The Homeless Millionaire

I woke up in the middle of the night completely drunk. I was so drunk I had difficulty working out the time from the red numerals on that awful radio clock. When I finally did, they said 4:31. I cheated by blinking and telling myself this couldn't be true until they changed into 4:32.

It was easy to believe nothing was true. I couldn't remember a single thing after ending the conversation with Fiona. It hadn't been that late, Tony still hadn't returned from work. I had no recollection whatsoever of undressing and getting into bed. Did I do this right after that disastrous phone talk with Fiona? It would explain waking up so early, that was for sure.

But even before I finished fixing myself a coffee, I realized that however hard I tried to stretch Time and make it fit, it just didn't. There still was a gap of at least three hours that I couldn't account for, even assuming I'd hit the sack at eight in the evening.

It bothered me. My second coffee in hand and my third cigarette in the other, I examined my boots and my infamous Canadian Tire outdoor jacket. They were completely dry. I could console myself with the thought that at least I'd stayed home instead of going out, and making a fool of myself. People who were blind drunk always made fools out of themselves even when they weren't doing much.

It was raining like hell outside, and judging by the sound of the rain on the roof and the moaning wind, the weather wasn't set to change anytime soon. My planned trip downtown, my holy pilgrimage to obtain art materials was bound to be a very painful pilgrimage. I knew very well that in a while I'd be feeling exceptionally shitty too, so I decided to put off my trip till the next day.

Things began getting back to me while I was showering. I suddenly remembered sitting on the stairs on the ground floor, next to the entrance to the kitchen. I remembered smoking cigarettes and getting up constantly to tap the ash into the kitchen sink. My brain had just ceased to work, Fiona had delivered a knockout punch. My brain had failed to inform me that getting an ashtray was a good idea, and that returning to my flat upstairs was an even better one.

Showered and shaved, I was eating my usual breakfast when I remembered that I kept sitting on those fucking stairs until Tony came home.

He'd burst through the front door like a ray of sunshine even thought it was dark outside, and raining cats and dogs. I remembered he'd exclaimed 'Michael!' upon seeing me, as if I were a long-lost best friend. And then, nothing—just blackness stretching right up to the moment I woke up.

By that time, I was beginning to get sober or rather less drunk, and it didn't feel so good. There was a throbbing in my temples that was bound to mutate into a splitting headache. Maybe it was pressure from all those shut-down memories trying to get out.

My paranoid pal was absent, which was odd. For him, this was the perfect opportunity to score some major points. Maybe his absence was connected with the fact my brain still wasn't working. Maybe the cells my pal slept in hadn't been opened yet.

In order to make my present and immediate future existence more bearable, I decided that I'd smoke a joint. I had so little pot left that I almost started crying. When I was rolling a joint scarcely thicker than a toothpick, I suddenly remembered that I'd been rolling a joint too the previous night, maybe even two or three.

I lit my toothpick joint and took a hit and boom!—suddenly it was all there.

Following his joyous greeting, while shedding his sodden overcoat and generally making himself at home, Tony had revealed a number of exciting developments. He told me that the presentation of the project everyone had been working on through the weekend went very well and that he, Tony, was the star—he'd delivered an outstanding performance.

Following this grand success, he was given Tuesday off to compensate for the working weekend. In addition, his minions were noticeably hating him a little less. Greatly bucked up by all these positive developments, he made a detour to the liquor store on the way back home, and invested serious money in top-quality booze.

This led to the next next item on the agenda. He said:

"I had to go through the agony of a dry weekend, so now I'm going to get fucking hammered. Why don't you join me? You look like you could use a pick-me-up."

When I'd enthusiastically agreed with that, Tony said:

"Why don't you run upstairs and roll a joint or two while I'm getting everything ready down here. I got all the ingredients for Cuba libre this time. And two bottles, each containing forty fucking ounces of Appleton Estates. And peanuts. That's the best snack to go with Cuba libre."

It sounded very promising, so I obediently went upstairs and rolled a couple of joints. Tony had moved like lightning and everything was set up and ready when I joined him. The fucker had actually dug out a couple of those stupid little cocktail umbrellas and inserted them into our drinks.

"Of course they've been used before," he explained when I asked him about it. "But don't worry, I make sure they're sparkling clean before I use them again."

"You don't have to rinse my umbrella after every drink," I said.

"I don't intend to. I'll do that when the party's over."

"Smart thinking."

This made Tony puff up with pride and he was started telling me more about the project presentation earlier in the day, the presentation in which he'd played a leading role. He'd just awed and wowed everyone within eyesight, as well as within earshot—a couple of secretaries were working at desks just outside the conference room. Although they couldn't watch Tony perform they could still hear him, and they'd stared at him with moist, adoring eyes when he triumphantly strode out of the room.

This provided me with the perfect opportunity to ask the question I'd wanted to ask. I said:

"That's very good, Tony. That's just great. You know, I was getting increasingly worried about you."

"Worried? Why?"

"Well, on my first night here I heard you bring a giggling female home. Later you told me that being divorced was just great, that it was the golden ticket to scoring with chicks. And then all of a sudden you became depressed, sorry, wrong word, you just seemed a lot less happy than you'd been earlier."

I'd added that last bit because when Tony heard me calling him depressed, his glasses started flashing dangerously. He said:

"Yes, well, it's frustrating when you have all this candy on display and can't touch it."

"What do you mean?"

"That chick I brought home, it turned out she was the sister of someone who's working with my wife. It's a small town. Word gets around."

He sighed and refreshed himself with a big gulp from his glass and added:

"I got a call at work from my wife. She knew what I'd been up to, and with whom."

"Was she angry?"

"No, she was happy. She was practically dancing with joy."

Tony went on to explain that it was very unwise to enjoy oneself in the company of other women when one was going through a divorce. It provided plenty of ammunition for the other party. The court would view Tony as a philanderer who broke his wife's heart, and an appropriate verdict would be passed.

"Maybe it won't be so bad," I told Tony. "I mean, she came to see you on Valentine's day."

"I've thought about it. I'm pretty sure she just wanted to check whether I wasn't celebrating it with someone else."

I remembered that whole conversation word for word, or at least it seemed that way. The magic powers of pot! I also remembered that Tony had ordered in a lot of Chinese food, and that we were halfway into the second bottle of Appleton Estates when Tony ran out of the other ingredients for Cuba libre. This brought the festivities to a natural end.

All this reminiscing took a long time: a new day had begun to dawn outside. However, it was still raining as hard as ever. It definitely looked as if my expedition to secure art supplies had to be postponed yet again.

All I had left in that department was a couple of pencil stubs, and no white paint meant no painting. But I was beginning to feel like shit anyway: not even the best pot could eradicate the consequences of taking a long walk through Appleton Estates. I was in no shape to create any pictures.

Feeling hollow, I checked the food situation and found that I had a hell of a lot of corned-beef-and-beans-and rice left. I wasn't hungry, anyway: I had eaten a prodigious amount of Chinese food while partying with Tony. He'd ordered enough to feed a family of six. That hollow feeling—that was how failure felt.

So after brushing my teeth in an unsuccessful attempt to get rid of the dead-cat taste that was building in my mouth, I just lay down on my bed and tried to relax. Within a few moments, I heard Tony come to life downstairs. There was a frantic rush for the bathroom, doors banging, and although I didn't hear him retching he flushed the toilet at least four times.

I dropped off for a while, and was woken up by knocking on my door. Then Tony called out:

"Michael! You in there?"

"Yes," I croaked. I had to repeat it twice before the message was loud enough to get through.

Tony didn't enter: maybe he was afraid of what he would see. He said:

"Well come on downstairs for a coffee. There's something I'd like to talk to you about."

Feeling intrigued, I swung my legs off the bed.

"I'll be with you in a minute," I said.