The Homeless Millionaire

I woke up again after two in the afternoon and instantly freaked out because I had to get to the bank before it closed. I didn't even have time for a coffee and a cigarette. Cursing, I pulled on my clothes and ran out of the house and half-ran all the way to the bank. I consoled myself with the fact that at least it wasn't raining.

I got to the bank in the nick of time. There was a long lineup of people inside, needing to feed their wallets after the weekend. The security guard locked the door just before three o'clock, and unlocked it only to let people out. It was a money prison.

There was a funny atmosphere inside that bank, a sort of guilty silence broken only by the soft-voiced exchanges between the tellers and the customers. The people in that bank were regretting what they'd done over the weekend. It hadn't been worth it.

When my turn came I cashed a cheque for a hundred dollars. I was shocked to discover this dropped my balance to just under a thousand. I had to stop spending so much money.

With a start, I realized I'd run out of money before I'd see any coming in. I had February's rent paid at my new place. But Chaz was planning my show for the middle of April. It would be at least the end of May before Chaz gave me a cheque. In the meantime, I had to cover three months' rent and utilities—March, April, May. That worked out to $810.

I did some essential shopping on the way home, and stopped for a meal at the A&W: it was good value. I gave the liquor store a miss. I'd be on a hundred bucks a month for the next four months and I could forget about buying any booze. I'd have to cut back on cigarettes: no more than a pack a day. At least I'd bought a ton of art supplies.

As soon as I thought that, it dawned on me I'd have to drop another thirty or forty dollars on acrylic paint and it just fucking killed me. I ate just a single burger combo and bought another to take home and practically ran back to the house and up to my room. I undressed and unpacked, close to sobbing as I placed the cans of corned beef next to James.

His stupid grin was beginning to get on my nerves. What the fuck was he so happy about? I smoked a hysterical cigarette and then started tearing my room apart, looking for money.

There was an extra twenty that had slid to the back of my night table drawer. I found a five in the jacket I'd worn to Gina's party—change from the cab I'd taken home. I had a lot of quarters and dimes that I'd been prudently accumulating for making phone calls: all those coins came to four thirty. I also found a penny on the floor, so that made it four thirty one.

Instant freakout! I grabbed my dying Johnnie Walker and upended it over my mouth. There was more booze inside than I'd thought—it was a big bottle—and I nearly choked in my determination not to waste any. After I'd finished coughing my lungs out, I lit a cigarette and forced myself to coolly consider my situation.

I'd have a fucking hard time for the next four months if I didn't get a fresh influx of cash in the meantime. I'd felt amused when Chaz exploded upon learning I'd been giving away my stuff for free. I'd always believed art was about sharing a vision with other people. All other considerations came a very distant second.

As Chaz had put it while we were having dinner, it was time to grow up. I needed money. I was stuck in the same situation as everyone else: I would have to compromise. I would have to sacrifice, at least partly, some of my ideals.

This was fucking hard to take, and I had to smoke a joint. It led me to the conclusion that I wouldn't compromise any of my ideals. I would just have to work twice as hard, that was all.

There was no other way. Being true to your own self carried heavy costs. That was because being true to your own self was priceless. You couldn't really put a price tag on that.

It got dark while I was chewing on all this, and the Noyces returned home just as I was finally getting down to work. I executed a lightning run to get enough water for all my needs—I was planning a watercolour—and got back inside my room before they opened the front door.

It was a noisy homecoming. The little witches were excited about something. They kept squealing loudly and no one told them to keep it down. Dave and Brigit were talking when they they climbed the stairs to their bedroom and although I couldn't hear what they said, I caught the intonation. They were happy. Mr. Chance had been good to the Noyce family. They'd scored big time, somewhere.

Without any further conscious input, I began painting Joy. Joy was a little girl seated in a flowery, sunlit meadow. A beautiful butterfly had just alighted on a flower right in front of her face, a face that was shining with happiness and discovery. True joy always involved discovery.

She was raising her plump dimpled little hands. Was she raising them to her face? Was she preparing to catch the butterfly?

Her little brother was in the background. He was chasing another butterfly with a stick raised in his hand. He wanted to capture its beauty, by killing it if necessary. He was really enjoying the chase.

I thought about adding a bird hungry for a butterfly meal, but decided against it. That would be overkill. And it would detract focus from the girl's face, because that was what really mattered.

Her face showed how ruthless joy really was. People didn't give a thought to anyone or anything when they felt madly happy. They just didn't give a fuck. They rushed through life trampling unhappy faces into the mud.

I smoked a joint while waiting for Joy to dry: I'd calculated I had at least a dozen joints left in my current bag, provided I rolled them thin. Then I smoked a cigarette listening to the Noyces. They weren't so happy any more. There was some kind of an argument going on, on the ground floor. One of the little witches started to cry, and was angrily shouted into silence.

Accordingly, I painted Misery next. It was easy because I used the same girl. This time around, she was seated with her knees drawn up and her hands over her eyes. Her mouth was inhaling plenty of air for her next record-breaking sob.

Her brother was much closer than he had been in Joy. He was standing a step short of the foreground, looking at his sister's bent back with shock in his eyes. It was very sad shock, the kind of shock people show when they realize they're going to die. The stick he held was broken. He'd probably hit the ground with it while attempting to hit the butterfly. Or did he hit her, instead?

It was hard to tell whether he'd succeeded in hitting anything. Maybe his sister was crying because he did, or maybe because he didn't. Maybe she was crying because the butterfly she'd been looking at had flown away, and disappeared. It was up to the viewer to determine what it all meant.

I had two new pictures for Chaz. No, that was wrong: I had two new pictures for myself. It didn't matter who owned them. They were mine forever.

I'd done the two watercolours in express time: just over two hours. I smoked a cigarette while Misery was drying, and calculated that probably worked out at two–three hundred bucks an hour.

That was also my present budget for surviving a fortnight. I dropped from joy to misery in a matter of seconds when I thought that. It made sense. It didn't take Mr. Chance more than a few seconds to roll his dice as long as he was still feeling refreshed after his last nap and first drink upon awakening.

I ate the cold burger combo I'd brought home and was struck by a sudden thought and yes!—there was a single bottle of Tuborg surviving hidden in the cupboard. I put it on the window sill to cool a little and smoked a cigarette admiring its perfect shape and then did it in charcoal inside ten minutes, and it was fucking good too.

But it was also bad, because I wasn't sure I could show it to Chaz. I didn't want to become known as The Bottle Man. An artist couldn't help but recreate his own environment. People might get the impression I was living inside a bottle.

Was I? I wasn't sure. Maybe it was hard to tell because I was looking at it from the inside.

I smoked a further three cigarettes before the bottle felt cold enough for consumption.. And then I really surprised myself: I went to bed.