only way to win a war is to just to kill everyone and burn everything down to the ground. It's been proven over and over again. Wars aren't won by winning hearts and minds. Wars are won by killing a lot of people. That's why they're called wars."

He surprised me. He sounded like one of those maniacs who're always screaming to drop the fucking bomb. He must've realized that, because he added:

"Don't get me wrong. If you could win a war by winning hearts and minds, guess what—I'd support war! I'd go to all the parades, waving a fucking flag. There are lots of places which can only be improved by a war that ends with an execution of selected assholes. But wars tend to kill a lot of people who just want to live in peace. I can't go along with that. It's better to be unhappy and alive than dead. Fuck war."

I wondered whether that pacifist attitude wasn't one of the reasons he was still married to Birgit. Dave had repeatedly identified himself to me as an admirer of sexy women, and his wife was about as sexy as a coat rack. But who knew? Maybe they shared a taste for a unique perversion. Or maybe Dave had a chick, a bit of secret pussy on the side. You really never knew with people. Dave sure as shit knew very little about me.

He dropped me off in front of the gallery at fifteen to six: I was early. I wanted to be exactly on time. I smoked two cigarettes in the parking lot where my life had changed just a couple of months earlier. I remembered nearly pissing myself with fright as I walked across that parking lot to hear what Chaz had to say about my talent.

I was feeling uncertain and apprehensive when I finally entered The Space on the dot of six o'clock. Chaz was conversing with Melanie; she was dressing to go home. They both glanced at me when I entered. Chaz smiled, Melanie didn't. I smiled back and gave them a little wave, as if I were apologizing for intruding.

"See you later," Melanie said to me as she passed me on her way out. Was she coming back?

"Give me that tube," demanded Chaz, stretching out a hand. "I want to see how heavy it is. Hmm, not too heavy. Not good, not good."

"I only brought my best stuff," I said. Chaz laughed.

"Just kidding," he said, and slapped my arm.

"Okay," he said, turning away.. "Let's go into my office."