The Homeless Millionaire

I was painting another picture before I'd finished my first coffee the next morning. It was an image from my dream. A face in a fog was trying to say something to the viewer. It could've been a man, a woman, someone who could be thirty or sixty. It was hard to tell, in the fog.

In the background, a number of people were frozen in a variety of poses. Some were walking, some were standing still. Some were talking, others were silent. They weren't wearing any defined clothes. They were just shapes and actions and nothing more.

I had a bit of trouble arranging all that because I stupidly started with the foreground face, and put it too far from the centre. I thought about aborting the whole thing a couple of times but then I thought that the off-balance foreground could make things more interesting. Once I'd accepted that, things were easy.

I ate a classic breakfast???bread and corned beef???while Fog was drying. While smoking the mandatory post-meal cigarette, I realized I'd just completed my first picture in an eternity without being under the influence of booze or drugs. And there was no torture involved! What was more, I didn't have to endure any suffering or craving for the forbidden fruit: the price that usually had to be paid in advance.

That painting just happened, as casually as smoking a cigarette over a coffee. So I allowed myself another cigarette to celebrate that. Then I got going on another painting.

This time around, I painted a fantasy landscape. There was a bird seated on a branch in the foreground that was getting ready to fly away. There were numerous trees and bushes and water???puddles on the ground???and a sky that was clearing after a thunderstorm. The lightning had frightened a chipmunk that was peering out from under a bush.

It was as close to kitsch as one could get without actually painting kitsch. What saved that picture was the mood. That bird was about to take off on its last flight; it would be intercepted by an eagle. Sooner or later, the chipmunk would meet a similar fate. It knew it would, eventually. Its nose was twitching with the hope it would get to live another day.

That second picture somehow put me off my stride, or maybe I simply got a little tired and hungry for something better than bread and corned beef. I had some of that anyway, and decided I deserved a break. I wasn't sure about that second picture I'd painted???I'd been just fucking around with a paintbrush, to tell the truth???but Fog was definitely good enough for Chaz.

Eventually, after a pensive cigarette, I tore the second painting up and dropped the pieces into trash. I'd been pushing it, riding the wave of self-congratulation that followed completing a painting without being assisted by booze and smoke. That second painting hadn't been close to kitsch, it was kitsch. I needed a break.

I held an unhurried bathroom session, noting that my toes had healed. It wasn't raining so I got dressed and went for a walk in the park. I wasn't going to have many more chances of taking a walk in that particular park. I'd be living somewhere else in just over a week.

I'd wisely left my wallet at home but took my address book along with a handful of change, so when I got tired of walking in the park I went to the pub to try my luck at phone calls. It was three o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, and there was a good chance my parents were at home.

I didn't feel a need to talk to them any more???I didn't really feel like talking to anyone. I was enjoying the way my sober mind worked. True, things felt less intense, but I was coming up with all sorts of new ideas. Also, I felt in control. It was the first time I felt that way since Robinson's revelation. I didn't want anything to break the spell.

But I had to get those fucking calls done. I checked out the pub as much as I could without going in and didn't see any Janes. It actually seemed empty. The barman spotted me lurking outside and gave me a smile and a wave. I smiled and waved back and changed my mind and hoofed it all the way to the convenience store with the mailbox. There was a telephone booth on the store corner.

It was a ten-minute walk and I cursed myself for not making my calls from the pub but I didn't want to disappoint the barman, coming in and getting his hopes up for some custom and then just using the payphone. It was wise to stay on good terms with your local barman.

It was smelly in that booth: someone had used it as a urinal quite recently. I lit a cigarette and called my parents.

My mother answered the phone. She got all choked up when she heard it was me and said she was very busy, sounding very artificial, and then she started calling my father. I didn't even get a chance to get a word in. What the fuck was going on?

My father sorted it out for me. When he came to the phone he said, sounding oddly huffy:

"Michael! It's good that you called. We wanted to talk to you. Really, it would be helpful if you gave us a phone number."

"I'll do that once I've moved into my new place," I told him.

"You're moving soon?"

"On the first."

"I see," he said. He cleared his throat and added:

"We've sent you a letter a few days ago. I suppose you haven't read it yet."

"I haven't. I mean, I haven't got it yet."

During the short silence that ensued, I became aware that my paranoid pal was back. He was looking hopeful; something was up. I said:

"Has something happened? I hope it's nothing bad."

"No, no. I mean nothing bad has happened. Something nice has happened, actually. We wanted to thank you for your Christmas presents."

My Christmas presents? I was completely mystified. I said:

"What are you talking about?"

"The portraits you sent us. We were really touched. You're a really good painter, Michael. Your mother and I are very proud of you."

You could have knocked me down with a feather, as the saying goes. I'd completely forgotten about that!

I was struck speechless. My father interpreted my silence in his own way. He said:

"I mean that. We're really proud of you. Some of our friends were over on the weekend and we showed them your pictures and they were really impressed."

"I'm glad to hear that," I said uncertainly. It was my turn to clear my throat. I added:

"Actually I called you to tell you that I got the easel. And I wanted to thank you for sending all that extra stuff."

"You got it? Good! Do let me know if there's something else you need."

I really was fucking speechless. This was turning into a regular lovefest. Fortunately, I heard the first of the beeps signalling it was time to put in another coin. I knew my father heard it too. So I lied:

"Dad, I have to go. I'm out of change. I'll call again soon, I promise."

He sounded disappointed when we said goodbye and I stepped out of the booth to smoke another cigarette outside???it was getting really stuffy in there. I held the door open to air the booth out while I smoked. This was fucking incredible. All that praise!

I'd planned to call Fiona too, but I changed my mind. I let go of the door to the booth and flicked the stub of my cigarette into the gutter and walked home, deep in thought.

Surprisingly, my pal was still around. I'd expected him to retreat, defeated by my latest triumph. But he was hovering in the background, all anticipation. Something was brewing.

It began to rain and I ran the last hundred steps to the house. When I got inside, I checked the mail. I always left it where it had dropped from the mail slot in the front door. I wasn't expecting anything addressed to myself. I hadn't given anyone my address. But on my way home, I realized I'd done that when I was mailing the portraits at the post office.

There was no letter for me in the mail that had come in. But there was a letter for me in the mail that had arrived earlier, maybe even a few days earlier. My letter was half-buried under a number of envelopes on the hall table: mostly advertising offers, and a couple of buff-coloured rectangles that meant bills. It looked like the Noyces were in no hurry to deal with those.

I took the letter up to my room. It felt as if there were several sheets inside. I wasn't sure I could deal with that. I'd had enough excitement for the day.

I put down the unopened letter on the cupboard, in front of James. He seemed so eager to play with me. That was the purpose of his existence: playing with people.

"Not today, pal," I told him. "Read that first. You can do it, you've got X-ray eyes."

I took out a cigarette and put it across his outstretched arms by way of consolation.

"Ask me for a light when you're ready," I said to James.

Then I got down to work.