The Homeless Millionaire

My Saturday began with a couple shouting and screaming at each other in a neighbouring backyard.

She did most of the dialogue, and it was a fine dramatic performance. He responded showing remarkable range, from 'I didn't know what was happening' to 'I had it all planned, it was all for you' bullshit. I really wanted to know what that was all about, so I listened closely.

It was the usual sordid story, basically. He'd gotten bored with her and she'd gotten bored with her life. He wanted fresh cunt and she wanted a new life. It was no surprise they just had to split.

Things like that were painful, so it was also no surprise the neighbouring backyard dispute involved a lot of shouting and screaming. It kept me entertained until the pressure from my bladder forced me to make a move. It made me feel good, all that backyard business. It made me feel maybe my own life wasn't so bad after all.

I hoped that it would make Tony feel better about his life, too. He had to hear what was going on, those two idiots destroying their relationship were so loud it was a miracle no one had called the cops, yet.

I took a shower and shaved and when I left my tiny but private bathroom there was no more shouting to be heard. The couple who'd been fighting had declared a ceasefire, or maybe they'd simply taken their war elsewhere. Or maybe someone had finally called the cops to restore order. People hated rows, unless of course they were rows they'd initiated themselves.

I made a mental note to not ever do any stuff that could cause the neighbours to call the cops on me.

I ate breakfast, groaning after I took the first bite out of my corned-beef-on-old-sliced-bread sandwich. I had only two apples left, and they both looked unappealing. One had a small brown stain that was busy turning into a big brown stain, and the other one was beginning to wrinkle with age. I promised myself to pay more attention next time I was grabbing a few apples at the store.

That was the secret behind success in life: paying attention to what you were doing at any given time, all the time. But that just wasn't possible, was it?

I smoked a couple of post-breakfast cigarettes by the back windows. It was actually nice outside. This was so rare in the winter that the right thing to do was to go out, enjoying the weather. But there also was another thing that was right to do, for me: paint or draw a new picture. I had a show coming up.

While I was setting up things—placing the easel and the chair just so, filling a jar and two mugs with rinsing water, fucking around with my easel until the blank sheet of paper was clamped at exactly the right height—I had the thought that all that stuff about choosing between right and wrong was bullshit, pure bullshit.

Every choice always involved two rights, two right things to do. Usually, the choice was between what one felt like doing, and doing the sensible thing.

I started painting without any thought about what I was doing, and maybe that was why it went well. I kept going until it got dark outside. I was very productive: I painted three pictures. My hand hurt. I was done.

It was another triptych—triptychs were fast becoming a speciality of mine. The first painting showed a couple meeting. They were standing face to face in some park—that was a little cheap, it reeked of stupid Garden of Eden shit—but I just couldn't be fucked to paint a more demanding background, like a street or the interior of a room or whatever involving a lot of extra detail.

The first picture took a little under two hours. It showed the guy twirling a flower in his fingers, his other hand on his hip. His head was bent sideways and he was smiling at the girl. She was smiling back but she wasn't looking at his face, her eyes were on the flower. Love was blooming, and just like the flower it would wilt and die.

The second picture showed them getting married. They were kneeling side by side, a small sea of watching faces behind them, the church organ's pipes gleaming in the background above all the heads. The faces of the young couple gleamed with hope. He was hoping for a last-minute reprieve; she was hoping for a beautiful new life.

The third picture showed them and a baby. The baby was all but invisible. I showed a pair of tiny pudgy hands with toy fingers stretching up and out from the cage of a crib. The ands were reaching out to Mummy and Daddy, who were leaning over the crib's railing, faces shining. Her face was shining with joy, and his—with despair.

I laid out three pictures side by side on the table when the last was dry, and examined them at length while smoking numerous cigarettes. They were good enough for Chaz, that was no problem. The problem I had was why I'd made that guy seem such an asshole. There was a lack of balance, a bias in all of the three pictures.

Eventually, I reworked all of them very slightly. It didn't take long, just a couple of minutes each—if I'd suspected it would take any longer, I probably wouldn't have bothered. I added a few touches, a couple of lines to each face in each picture. The guy still was an asshole, but now the girl wasn't a saint, either. A sharp-eyed viewer would see why he wanted out.

I was admiring my improved triptych when I heard the front door close with a bang. Tony had returned home, and it seemed he wasn't happy. The front door banged shut, and I thought I heard a muffled curse.

I wondered what that was about. He'd just received a promotion, so he should be feeling good. Maybe there had been a new development with his wife. That thought made me hesitate; I didn't fancy listening to him moan about her.

Then that fucking kettle of his started whistling and I stormed out of my flat with the express purpose of giving Tony my opinion on whistling kettles.

Of course I changed my mind by the time I got to the ground floor—Tony had taken the kettle off the stove and it had stopped whistling, and anyway it wasn't a good idea to pick a fight with a landlord who was already pissed off about something. The door to the kitchen was wide open, but I knocked on it anyway. It wasn't a good move.

"Come in, for fuck's sake," snarled the invisible Tony. "Can't you see the door's open?"

I poked my head inside, putting an ingratiating smile on my face.

"Hi, Tony," I said, taking in the scene. He grunted in answer. He was seated at the far end of the kitchen table, facing me over a mug of what was presumably tea. His glasses twinkled dangerously.

"What do you want?" he said.

"Oh, I just wanted to say hello. I mean I was wondering what you'd been up to."

"I had to go to work."

"What!"

"Yes."

"But it's Saturday."

"We got a big deadline on Monday, and things aren't even halfway there yet. Everyone had to come in today."

The mystery of Tony's bad mood was dissolved. I said:

"Well at least you got to stretch your wings in your new position. Congratulations again, by the way. I mean it's a rare stunt, getting a promotion by calling in sick."

All that brown-nosing had an effect; Tony looked less stern. But he still sounded aggrieved when he said:

"That fucking promotion was the worst thing that could've happened to me. It would've been better if I'd gotten fired."

"Oh really? Why—I mean I don't want to pry, but—I guess now you have a shitload of new problems?"

Tony laughed a bitter laugh. Then he said:

"You got it right there, pal. You know what happened? Everyone hates my guts. If I'd gotten fired, they'd all be patting my shoulder and commiserating and inviting me for a drink after work."

"But why are they hating you all of a sudden?"

"Because I got promoted! Because those assholes think they're the ones who should've been promoted! Because some of them are now directly under me, and resent the fact I'm now telling them what to do!"

"But weren't you telling them that anyway, Tony? I mean from what you've told me earlier, you were doing just that."

"Yes. That's why I got promoted. I was off sick and wasn't around and suddenly all those morons I work with didn't know what to do next. But it's one story when you offer suggestions from a subordinate position, and another when you just tell people to do things your way. I guess you've never worked—no wait, you told me you worked in what was it, a real estate office? How big was it?"

"What?"

"The office you worked in."

"Pretty small. The two partners and myself. I was on my own half the time."

"There you go. Things are totally different when you work in a big office. Office politics get really nasty when there's a big bunch of people. There's always someone who'd like to kill you… Say, do you want some tea? I'll put on the kettle if you like."

"No, no," I said hurriedly. "I'm fine. You know something, I'm sure things will improve. Everyone just has to get used to your new role. And once they are used to it, things will go back to normal or even better, because they'll be kissing your ass to get promoted themselves, now that you're the boss."

"Bosses like me are dime a dozen," Tony said crossly. "It's a big company. Anyway, all that shit is just half the problem."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I really wanted to leave, to go work someplace else. I'd been there for too long. Day after day, year after year of going in there and going through all the fucking how-are-you business every morning and smiling at people when I wanted to rip their guts out just because I am seeing their fucking faces for the thousandth time when the last fucking thing I want is see their fucking faces."

"I think I'm beginning to understand," I said. "But can't you leave, anyway? I mean I guess they'll be angry that you're leaving when they've just promoted you. But fuck them, right?"

I was hoping to strike rapport with Tony's rebellious soul, but I failed.

"You understand shit, pal," Tony snarled. "I can't leave because leaving right after a promotion would look funny to every potential employer. I'd get shit references too, so that if anyone wanted to hire me and talked to those guys at the old office they'd hear such crap that they would change their minds. And finally, I can't leave because of the money. I got a raise, I told you that, right? A nice raise, too."

"You did tell me that. So?"

"I'm making too much money to leave now," Tony said. "I'm not sure another company would offer me that much money, let alone more. And what's more I'm going to really need that extra money because of my fucking divorce. I'm fucking trapped."

"Come on, Tony. That's a really dark take on things. Have a drink, it'll buck you up."

"Have a drink?"

"Yes," I said, already visualising Tony handing me a big glass of scotch, and restraining myself from licking my lips just in time.

Tony laughed another bitter laugh. He was getting good at bitter laughs. He was likely getting plenty of practice at the office.

He said:

"That's another thing that's off limits. I can't go to work with a hangover any more. I can't do that because every fucking morning I have to call and chair a fucking meeting, first thing, with all those snakes watching me and waiting for me to fuck up. I can't just merge into the background like before."

It was obvious there wouldn't be any drinks forthcoming from Tony that evening. I was silent for a while, trying to think of a good exit line. I couldn't, because I was shocked by a new discovery I'd just made about myself. The real reason why I came downstairs to talk to Tony was the hope of getting a few free drinks.

I was becoming a full-time asshole, fast. Of course I could always blame money, or rather the lack of money, for that. If I had plenty of money I'd have descended on Tony bearing an armful of attractive bottles, with a fat joint stuck behind each ear. Poverty turned people into assholes, there was no questioning that.

"I'm really sorry to hear all that, Tony," I said. "I'm blown away, too. I didn't realize getting a promotion could be so bad."

"Yeah well you're still young," Tony said. "You've got lots to learn."

I felt a stab of anger and instantly thought of commenting on his growing bald spot, but wisely refrained from doing that.

"I guess I do," I said.. "See you later."