The Homeless Millionaire

I attempted to draw a portrait of Tony first thing the next day. I used charcoal, and began working even before I'd finished my first coffee. It was the right thing to do, because to my surprise and joy that picture turned out really well.

It was also the wrong thing to do, because I was pretty sure it wouldn't be a good idea to include it in my show. And Tony would come to see my show.

He would come because I'd let it slip I had a show coming in the spring when we were sharing that bottle of scotch soon after I'd moved in. Tony had congratulated me with alcoholic heartiness, and I responded by inviting him to the opening. I told him that there would be free booze and snacks and that I would make sure he got an official invitation in one of those fancy little envelopes.

He wouldn't react well to see his likeness hanging on the gallery wall. He wouldn't like the fact that I put him on public view with all his secrets exposed—it really was a good portrait, on par with that portrait of Fiona's father that was too good to give him. And on top of everything else, Tony's portrait would be up for sale! I would be making money on his secrets, selling them to someone else! He'd telling me to get the fuck out of his house the moment I returned home.

Of course, he'd react very differently if I simply gave him that picture, as a gift. He'd think it was wonderful and who knew, maybe a bottle of scotch would materialize within easy reach.

I rolled up the drawing and put it in my tube, thinking it would be my secret weapon. If I crashed and burned moneywise, I could present it to Tony with the tearful plea that he let me fall behind a month with the rent.

I ate breakfast and smoked a couple of cigarettes standing by the back windows. It was a typical winter day: grey, with gusts of wind and bursts of rain. It was fucking gloomy weather, but I was feeling upbeat: my talent had returned. It was time to do some serious work.

I did a watercolour next. It depicted a scene that was in total opposition to what was happening outside. I painted one of those dream beaches, all soft sand. It curved round a shallow bay whose waters changed colour as it got deeper.

Two big beach umbrellas had been set in the sand; one had toppled over, and was resting on its rim. Its canopy was split into alternating triangles of yellow and white. The canopy of the other umbrella, the one that remained upright, was red and white. I painted a deckchair standing in its shade, and it turned out so well that I didn't want anyone in it.

It turned out to be a momentous decision: the whole scene suddenly became something else. I'd intended to paint a young couple enjoying the beach. But after I'd done that deckchair and left it empty, I painted one of those little folding tables nearby. It had been knocked over and now lay on its side like a skeleton of some minor prehistoric animal.

Things went downhill from there. I added a square green bottle—I remembered seeing a gin bottle like that—and a heavy tumbler glass next to the bottle. They'd been knocked off the table and were lying on their sides. The tumbler spewed its contents on the sand, leaving a wet stain. I added miscellaneous stuff, some half-hidden: an empty tonic water bottle, a dog-eared paperback, a pack of cigarettes, the top of a metal cigarette lighter that had almost buried itself in the sand.

I fucked around with the sea for a long time. I made sure every little wave was right. I knew that this scene needed a human presence, not just hints of it in recent past. But the picture was perfect in its own way and I could fuck it up beyond repair if I tried to paint in any people. I was sure that this would completely destroy the mood.

So in the end, I painted guy swimming in the sea, a long way offshore. Many people wouldn't even notice he was there: his head and raised arm were the only things visible. His head was facing the shore and if someone looked hard enough they would see his mouth was open, and that there were drops of water cascading from his upraised, bent arm.

He could be swimming, doing the Australian crawl. He could also be screaming as a shark hit him underwater. He could be drowning. Any of those possibilities worked with the overturned folding table, the spilled drink, the gin bottle.

I smoked a cigarette looking at the picture when it was finished, luxuriating in the warm glow of accomplishment. It was good. It was good! Chaz was going to like it.

Then I smoked another cigarette, frowning, and eventually I added a subtle curved shadow on the water close behind the swimming guy. It could just be the way the waves broke, disturbed by his passage. It could also be the underwater shape of a fucking big fish. It was invisible from more than a couple of steps away, and that made it subtle enough.

It began getting dark around that time and the changing light told me this was the right moment to stop working. My hand was aching, anyway. I walked around my flat, smoking and too excited to sit down. My inspiration & imagination were back! My i & i had made it out of the Gobi Desert, and caught the next plane to Vancouver!

I was going to do more kickass art the next day. I knew that. I felt that deep certainty that always presaged a good run. I was due to have one of those and it made me very happy because in around a week's time, I was expected to call Chaz and set up a presentation of what I'd done so far.

After about half an hour of joyful mental masturbation, I realized that this was the perfect moment to call my parents.

I checked the time before I went downstairs: it was just past four in the afternoon. My mother always returned home from her shopping by four. I didn't particularly want to talk to her—I expected a rocky start to the conversation, with plenty of recriminations for staying out of touch for so long. If she was in a bad mood, she'd probably work in a few references to my criminal absence at Christmas.

I dialled the operator and asked him—it was a guy! Very rare—to place a collect call for me. He did, and I waited. And waited. And waited.

"I don't think there's anyone in to take your call, sir," the operator said, after fifteen or sixteen rings.

I thanked him and went up to my room and smoked a couple of cigarettes and drank some coffee and cooed and clucked over my new masterpiece. Then I went downstairs again. I got the standard female operator this time, but the result was identical. No one was home to answer the phone.

I was about to go back upstairs when Tony returned from work.

"Hi, Tony," I said, surprised: it wasn't even five, yet.

"Hi," he said, throwing me a glance: there were raindrops on his glasses. He said:

"What are you doing downstairs?"

I bristled at that. His tone was the tone people used when they told their dog to stop being a pest, and go back to its basket.

"I was attempting to call my parents," I said. "That collect call I told you about."

"Success?" he asked, hanging up his overcoat.

"No."

He took off his glasses and wiped them with the end of his tie. He was wearing a black knit number similar to the one I had, and I liked him for that. I also liked him for discovering how versatile black knit ties are.

"Would you like to smoke a joint with me?" I asked, before I could stop myself.

He stared at me.

"A joint?"

"A joint."

"Fuck, yeah. Let's go in the living room."

"I have to get it from upstairs."

He pointed a finger at me and said:

"Do it immediately. Don't tarry, laddie."

"I won't," I promised, and ran up the stairs.

When I joined Tony in the living room, he'd already poured the drinks. He'd even remembered that I took two cubes of ice. Things were looking good.

We toasted each other and I pulled out my joint and his face fell a little when he saw its size.

"You go first," I told him, and subsequently waved the joint away and told him to keep going a couple of times. I only took it from him when he started coughing. Luckily, that happened only halfway through the joint.

I smoked and listened to Tony cough and after a while offered him the remains, but he waved the roach away.

"My throat," he said. "All that fucking talking. You know what people do at work? They don't work. They talk. Yadda yadda yadda. Sometimes I feel I'm about to drown in all the bullshit. And you know what's the worst thing of all?"

"No."

"They expect me to join in. They expect me to contribute even more bullshit. And they expect me to enjoy it! I had three, no wait, four meetings today. Each one lasted almost an hour. I had to talk and smile at the same time for nearly an hour, in total. Then I had to smile and talk to all the other people I bumped into at work. I had to smile and talk to the fucking waitress when I had lunch, and I had to smile and talk to the two assholes that wouldn't let me go lunch alone. They thought they were doing me a favour. They thought I was depressed about something!"

"You aren't depressed about something? Sorry, just want to make sure I understand everything correctly."

"Let's have another drink," Tony said. His eyes had already assumed a stoned glaze. I was feeling pretty stoned myself, after all that abstinence.

Over our second and then third drinks, Tony told me his troubles. His divorce was assuming a sinister turn. Advised by her lawyer lover, Tony's ex-wife was displaying a determination to take Tony to the cleaners.

"She wants everything," Tony told me. "She wants the house! She wants alimony! I guess she wants me to kill her, and spend the rest of my life in jail."

"Does she hate you?"

"But that's exactly it! She doesn't. She doesn't give a fuck about me, either way. She doesn't care."

"Sometimes, that's worse than hate," I said.

"To hate," Tony said raising his glass.

"To hate."