The Homeless Millionaire

Mr. Chance was still on my side when I woke up the next morning: it wasn't raining. In fact, there was a bit of sunshine now and then. For a moment, I actually wondered whether it was like that at my old place, too. Somehow I felt convinced that it was raining over there, which was totally insane.

This was probably why I decided I'd have a shower even before I'd drunk my first coffee. The shower cabin was a tight fit and I managed to hit the water tap twice while washing, switching the water to scalding hot and then freezing cold the second time around. Getting my feet done with a brush involved standing on one leg like a fucking Masai or some other Zulu.

Well, every rose came with thorns attached. That was just the way things were. While shaving, I also became aware that taking a relaxed shit might be difficult. There was no elbow room and getting at the roll of toilet paper while still seated would be a fakir-style feat.

But it was still a private bathroom. No more pissbottles! No more trembling with fear while paying an emergency visit with little girls prowling around the house! They'd caught me in there once. Of course I'd locked the door and the little witches couldn't enter, but the whispered comments and giggling that followed were hard to bear.

Recalling that incident dampened my mood, and I decided I'd start the day with a slug of scotch and a joint. I was entitled to a little celebration.

The big Johnnie Walker was still three-quarters full; Dave and I only had three moderate drinks apiece the previous day. The pot situation wasn't so hot considering it would be ages before I'd be able to buy more. Well, the worst that could happen was that I'd be forced to stay straight for a while. It would be good for me. Correction: it would be good for my physical health, but not for me.

After a couple of scotches and a thin joint I entered a Zen-like state where I stopped worrying about running out of booze and drugs. I had some of both at the moment, and that was all that mattered.

I subsequently spent an hour fucking around with my easel: I wanted it by the back windows, but the kitchenette was at the back too and the counters meant there was less space available. I was determined to continue working while sitting, too. The setup I'd come up with—sitting sideways to the table, with my kickass draughtsman's lamp attached—was just perfect. It let me play with the light any way I wanted and also provided comfortable access to supplies.

If I moved the table to the back, I'd barely have enough space to squeeze around it, because of course I had to sit next to the pair of windows. Eventually I set it at forty-five degree angle, and that was good enough. Even better than my previous setup, because the angle meant I was getting more outside light on the easel.

I'd sprung into action with all that shit because I felt like painting or drawing something. However, by the time I was done the urge to create was completely gone. I had the thought I should take advantage of the weather, and explore the neighbourhood a little. Sadly, I couldn't afford any pit stops at bars. So I had a big Johnnie before I got dressed, and left.

I happened to emerge outside just as a shaft of sunlight lit up the street. I started walking and came across a nickel before I took twenty steps. Of course it made me feel lucky and optimistic. It was all bullshit, sheer coincidence, but that was how coincidences worked. They convinced people there was a pattern, and that pattern was subsequently enforced on any later coincidences. They were made to fit no matter what.

On my two previous sorties from my new home, I always turned south at the nearest intersection. This brought me to the local commercial strip. On this occasion, I turned left instead of right and went north.

Slowly, I came to realize that all the houses I passed looked fairly new. They'd all been built after the war, without any doubt. I walked just a few blocks before finding out why.

I came to a T-junction and the city ended, just like that. There was open ground on the other side, and beyond that the thick band of the forest, no more than a quarter mile away. I glanced to my sides and saw that there was a finished house standing some distance down the road, and counted a couple of ongoing construction sites.

A little to my left, a dirt track cut through the open ground and ran to the forest. There were a couple of serious-looking mountains with grey rock peaks standing beyond the trees, no more than a couple of miles away.

I didn't feel brave enough to go there on my first foray. I stood and smoked a cigarette and took in the scene. I promised myself that I definitely would go exploring over there once spring arrived.

It still wasn't raining, so I grasped that golden opportunity to walk all the way back south to the commercial strip. It was less than a mile away! I turned west and found the strip came to an end quickly. There was a bunch of stores and a movie house and a few restaurants and bars, and that was it.

North Vancouver was a fucking outpost in the wilds. It suited me fine: it meant less places to spend money. I went back home by a roundabout route, and nearly got lost because all the streets seemed identical.

All that exercise meant that I was stone cold sober and straight when I got home. I was also not in the best of moods because along the way I realized that I couldn't afford a phone, just yet. There was a fee involved in setting it up and I would have to rent a set from the phone company or buy one of my own. Somehow I hadn't thought of that earlier, and it really screwed up the day for me.

I pottered around my new flat for a couple of hours, arranging this and rearranging that and generally wasting time. Eventually I got out a saucepan Tony had kindly provided as part of the kitchenette gear, and cooked a can of pork and beans. I added a couple of slabs of corned beef for extra nourishment.

I ate that with bread and made myself some tea. Then I tried to read the newspaper I'd bought the previous day, but failed because there was one thought in my head crowding out all the others. I'd have to live for over a hundred days like this, on baked beans and corned beef and bread. I stared at the newspaper and I felt like crying. I didn't see how I'd be able to stand it.

I forced myself to focus, and carefully read the help wanted ads in the hope of finding a job I could take for a month or two, to help out with my financial situation. I didn't find anything suitable. I kept checking my watch; I just couldn't wait for Tony to come home. He'd promised to invite me for a drink, and to give me the lowdown on the neighbourhood.

He didn't show up until almost nine o'clock, and he was oiled. I saw that when he showed up in my flat to announce we would have to postpone our little get-together. Tony's friends were expecting him at their place. Totally spontaneous and unexpected! He said he was very sorry even though it was obvious that he wasn't.

I lied that I didn't mind at all and he asked how I was settling in and I said fine. Feeling absolved of any blame he was out of the house like a fucking rocket—he hadn't even taken off his coat. I sat at my table and smoked and hated him.

What did I expect? He'd already shown himself to be a party guy, and this was Friday night. On Friday nights normal, well-adjusted people went out and socialized and had fun. They got drunk and they got laid while losers like me brooded at home, hating their lives and the entire world too while they were at it.

I had hidden my Johnnie Walker in one of the kitchen cabinets. I'd promised myself it would only be used in emergencies, but this clearly was an emergency. My luck had changed, and Mr. Chance was rolling me snake eyes and other stinkers. I wished I hadn't found those five cents. That coin had really gotten my hopes up. Well, now I was being punished for being stupid.

I drank a big scotch really fast and poured myself another and sipped it, smoking and continuing to brood. Over three months like this! There was only one thing I could do to survive that shit, and that was to produce a lot of kickass art.

It was the last thing I wanted to do at that moment, and I didn't feel capable of it either. When I thought about picking up a paintbrush, I felt like puking.

I really hoped the next day would bring a change.