The Homeless Millionaire

I didn't join Gina's party until around one in the morning. Following the conversation with Harry, I went out to eat and shop. After I'd returned, I got a little more drunk or maybe sober while admiring my newest masterpiece.

A joint inspired me to add a title: Holiday, in flowing gold script exactly centre bottom of the picture. This was it, the crowning touch. It was stupid beyond belief. I laughed so hard I had tears coming out of my eyes.

Then the Noyces came back home and I had to pipe down and became silently apprehensive, listening to them prowl below. I suddenly felt tired and thought it might be a good idea to get some sleep before attending Gina's revenge party.

I woke up after ten and it was eleven before I left the house. It was fucking raining again and I didn't call a cab for fear of rousing the sleeping, hard-working Noyce family. I had to walk all the way to fucking Hastings in the rain before I caught a cab. My head was wet and it put me in a bad frame of mind for parties.

What made things even worse was that I'd discovered I'd run out of alcohol at home. I'd bought a bottle of rye as an emergency standby during my last alcohol-buying spree. That was the bottle I was taking to Gina's revenge party. Apart from that, I had a couple of inches left in the last of the big, muscular Johnnie Walkers.

It was time to stop drinking. Running out of booze marked a natural watershed. At the very least, it was time to stop drinking at home. But at the same time, I couldn't imagine completing the thirty pieces Chaz wanted by the first of March without the assistance of alcohol. It was a difficult problem and I still hadn't solved it by the time the cab dropped me off at Gina's place.

It would have been easy to find that party even when dropped off at a neighbouring street. The music blasting through the open first floor windows was loud enough to make me clasp my bottle for reassurance. The ground floor windows were mournfully dark.

The front door was ajar; there was no need to ring. I went up the stairs to Gina's flat. Curiously, the music seemed less loud than it had sounded outdoors. It ended with a furious blast from at least three saxophones just as I reached to open the door to Gina's flat, and step inside.

It was fucking full of people and they all screamed the moment I came in. It wasn't caused by my entrance, it sounded like a ritual intended to remind the the guys that lived downstairs and other neighbours that people were having a good time.

I think I might have left if it wasn't for the fact that Harry had spotted me and bulldozed his way through the crowd to catch my arm just as I was beginning to turn away.

"Hey!" he screamed.

"Yeah," I said.

He pointed at his ear and shook his head and then pulled me inside Gina's flat. I didn't know where to put my immortal Canadian Tire jacket. I was carrying it in one hand and the bottle of rye in the other and I felt like a complete dick.

I knew it was largely a matter of alcohol and drug consumption. I could quickly drink half the bottle I'd brought and get a couple of puffs and I'd be ready to join in any of the dozen conversations taking place now that the music wasn't playing.

But there was also something else. Suddenly, I felt totally alone. Even more alone than I'd felt while rinsing the blood off my clothes in a creek in the middle of the Rockies, in the middle of the night.

We went inside Gina's bedroom and Harry directed me to deposit my jacket on top of all the other jackets and coats covering Gina's bed. I gave him the rye and he looked at it and put his other hand in his pocket. He pulled out a crooked joint and said:

"I rolled it just before you arrived. Fate, man. We have to smoke it now."

We did. While we were at it, we also opened the bottle I'd brought and checked the contents. Harry also cut two lines of speed on the mirror inside the lid of his special makeup case. Inhaling one of these inspired me to say:

"Harry, I'd like to ask you something. Could I buy some pot from you? Half an ounce?"

"You've already gone through the stuff I gave you?"

I didn't like the sound of that. I said, a little stiffly:

"It wasn't a lot. And I was working like a maniac. I needed a bit of extra motivation to go on."

"Hey, Mike. Easy. I was just asking out of curiosity. How much do you want? A half?"

"Yeah."

"We can hook up tomorrow evening, if you like."

We made arrangements to meet at the infamous Park Pub, and then Harry said:

"There's another thing. I would—"

At that moment, someone switched the music on again. It was a number that commenced with a drum solo. Harry and I grimaced at each other; then he shook his head and went back to join the partying crowd.

I remained in Gina's bedroom to light a cigarette. Harry had taken the bottle I'd brought, so I in the end I had no choice but to go out there. Hanging out by myself in Gina's bedroom was creepy, too.

It was fucking crowded in that room, especially with everybody dancing. They were all going nuts and I got hit by several elbows while I was pushing my way through to take refuge in the kitchen. I was stoned and it took forever.

But I made it, and my persistence was rewarded. There were numerous bottles on display; sadly, most were empty. But there was a familiar-looking square bottle hiding behind others and when I pulled it out, I saw it still contained several fingers of good old Johnnie Walker.

I wanted to drink it right away but in addition to the bottles the kitchen also contained two females—an audience—and I felt compelled to drink from a glass. I had a fucking hard time finding a glass. The two females were smoking cigarettes and conducting a conversation by the window across from the kitchen entrance. The window was open and they were practically shouting to hear each other and most likely the people living in the neighbouring house got that conversation loud and clear.

I definitely did, while I was looking for a glass. One of the females by the window shouted:

"We don't even fuck any more! Maybe once a month if we're both drunk enough. He's such a fucking loser! He starts moaning the moment he gets home from work. He got chewed out by his boss. Someone he thought was a pal stole one of his clients. He had a shit meeting. The button I'd sewed back on popped off again. Why the fuck are we having chicken for dinner again? He's sick of chicken."

"He's sick of you!" shouted the other chick. "That's what it all means."

It sounded like an intelligent observation and I temporarily suspended my search for a clean glass to look at the shouting females. One was a fake blonde with shoulder-length hair; the roots were showing. She was dressed in a horrible floppy orange turtleneck and jeans. Her pal had long frizzy frizzy hair held in place by a headband. She had piercing black eyes and a thin mouth and was wearing one of those kaftans that were a big fashion hit with the hippies.

There was what appeared to be a clean glass standing on the window ledge. It was located approximately two inches away from the ass of the female in the orange turtleneck. I was so stoned I was scared she'd think I was about to grab her ass when I reached for the glass. Harry's joint had been dynamite. A little late, I realized that a significant part of its contents consisted of the Cambodian killer weed.

At that very moment, as if guided by telepathy, Harry entered the kitchen. He was clutching a number of glasses and he was eager to deposit them in the sink.

"I can wash these," I told him. "Well, at least one."

I had to repeat that, at twice the volume, before he understood. He beamed.

"My man!" he shouted, and slapped my shoulder. Then he fucked off, just like that.

The two females by the window decided to follow Harry. All of a sudden, I was alone in the kitchen. The clean glass on the window ledge was easily accessible. I could even drink straight out of the fucking bottle—no one was watching. But I'd just agreed to wash a bunch of glasses just so that I could have a clean glass.

There seemed to be some kind of lesson in this. I tried to work it out while I was washing the glasses and came to the conclusion that Cambodian pot was just dynamite. Nothing could beat the wicked Cambodian torpedo.

I was drying my hands when I suddenly felt totally alone, completely cut off from everyone else. I realized I was feeling that way for the second time inside twenty minutes, and got a little paranoid. Then I realized my paranoid pal wasn't around, and that got me properly paranoid.

I had to return home. Harry and I had already agreed to meet in the evening at the Park Pub. I had to hit the bank before that. When I was raiding the night table drawer prior to going out, I discovered I had just a couple of twenties left in there.

I quickly upended the bottle and drank. Feeling freshly motivated, I elbowed my way through the dancing crowd, retrieved my infamous jacket, and left. I was so stoned I actually had the thought I might enjoy walking all the way home. It was a fucking long way that involved crossing a bridge closed to pedestrians. I was determined to do it anyway.

Luckily, about half-mile from the bridge I caught a cab.