The Homeless Millionaire

When I woke up the next day I spent over an hour lying in bed and staring at the ceiling and thinking about the conversation I'd had with Tony.

A tiny spider was spinning a tiny perfect web where the wall joined the ceiling right above my head. I could barely see it. But the fresh web strands he wove glistened in the light and he did a lot of work over that hour, much more than I ever was capable of doing in that amount of time. That entire corner sparkled with outstanding work.

It was good to see something so uplifting, because the review of my conversation with Tony was depressing. In spite of being treated to an extra joint, Tony had subjected me to a long and painful bout of psychotherapy. He did practically all the talking. Appleton Estates plus pot made him very talkative. He went on and on about the Oedipus complex and other stuff like that. I did my best to cut that short, and said:

"Tony, relax. All this incest business—I mean I used the wrong word. I should've said all fathers are in love with their daughters, and all the mothers are in love with their sons. It's a given no normal parent would want to fuck their child."

Tony gave me one of those mysterious glances that made me think I did tell him about the museum robbery after all, and this whole discussion about incest was just a red herring.

"So you're blaming love?" he said.

"There's no blame attached. It's just the way things are. When people love something or someone, they want to own it. It's that simple. They want total control of what and who they love. Otherwise, they feel insecure."

"Are you saying I want total control over my wife?"

That was a trick question. I could either call Tony a tyrant or contradict myself. I tried to weasel out of that one by saying:

"I didn't say that. But you must admit it would be kinda nice. Not all the time, no. Just sometimes, you know, from time to time. On special occasions."

"On special occasions," Tony said heavily. "I see."

It had the desired effect in the sense that Tony stopped spouting pop psychology bullshit—he became quite thoughtful actually, he was likely running selected special-occasion scenarios through his head. At least that was what I hoped he was doing. I hoped he wasn't looking for an opening to ask me if I'd really stolen a million-dollar painting.

Did I say anything about the museum robbery to Tony? My paranoid pal kept insisting that I did. I'd spent the rest of that day worrying about it. I couldn't paint, I couldn't draw, I couldn't read, I couldn't sleep. Upon returning to my flat, all I could do was walk around in circles while chain-smoking cigarettes, regretting everything that I'd ever done, regretting that I'd been born in the fist place.

I came pretty close to falling into that pit again when I remembered all that stuff, but fortunately the weather outside was nice: there even was a bit of sun now and then. That indisputably made it the day of my holy pilgrimage to obtain art supplies. I climbed out of bed and began to get ready and all the action involved made me feel better. I even started to wonder about what I'd paint next.

Unfortunately, I was forced to begin my journey by going to the bank to cash a cheque. It put me in a very bad mood. There was a payphone right next to the bus stop, and while I was waiting for the bus I fought a losing battle with the temptation to call Harry. I had all that money in my pocket! Surely I could drop ten bucks on a small bag of pot?

The bus arrived just as I was counting change in preparation for that call. So instead of phoning Harry I climbed aboard, and spent the coins in my hand on the bus fare. The bus was half-empty so I took a secluded window seat, but I was in too much of a funk to enjoy the view. By the time I disembarked downtown, I was close to gnashing my teeth with fury.

As it turned out, I got off at the wrong stop: it was a long walk to the art store. It calmed me down. I bought everything I needed and more, in case I became too broke to buy art materials in the near future. However, I didn't buy any acrylic paint. I'd have to buy at least half a dozen cans to mix any colour I wanted and it was just too expensive.

It was already three in the afternoon by the time I got home, feeling tired and hungry. But I had to go out again right away because I had no food left. I had eaten the rest of the rice-and-corned-beef-and-beans for breakfast. It was on the verge of going bad, so I had to finish it off.

I forced myself into the blue-eyed-man-of-steel mode, and dragged my ass all the way to the big supermarket in the mall: it had the best prices. In spite of that, I was down to five fucking dollars by the time my shopping was done.

It really wasn't surprising, because I'd bought a ton of food and a couple of cartons of cigarettes, and also treated myself to a couple of hot dogs at a food stand—I was just dying of hunger. I was subsequently punished by having to lug everything all the way back home, and do it in darkness: night had already fallen. There were at least thirty pounds distributed among six bulging shopping bags, three in each hand. They kept hitting my legs as I walked and I was close to sobbing by the time I finally made it home.

I knew that I should call Chaz to set up a presentation—he'd said he wanted to get together at the end of February. But after I'd undressed and unpacked my shopping I was just too tired and dejected to attempt any kind of conversation with anyone.

My shopping included the newspaper. So after wolfing down a can of cold beans with(out) pork and bread, I sat down with a coffee and a cigarette and flipped through the paper page by page. There was nothing about Schmidt, and nothing about the museum robbery.

There was a big story though about two Pakistani guys being shot dead by the cops in London, England of all places. I found it odd because London cops didn't carry guns. But as I read, I learned that those two newly deceased guys had been waving guns around, and to top it all they were fake guns, replicas! That really had to set a new record for stupidity. To get shot dead for the real thing—yeah, that made a cruel kind of sense. But to get shot for faking it… Those two morons deserved a bullet to the head.

I turned a page and saw something I'd overlooked earlier. Detective Moore was grinning at me from a photograph. The accompanying headline said: Hero Cop Wounded In Shootout.

I had to light a fresh cigarette to calm down before I could read the article. Valiant Detective Moore had apprehended a criminal wanted for armed robbery. The criminal in question owned a real gun, and attempted to kill Detective Moore. Unfortunately he only managed to wound him, and lightly at that—Detective Moore was expected to recover fully, and resume his duties before very long.

What was more, he killed the guy that shot him. There was a quote from him lying that he was very sorry to have taken someone's life, but didn't really have a choice because he'd been fired upon and so on. I was really disappointed in that criminal's professionalism and marksmanship. He might have been carrying a gun replica too, for all the good it brought him.

There still was an upside to the story—having a gunshot wound, even a light one, was a strong distraction. It should keep Moore from thinking about me. Unless Roy Maddon got in touch and informed the valiant detective that he'd seen me in Salmon Arm, shortly after Schmidt was killed.

I got into a heated debate with my paranoid pal about that. My pal told me it was only a matter of time before I ran into Roy Maddon again: he was working and living nearby. I had been lucky so far; he hadn't spotted me. But that too was only a matter of time.

This went on and on until I heard Tony return from work, or rather from whatever bar he went to after work. It was late—nearly eight in the evening—and judging by the sounds he made, he'd had a few. He bumped into things and attempted to sing the newest hit, in which a female kept repeating the phrase 'killing me softly with his song' over and over again. Listening to Tony sing made those lyrics very true.

Then that fucking kettle of his began to whistle and I moaned and buried my face in my hands.