The Homeless Millionaire

When I reviewed the work I’d done next morning, I felt like killing myself with my own fist. It was fucking awful. It was completely bland. It was as engaging as a wet advertising leaflet lying on the pavement.

It didn’t feel that way when I was doing it the previous day. I remembered that a couple of times I’d actually congratulated myself. I burned with shame when I remembered that.

I tore all that shit up and deposited it in the trash and then smoked several moody cigarettes by the open window. It was an unusually nice day, with just a few clouds scattered in the sky. The air, when I actually inhaled just air, felt clean and crisp. It inspired me to go out for a walk, as envisaged by my new self-improvement program.

Unfortunately, lots of people seemed to have had the same idea. The park was full of kids and dogs. Both species regarded me with deep suspicion. I was being looked at and sniffed at constantly. It put me in a black mood.

It wasn’t the right kind of mood to talk to Fiona, but I called her anyway. I hoped she wouldn’t be home, and she wasn’t. I told the maid that had answered the phone my name and lied that I was calling for the third time. I made sure she’d pass that on to Fiona.

The pub was semi-empty, so I didn’t feel guilty about popping in just to use the payphone. But I felt bad about it, all the same. I’d have really liked to have a couple of pints and a meal—they had a good cook—but my financial situation put a nix on that. I cursed my financial situation all the way home.

I’d intended to work when I got home, but I just couldn’t do it. My mind was empty of ideas. I still had a couple of apples knocking around, but when I thought about doing one of these I wanted to throw up. I walked around my room, smoking like a maniac and getting increasingly angry. I felt the need to do something, but I had no idea what to do.

I knew that I’d be bursting with ideas if I consulted my old friend Johnnie Walker, or even Captain Morgan when it came to that. But Johnnie Walker’s company carried a price I couldn’t afford, at present. After a lot of soul-searching I rolled a really thin joint and smoked it and instead of helping, it made things even worse. I stood revealed as a talentless idiot who couldn’t produce anything unless drunk.

I felt like screaming. I went through the motions: I put a fresh sheet on my easel and made myself a kickass coffee and arranged everything on the table just right. I still couldn’t do anything. I stared at the empty white rectangle and there was nothing, nothing, nothing at all appearing in my mind. It was totally empty and to make things even worse, my dick started sending me signals it would like another workout.

It was insanity squared! I really wanted to paint something good. All I could think of was mobile lip Jane in her rubber bra and elbow-length rubber gloves. I ran downstairs, and called her from the hall phone.

She wasn’t in. No one was in. I wasn’t in. I was out, out of it completely. I returned to my room feeling utterly defeated and looked at the cupboard which had been recently decorated with so many attractive bottles. Now there was only James, with his stupid glassy stare.

“Fuck you,” I told him. He didn’t answer.

I grabbed him and wound him up and put him on the floor. He was so happy! He bounced around, screeching like crazy. He was basically doing what everyone did, in a condensed form. He just didn’t dress it up in all the how are yous and comments about the weather and other human shit.

He made me feel better. I wound him up again and put him down and went down on all fours beside him but somehow, bouncing on the floor along with James didn’t work too well. I was a fucking human. I had a brain, even though it was currently refusing to obey me. Worse: it was in open revolt. It was telling me I was a stupid asshole.

That kind of thing, thoughts like that could be easily fixed. All they required was an intake of alcohol. Weed didn’t really do the trick. I needed to get drunk. I needed to get obliterated. But I couldn’t get drunk, because I had no alcohol.

Fortunately, the Noyces came home and that provided a distraction. I focused on being as quiet as possible, lest they felt encouraged to pay me a visit. I put James back on the cupboard and realized I still hadn’t read the letter my parents sent me.

I picked it up, grimacing. There was definitely more than a single sheet inside. I opened the envelope and found there were indeed two sheets inside, along with a cheque. I examined the cheque first. It was for five hundred dollars!

Of course, my first thought was to tear it up and drop it in the trash. I was about to do that when wiser counsel prevailed. If I kept that cheque, my living allowance would increase to $225 a month—more than double of what it was at present.

It was the classic dilemma: to sell out, or not. I was struck by the thought that if the cheque had been for just a hundred or even two hundred bucks, I'd have torn it up with no hesitation. It seemed that I had my price, just like everyone or almost everyone else. It was a very unpleasant thought. Just a couple of days earlier, I'd been thinking that being true to yourself was priceless.

I put the cheque on the cupboard in front of James. Maybe he'd offer an opinion after he'd looked at it for a while. Then I turned to the letter.

The letter was written by my father, as usual. My mother didn’t condescend to write me, or maybe she'd felt she didn't need to. Her husband was a professional diplomat. He was good at writing letters.

He wrote:

Dear Michael,

We really were beside ourselves with joy when we got the pictures you’d sent us. Well, your mother had mixed feelings, but you know how she is: she likes to appear mysterious, and you’ve nailed her fair and square.

The one thing I want to tell you is that you’re tremendously talented. I think I understand you a little better now. I’ve always wanted you to have a happy, comfortable life. That was why I sometimes tried to push you in directions you didn’t like.

I realize now that was a mistake. You’ll never have a happy, comfortable life. Truly talented people never do. That is the price of real talent.

It makes me very sad to write that, but I want to be honest with you, and I know that it is true.

I am enclosing a cheque for the money you contributed towards household expenses last year. I wanted to give it to you when you were leaving to study in Montreal; however, I never had the chance.

I stopped reading, and lit a cigarette. This was such bullshit! He could've sent me that money to Montreal. The cheque I'd received while I was there, and subsequently burned, was for a hundred dollars.

I really didn't feel like reading the rest of that letter, but I felt obliged to do it anyway. There was some family stuff that included the assertion that Josh had indeed injured his leg while skiing in Vermont. I ran through all that quickly and tore up the letter and threw it into trash.

I picked up the cheque intending to give it identical treatment, but hesitated. My household contributions had totalled nearly five hundred dollars. All my father did was throw in a couple of bucks to round up the sum.

I was going to keep that cheque. There was no denying it arrived with perfect timing. I was going to be able to afford a drink at home now and then, and wouldn't have to ration cigarettes. A pack a day! Fuck this bullshit.

"You could have warned me," I said to James, blowing smoke in his face. "You knew what was in that letter."

Downstairs, Birgit shouted:

"Dave! Dave! Are you coming or what?"

I had a vision of Dave secretly masturbating in the bathroom and nearly laughed out loud. I crept up to my door and stood still, listening for more.

The sound of the ground floor toilet being flushed confirmed that my vision had been at least partly right. I had to put out my cigarette, and left my listening post. As I ground out the stub in the ashtray, I tried to work out how to draw that scene, and couldn't.

It could be done as a cartoon, but I wasn't going to draw a cartoon. It was beneath my dignity to draw a fucking cartoon.

I glanced at James and suddenly felt very irritated by his grin. I walked over to him and picked him up.

"The holiday is over, buddy," I told him. "You're going to work."