The Homeless Millionaire

The rest of that day turned out to be quite romantic, in a way.

Tony insisted that I keep him company. He said that it was the first Valentine's Day in years that he was spending apart from his wife, soon to become ex-wife. I wanted to get the fuck out of there, but he was close to sobbing so I stayed. Maybe the fact that Tony confessed he'd located his special rum in the meantime had something to do with that.

Staying with Tony quickly proved to be a mistake.

"I make the best Cuba libre in the world," Tony announced, as soon as I was seated. "But I'm out of Coke. I do have a lemon somewhere. I know! I'll make us a nice pot of tea. Rum with tea as a chaser works good.".

He fucked off to the kitchen before I could lodge a polite protest and escape upstairs. So I sat back and lit a cigarette from Tony's pack—he'd left it on the table, and it was more than half full.

I sat back and smoked and listened to Tony bustle in the kitchen. He sounded profoundly energetic. He opened and banged shut at least five drawers and cabinets. There was a lot of clattering and tinkling and I was anticipating something to break at any moment. Then that fucking kettle started whistling and I tuned out.

Tony came back just as I was beginning to come up with some good excuses for leaving him, and escaping to my room to paint something. He put the tray with the tea things on the table with a bang and a clatter and said:

"Don't you dare to move. I'm bringing the star of the show."

It was as if he'd read my mind. I was still working it out when he returned with a bottle of something called Appleton Estates.

"It's too good to spoil with ice or Coke or any other shit, really," he said, pouring me a half-tumbler of the stuff. I knew drinking half a tumbler of neat rum would kill me, but I also knew I'd do it anyway.

"Cheers," said Tony.

"Cheers."

When Tony got his breath back, he said:

"Can I ask you a serious question?"

"Ask away."

"Do you have any pot left?"

"A little," I said. Tony stared at me in a meaningful manner, and after a while I said:

"I'll go and get us a joint."

Tony beamed.

I emptied my tumbler prior to leaving and regretted that as soon as I started climbing the stairs: my legs felt weak. By the time I opened the door to my flat, I was also regretting a lot of other things.

I regretted agreeing to keep Tony company; I didn't need to get drunk, I was still drunk anyway and I'd been hoping to do some work. I regretted that I didn't have the willpower or strength of character to sip only tea while Tony got loaded on Appleton Estates. I regretted having to donate a joint, even more so when I got my stash out and saw how little pot was left.

I ended up cutting the weed with tobacco squeezed out from the tip of a cigarette. This resulted in a pretty impressive, fat joint. When I rejoined Tony and held it up for inspection, his eyes sparkled with joy. But after taking his first hit he said:

"Shit! You put tobacco in it. I don't like tobacco in joints."

"Don't smoke it then," I suggested. He glared at me.

"That's a really stupid suggestion," he said. He took another hit, extra large to compensate for lower pot content, and fortunately started coughing so badly he had to hand the joint back to me.

When we were done with doing drugs, we hit Appleton Estates and lit cigarettes and Tony said:

"You know, you seem like a really mature kind of guy for a kid that isn't even twenty."

"It's all that travelling," I told him. "It's having to adapt to a new place every couple of years for oh, something like a dozen years. It ages you fast. Another dozen years, and my hair would start turning grey."

"My hair is falling out," Tony said in a tone that indicated he was telling me a big secret, as if he didn't already have a highly visible bald spot on the crown of his head.

"Mine will probably start falling out soon, too."

"Hair is really important these days. We live in the Age of Hair, have you noticed? Everyone is growing it long, and guys are growing beards."

"But not Pierre Trudeau. Why don't you try growing a beard, Tony?"

"I did. You know what my wife said? She said I looked like a radiated rat."

"What?"

"A rat that's been radiated with radioactive stuff. Like uranium and so on."

"You sure she didn't say, a radiant rat?"

"Why do you say that? Do I look like radiant rat to you?"

"No, no. I just find it hard to believe she called you a radiated rat. I mean, what does a radiated rat look like?"

"It has hair falling out," Tony said gloomily. "It's like there's a patch of hair here and another over there."

"That sounds disgusting."

"I know."

"It does sound like Pierre Trudeau. Yes, radiated rat fits Trudeau."

I'd been hoping to get a laugh out of Tony with that, but I failed.

"Trudeau is the best fucking Prime Minister we ever had," he said solemnly.

"True," I said quickly. "But partly this is because he looks like a radiated rat."

"I wish you wouldn't keep saying 'radiated rat'. It has unpleasant connotations. And anyway you're talking bullshit."

"I'm not," I said. "It's a basic law of life. Ugly people have to try harder to get anywhere. They don't get a free pass because they look nice. They have to work harder at everything to succeed and because of that, they end up being smarter and better that the so-called beautiful people."

"My wife was one of those."

"Really?"

"Yes. I asked her to marry me because I thought she was the most beautiful woman I could hope to score in my life."

"But she isn't beautiful any more?"

"No, that isn't true. Why did you say that?"

"Well, you keep talking about her beauty in the past tense. Was, was, was."

"Oh. No, she's still damn good looking."

"But not for you."

"Unfortunately, yes," said Tony. "Yes."

Then he got maudlin. He began going on and on about how much he missed his wife and how he hated her for being with someone else. Our stroll through Appleton Estates was taking a tragic turn. I was beginning to despair when when someone rang the doorbell.

Tony instantly became paranoid.

"It could be someone from work," he hissed at me. "Can you answer the door for me? Answer the door for me. If they say they're looking for me tell them, tell them I had to go to the pharmacy to buy medication. Or something like that. You know."

"You'd better hide behind the sofa, just in case," I told him, and went, or rather staggered to answer the door. I closed the door to the front room when I left in case Tony fell out of his chair and made a noise.

I had intended to check who was outside before opening the front door but I forgot about that by the time I got there. So I was totally unprepared to see a chick that seemed to be about Tony's age: there were a couple of fine lines slanting out from the corners of her thin, determined lips. She had really nice eyes though, saucer-sized and very blue. She had blond hair cut short, Twiggy style, and was wearing a silly little hat and a tan Burberry raincoat. She said:

"Is Tony in? I mean Tony Woods? Who are you?"

"I'm the tenant. I rent a flat on the top floor. No, Tony's out. He had to go to the pharmacy."

Her teeth came together with a little click.

"The pharmacy?" she said sharply.

"The pharmacy."

"I see."

She turned round and began to walk away and I had the presence of mind to say:

"Wait a moment. Do you want me to pass on a message? That you wanted to see him?"

"No message," she said, without bothering to turn around. When she began going down the front steps, I shut and locked the door and returned to Tony.

He was actually squatting behind an armchair, eyes bulging with anxiety. I tried to speak and he silenced me with a finger across his lips and we both waited until we heard a car outside start up, and drive away.

"Who was it?" asked Tony, getting up from his squat and fumbling for a cigarette.

"It was a woman about your age," I said. "I think she was from your office. It was a smart move to hide."

"She looked like she might be from the office?"

"Yeah. She was pretty officious-looking. She was wearing a swish Burberry coat and a stupid little Tyrolean hat. She looked like she might have a shotgun hidden inside that coat."

"Oh Jesus Christ," Tony moaned.

"What's the matter?"

"Short hair? Blue eyes?"

"Yes."

"Oh Jesus Christ."

"Why?"

"That was my wife," Tony said.