The Homeless Millionaire

The first thing I thought when I woke up was: so this is my last morning in this place.

It was a nasty morning, with sleet thudding on the roof like gunfire. There was very little chance the weather would be different in North Vancouver, but it made me glad I was moving anyway.

The Noyces had already left when I woke up—so much for the breakfast ambush plan!—so I did the bathroom thing right away, and ate my standard breakfast. I wasn't going to take along half-eaten tins of corned beef or bags containing three slices of bread, so I gorged myself and then drank coffee and smoked for a couple of hours, belching from time to time.

Of course I tried to think what I'd paint or draw next, but the food made me completely stupid. At one point, I was even contemplating an Andy Warhol-like series of corned beef cans in place of Campbell's Soup. I hated Andy Warhol. I thought he was a con man.

But on the other hand, art was a reflection of reality. Campbell's Soup was everywhere. And if so many people thought a can of Campbell's Soup was beautiful, well then, so be it.

When I was able to move again I packed all my things in something like twenty minutes. I was ready to go. All I needed was to call a cab. Tony had already issued me with a set of keys, and I was really looking forward to using them for the first time.

However, I felt I had to wait for Dave to show up. It felt wrong to disappear with just a note left under the keys on the hall table. The Noyces had been really nice to me. I liked Dave. And from what I'd seen and heard, he could use someone being nice to him.

He showed up at half past two, later than usual. But just as usual he crept in like a rat hiding in its hole and subsequently did his best to conceal his presence. It really took some straining to hear him moving around.

The one thing I hadn't packed was the second big Johnnie Walker. I hadn't touched it. After a moment's indecision—would Dave interpret it as a gift?—I took the bottle downstairs.

He was in the kitchen and gave me silly popeyed look when I entered. We exchanged greetings and I waved my bottle around and was shocked to see it generated a fraction of the enthusiasm Dave had previously shown on such occasions.

Eventually he got up, got glasses, and put the kettle on for tea. He seemed a little bit more cheerful after the first round, but then I fucked it all up by saying:

"You know, Dave, I'm moving today. I hope I'm not leaving it too late."

"No," he said, sounding hollow. "That girl is moving in on the fifth. Gives John enough time to do his stuff. You can actually stay for an extra couple of days if you aren't bothered by John showing up in your room at seven in the morning."

"I'm bothered whenever anyone at all shows up in my room at seven in the morning."

"Yeah. I don't blame you," he sighed. Then he added:

"You know, I think he's doing it on purpose. He could easily come in at ten, and still get everything done in time. But this way he gets to switch off the water before we get a chance to wash and eat. My brother is a malicious asshole, Mike. Most of the time he keeps it hidden and under control but he's still a malicious asshole at heart."

"My brother is even worse."

I provided Dave with a couple of examples of Josh at his worst. But it failed to cheer him up, and by the third drink I was oiled enough to say:

"Is there something wrong, Dave? I'm sorry, that's the impression I have. Maybe I could help?"

"You already did," he told me, but conversation flagged. We'd both solemnly declared that the third drink would be the last, and I'd learned nothing. It was time to quit. But when I was getting up, I asked the obvious thing:

"Dave? I'm sorry, but I can't help wondering why you aren't at work. Something wrong there?"

He gave me the same popeyed look that I got upon entering, and said:

"Yes. There's plenty wrong there. But I don't want to talk about it."

"That's fine," I said. "I'm sorry, not really my business. Well, I'll call a cab now from the hall phone, if I may."

"Go ahead," Dave said, without looking at me. He was looking at the mug standing in front of him. He'd made two mugs of tea, and he hadn't had more than a couple of sips from his. I had the impression he'd have liked to drown himself in that mug of tea. I had the impression he'd have really liked to shrink himself into a tiny dwarf and drown himself in the tea or maybe hide in a crack in the floorboards.

I called a cab and went upstairs and carried all my stuff down—it took three trips. The sleet had stopped; it was just plain rain, instead. Dave was sitting in the kitchen, completely motionless by the sounds of it, while I stood by the front door waiting for my taxi.

When I finally saw it arrive I spent no time at all getting my stuff and putting it inside. It all fitted in, there would be no second journey necessary if I rode in the front passenger seat. All my belongings could fit into a single cab, and perversely it made me feel happy.

It was a long drive—almost exactly half an hour—and I had ample time to consider whether feeling happy because I had next to nothing wasn't a symptom of a serious mental disorder. I had a brand new, shiny theory ready by the time we crossed the bridge over the Capilano River and drove into my new neighbourhood.

Things that made people happy also brought them grief. Happiness and sadness went together, they were closely linked—two ends of the same pole. Love made people deliriously happy. It also drove quite a few to kill themselves, maybe someone else, maybe both.

Same went for things, for possessions. Being wealthy and owning tons of nice things was supposed to make people happy. But each and every new thing acquired also brought new problems. Sometimes, a new possession simultaneously brought great joy and death. Each year, thousands of young people died after realizing a common dream: owning a motorbike. Some died on the very first ride they took on that bike, just when they were about to shout with joy.

The bottom line was that owning less meant less worries. But obviously, some things were nice to have—such as a private bathroom.

I held onto that thought as my cab turned into Fulton Avenue, because it looked fucking depressing. There were piles of rotting dead leaves everywhere that somehow I hadn't noticed earlier. The street was dead. Dark windows framed in white stared blindly through webs of black spindly branches. And just before the cab squeaked to a stop outside my new home, a cat ran across the road ahead and it was black.

I paid the driver giving him a sizeable tip, and asked him to wait. I went through the gate and up the porch steps and unlocked the front door, leaving it open. Then I went back and forth a few times, carrying my stuff into the hallway. The driver didn't help. He was too busy digging in his ear with his pinkie, and subsequently examining the samples with a frown.

The house was empty; unlike Dave, Tony was at work. I went up to my new flat and unlocked the door and went in and looked around. It was so much better than my room with the Noyces! I looked inside the bathroom and quickly calculated properly scrubbing my feet in the shower stall would involve major acrobatics. But it didn't dampen my mood.

I brought up all my stuff and began unpacking. Just like with packing, I was done in under twenty minutes. All the same it was beginning to get dark when I was done. I got dressed and went to the small supermarket I'd identified before as my main source of supplies.

Naturally, it was much better than the convenience store I shopped at on my way home from work. The prices were better, too. My standard shopping basket—corned beef, bread, apples, baked beans and a newspaper—cost me a over a dollar less. It improved my morale even further.

I returned home and finally had a drink. I had to admit I'd had a nicer table and chair at the Noyces'. But it was still fine for work and the bed was actually a little better. The Noyce bed had a couple of squeaky springs that sometimes got on my nerves. My new bed didn't.

I lay on it in the ancient Roman pose, on my side, sipping scotch and smoking and looking at my flat dissolve in the darkness as night fell. Then I lay back and closed my eyes and allowed myself the luxury of pleasant daydreaming. I avoided thinking about art or painting or anything connected with that bullshit. It would have brought me down.

Tony got home somewhere around seven, and he was accompanied by an unidentified female. She had a nice laugh. He came upstairs and knocked and when I told him to enter he just stuck his head inside and said:

"Hey, Mike. You made it, eh? Everything okay?"

"Everything's just fine," I told him.

"Great! Listen, I've got company tonight, but let's get together for a drink tomorrow evening, okay? I'll give you a rundown on this neighbourhood, where to shop, where to drink, where to meet girls. You know, standard stuff."

"Right on," I said. Tony grinned at me.

"See you," he said, and disappeared.

I listened to him go down the stairs, thinking that it seemed he might be an even better landlord than the Noyces. I was having good luck with my landlords. Mr. Chance was on my side.

It was a good thought to have before going to sleep.