The Homeless Millionaire

I woke up pretty early the next day. The Noyces were still doing their morning thing. I had to use my piss bottle and it was fucking unpleasant because I hadn't emptied it for a couple of days. It was unpleasant outside too, grey and damp; the sunny weather, the freak weather was gone.

When I was shaving, I was somewhat shocked to discover that I looked very healthy and well-rested. I was exceptionally clear-eyed: the whites of my eyes were so white they were tinged blue. It was all rather frightening. I wasn't used to looking like that.

The other frightening thing was that my brain seemed to be missing. If it was still there, it was remarkably quiet. There was no static of disjointed images and thoughts running in the background. It was total shutdown. I was doing everything on automatic, without any thinking involved.

That didn't bide well for drawing or painting anything. I hadn't done any work the previous day, but that was excusable because of the freak weather, the chance to stay outdoors without getting wet. However, I really needed to get back to work. I had to resume producing stuff. I knew that, and I also knew I wouldn't be able to produce anything that day. It was fucking frustrating.

There was a high likelihood my problem would be instantly solved by Johnnie Walker. But I'd promised myself to try staying sober, and anyway I really couldn't afford to drink given my financial circumstances.

I had a morose breakfast and spent close to an hour drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and circling my room, trying to think of a subject for my next picture. I couldn't think of anything. I ran into a fucking wall every single time. Clearly, there were some major drawbacks to being sober and healthy.

It had begun to rain heavily, so going out wasn't an option. In total desperation, I picked up the two paperback novels that I still hadn't read. I suspected they'd both be shit; all I hoped for was that at least one of them would be better than The Bucharest Transfer. I'd bought all those shitty novels because they had attractive covers. They had what was popularly known as good cover art.

The more attractive of the covers featured a very sharp illustration of a ship sailing towards a desert coast. It wasn't a big ship, two masts with a lateen sail each, and it had a vaguely exotic air. The title of the book was The Hashish Runners.

The blurb on the back cover stated it was about a French aristocrat who, for some reason, took to smuggling hashish across the Red Sea. What was more, he took up that hobby in the early nineteenth century, a time when hashish smugglers were killed out of hand either by the authorities (less likely) or their competitors (much more likely).

I thought it might be interesting to find out why a guy like that, a French aristocrat, would choose to mix with a bunch of Arabs and smuggle drugs. The first few pages made it clear he had almost everything going for him. He was young and devilishly handsome and so fucking rich he practically shat money whenever he hit the can.

He also had about half a dozen titles to his name, but preferred to be addressed as Valentin. Most likely, modesty was his middle name. He definitely didn't let all those titles and money go to his head. He was such a paragon of virtue it was insane.

Naturally, being so blessed meant Valentin had as many enemies as he had friends. The constant plotting and intrigues got on his nerves. So one day, following a particularly nasty intrigue and plenty of wine, he basically told everyone to fuck themselves. Then he slipped a couple of bags of gold into his pockets—he had a few of those lying around at all times—grabbed the family sword, a brace of pistols, and presumably a change of underwear before mounting his favourite horse, and taking off.

It didn't look as if he was leaving forever. Odds were that he was just going to fuck around a little. He'd wander around the country, get drunk, have a few adventures culminating in visits to selected boudoirs. He'd break a few female hearts, and also a few male noses and jaws in various brawls. Once the money ran out, he'd return to the family fold, his sulk over.

Unfortunately, one of the brawls ended with a duel in which Valentin killed his opponent. Valentin decided to make himself scarce. He galloped down to Marseilles, and sold what remained of his horse. Then he boarded the first ship that was leaving. It turned out to be sailing to Egypt.

Having arrived in Alexandria, Valentin instantly got into fresh trouble. He came across a bunch of guys about to kill a single guy. Naturally, Valentin sprang to defend the underdog. It didn't cross his noble mind that something could be wrong with a guy who had managed to piss off a number of people so badly they wanted him dead.

The old family sword went into action, and the assailants fled. The rescued guy was full of gratitude. He turned out to be the nephew or cousin or something similar of a major hashish smuggler. The smuggler was very grateful too, and offered Valentin a job—a very well-paid job.

Valentin was a man with expensive tastes, and he was almost out of money. So he accepted the job offer, and I got so irritated I stopped reading. What the fuck was wrong with Valentin? He could walk into any bank or merchant house and use just one, at most two of his titles to get an instant loan.

Then it struck me that there were far-reaching similarities between myself and Valentin. I left home because my family really pissed me off. I followed that move by robbing a museum. Then I dropped out of a course that I'd already paid for with my own hard-earned money, did it on a whim before I'd attended a single class.

I subsequently bought a ticket to Winnipeg, a place that I'd heard described as the armpit of the world. At least going on from there to Vancouver made sense. But I managed to kill someone along the way, and upon arriving in Vancouver immediately became a paid employee of a drug dealer and weed plantator.

Those were the hard facts. Valentin couldn't hold a candle to me. I was in a class of its own.

I did something extra smart next: I got dressed and went out even though it was still raining like hell. I half-ran all the way to the A&W. I'd eaten there so frequently that most of the girls taking orders recognized me (all the cashiers were female. The males slaved away in the kitchen, dealing with boiling oil and similar shit). I could see the cashiers were really impressed I was such a loyal customer, prepared to run through a fucking downpour just so that I could eat there.

The girl that took my order kept flashing me looks from under her lashes and grinning. It spooked me so badly that I hit the can before sitting down to eat. I checked myself out in the mirror there and everything was normal except that I was literally glowing with health. There was this reddish hue on my cheeks from the cold outside and from all the running I'd done.

I had to walk past the counter to get to my table and I caught a couple of muffled giggles and glanced at the girl that had taken my order and saw that she was turning beetroot red. It took me while to work it out. I was reaching for the last couple of fries when I finally understood the stupid cows thought that I was in love with one or maybe even two of them. They thought that was the reason I kept returning to eat there.

I felt so embarrassed that I promised myself to never eat there again. It wasn't a hard promise to make, because I was going to move to another part of town shortly. I left almost immediately, without finishing my Coke or smoking a cigarette. This was another stupid move, because it was raining harder than ever.

I ran to the convenience store to get bread and along the way realized that I hadn't bought a combo to take home. This inspired me to buy a can of spaghetti and meatballs. It was made by a company called Chef Boyardee and the guy was featured atop the can label, wearing a white chef's hat. He was quite plump and had a silver-grey moustache of a style popular around Valentin's time.

There was a warning hidden on that label: it stated the meatballs were made with pork, chicken, and beef—in other words, floor sweepings and other refuse from diverse meat-processing plants. But I failed to register it because I was struck by mental thunderbolt in that convenience store.

I understood why those cows at the A&W thought I was in love. Just like the proverbial hungry man seeing food everywhere, they saw everything refracted through the prism of love. They were hungry for romance—teenage girls always were—and they'd be looking for a romantic spin on everything. If a guy braved thunderstorms to eat there, he had to have some really heavy motivation. It all clicked.

But it didn't click for me. Upon getting home, I wasted over three hours trying to draw something. It cost me several charcoal sticks and several sheets of paper. My imagination and inspiration kept failing me miserably. They weren't in Mongolia any more, they were lost in the fucking Gobi desert.

It was a relief when the Noyces returned home and I was able to eavesdrop on their activities for entertainment. It was all pretty mundane stuff except for one moment when the two little witches both wanted to use the bathroom upstairs at the same time; presumably, the can on the ground floor was occupied by a parent.

They had a powwow about it on the landing and it sounded like they were exchanging threats of blackmail—I caught the word 'tell' several times—but regrettably I didn't catch the rest. Eventually, they went in together and there was more muffled dialogue behind the bathroom door.

I attempted to heat up my spaghetti dinner by putting the can in a bowl and pouring boiling water. I succeeded in getting the can so hot it was uncomfortable to open, but the contents were still cold.

I ate them anyway, and I knew I was making a mistake before I was halfway through. I drank a warm, jumbo-sized baking soda cocktail straight from the bowl after I'd finished that spaghetti. It probably saved my life. Those meatballs were like death pills in a sauce that could be used to remove rust.

I couldn't face any more Valentin that day. So I wasted the evening sitting and drinking tea and smoking cigarettes and picking up the newspaper and putting it down again.

When I thought the next day could be like that, I wanted to cry.