The Homeless Millionaire

That whole life-and-death business came into my mind the moment I woke up on the following day. But it must have entered by a different door because I wondered why the fuck I had been so bothered by it the previous day. So everyone and everything lived and subsequently died. Big fucking deal.

But then I looked at my newest oeuvre and instantly began dropping into that mindset again. There was something about that picture that did this to me. If it made me feel that way, chances were it would make other people feel that way, too. Only a brooding masochist would pay good money for that picture. I hoped Chaz had a few buyers like that, and that he wouldn't turn it down for my show.

While I was washing up after the usual breakfast I decided that my next artistic attempt would involve drawing the Tree of Life. The mythical, archetypical tree from which it all began. It would have to be a fantasy tree of course: not an oak or maple or whatever. I started tripping right away on the leaf shape and I just knew I'd have to draw that tree.

I also knew it would be a lot of hard work: it had to be done in pencil, there was no other way. While I was setting things up to start working, I worked out there would be well over ten thousand fine lines involved and I felt like crying. But I had to do it anyway.

It took me two hours just to get the right shape on paper. It took me another two to deal with the trunk and the main boughs. My hand was aching and the air inside my flat was blue with smoke.

I put the pencil away and opened the back windows. It was a relatively nice day. There were pale blue holes in the dirty white blanket suspended above. Now and then, a beam of sunlight would flash through.

I moved to open the front windows and get the airflow going and just as I was reaching out to the window catches I saw a guy standing on the sidewalk across the street, directly across from my house.

It was lucky that he was bending his head to light a cigarette from a match held in cupped hands, and didn't see me at the window. It was lucky because although his face was half-hidden, I instantly recognized him as Roy Maddon, the store security guard from Salmon Arm.

I sprang back from the window as if I'd been slapped and moved to the side. Then I crept along the wall and stood next to the right-hand window. I wanted to look out to make sure it was fucking Roy Maddon but I was afraid to. If he happened to be looking at the window he'd spot me right away.

So I stood there with ears flapping and heard absolutely nothing—it was early Monday afternoon on a residential street. I wondered what the fuck Maddon was doing there—if it was indeed him—but it was fake wonder. I knew very well he was there because of me.

What a fool I'd been! All that rubbish about living my life normally, without constantly looking over my shoulder, was revealed for what it was: a ton of bullshit. Sooner or later, Maddon would go to the police—if he hadn't already done so. Sooner or later Maddon would get to talk to Detective Moore, and then I'd be instantly fucked.

I thought I heard a cough from the street and then I definitely heard the slap of a shoe sole on a puddle. I risked a peek around the window jamb and saw that Maddon was walking away, his back turned, a streamer of blue smoke hanging in the air behind him.

I moved like fucking lightning. It didn't even take me a minute to put on my boots and the infamous Canadian tire jacket and have a swig of scotch straight from the bottle and grab my cigarettes and lighter and wallet. I ran down the stairs, slowing down midway because I was making so much noise I thought Maddon might hear it. There was no way he could, of course, he was out on the street and at least a hundred yards away.

I checked out the street before opening the front door and he was already almost gone from sight. I slid outside and fucking crouched while I was locking the front door, it was total paranoia time. Then I crept out onto the street, still crouching, until I had the thought that anyone watching me from another house would likely be reaching for the phone to call the police.

I crossed the road and straightened out and began walking normally, following Maddon. He was well over half a block ahead and wouldn't recognize me at that distance if he turned around. I lit a cigarette and walked on puffing like nobody's business. Surely someone sending smoke signals all over the place wasn't suspicious, or a threat.

Maddon turned right exactly where I turned right when walking to the nearest supermarket, and disappeared from view. I lengthened my stride, fighting an impulse to break into a run. It really didn't make any fucking sense to follow Maddon. Why was I trying to follow him?

I understood why just as I was reaching the corner where he'd turned. I had to counter his action with an action of my own. Had I done nothing, I'd be on my way to becoming a nervous wreck, checking my front windows fifty times daily. So I kept following him although it didn't make any sense. I mean, what could I do even if I succeeded in tracking him to his place of residence? Stand on the sidewalk across from his home and smoke a cigarette?

He was walking south, towards Marine Drive. He'd already passed the school. He didn't look back once and that emboldened me enough to close the distance a little, just enough so that he still wouldn't recognize my face if he did look around. And then I thought: what if I was mistaken? This could be a perfectly innocent guy going about his business. Just because he was standing across the street from my place and looked like Roy Maddon didn't make him Roy Maddon.

He was Maddon's size and shape and had the same reddish curly hair cut short. For a moment I was tempted to run up to him and tap his shoulder and settle any outstanding doubts once and for all. But I was afraid to do that, because I couldn't dismiss that absolute certainty I'd felt when I saw him from the window. I'd felt hundred percent sure it was him even though his face was partly hidden.

I kept following him until he reached the intersection with Marine Drive. He turned left there and when I got to the corner maybe thirty seconds later, he'd disappeared. He was gone. I turned left too and almost ran the next hundred steps, glancing around, and couldn't see him anywhere.

He could have gone into one of the stores and there was no way I'd follow him into a store. Shops and stores were his professional operating environment, after all. They probably had special strategic planning sessions for the store security guards, with maps featuring coloured arrows showing the best attack routes through the maze of shelves and aisles, and little circles indicating observation points and crosses marking the best ambush sites. I wasn't going to tangle with Roy Maddon on his favourite fighting ground.

I went back home. I did a lot of thinking on the way back home. Once I'd undressed and smoked two nervous cigarettes I attempted to work on my tree and failed. As soon as Tony got back from work, I ambushed him downstairs.

He gave me a baleful glance when I entered the kitchen and said good evening—he clearly wasn't in the mood for conversation. I didn't give a fuck. I said:

"Tony, that guy who saw the flat after I did. Did he ask you any questions about me? I'm asking because I seem to keep bumping into him."

"Maybe he found a place somewhere nearby."

"Maybe he did. Even then, that doesn't explain the way he stares at me when he sees me."

"Maybe he's a queer," Tony said. He chuckled like a retard, and added:

"There are tons of queers in Vancouver. Maybe he's after your ass."

"Maybe he is," I said. "What I'd like to know is this: did he ask you any questions about me?"

At this point his fucking kettle started whistling and I had to wait while Tony made himself tea. I felt like picking up that kettle and smashing it down on Tony's head.

He frowned and swished the teabag around in his mug as if it was a magic ritual. Then he turned to look at me and said:

"He didn't ask about you, not directly. But he did come around a couple of weeks ago to ask if you'd taken the flat."

"He asked if I'd taken the flat or he asked if the flat was taken?"

Tony had to take a couple of seconds to work that one out. Then he said:

"Same thing. When I showed him around, I told him the guy that had just left—you—wanted the flat. I told him it would be rented out the moment he said no."

"And he said no."

"He did, and the spin he put on it was kinda fake. Never mind. Why is this so important?"

"Never mind," I said.