The Homeless Millionaire

I had been hoping that I'd be all fired up to do some serious work the next day. It was a Thursday. It would be mercilessly followed by Friday, and then the weekend. And I—yes, I had to admit it, I was kinda hoping that Tony would treat me to another rum-and-Chinese-food session over the weekend, which meant at least one day of not being in any shape to work.

But there was a serious drawback to that hoped-for development. Tony would expect me to provide pot.

After doing the bathroom and breakfast routine, instead of working I took out what was left of my pot and it gave the critical, appraising eye.

There was basically none left. I smoked a grim cigarette, listening to Tony running around downstairs in preparation for work. I should be preparing for work too. But I was fucking fixated on the idea of how horrible life would become once I ran out of pot.

There could be only one ending to all that. As soon as Tony left the house, running late—it was already a couple of minutes past nine—I ran downstairs to call Harry. On the way, I remembered that I had promised several people, including myself, that I'd get a phone of my own at my new place. But I just couldn't afford that.

I couldn't afford buying any pot either, but I called Harry anyway. I listened to the intermittent purr indicating that the phone in Harry's mother's house was ringing, and by the time it rang for the fifth time I was convinced I'd drawn a blank.

Harry answered the phone just after the sixth ring. I was speechless with joy, and he had to say 'Hello?' again before I said:

"Harry! How are you doing, man?"

He laughed, pleased by the joy in my voice. He said:

"I'm doing fine. My Mum isn't, though. She fell over, and broke her hip. Her hip! The doctors say she's got very weak bones. Osteo something."

"Osteoporosis."

"That's it. So you know, I visit her at the hospital every day, bringing calcium-rich food. The hospital food is shit, anyway."

"What are you taking her today?"

"I don't know yet. Haven't decided. What about you? How're you keeping?"

"Well actually I'm experiencing a diet deficiency too," I said. There was a pause while Harry digested that. It didn't take him long to click. He said:

"You live somewhere in the fucking woods now, correct?"

"Yeah, kind of."

"Fuck. Mike, is there any way we could meet downtown? I'm kinda pressed for time."

"Sure," I said, feeling far from sure.

"My mum's at the General Hospital. Couple of miles from where you used to live. I'll be there around three in the afternoon, stay for an hour, then go to Gina's place. It's your choice."

Seeing Harry at Gina's place involved an expensive cab ride. On the other hand, a hospital that called itself 'General' had to have a bus stop nearby. So I said:

"I'll be at the hospital between three and four. But how do we link up?"

"Just ask at the reception. They'll page me through the PA system. I'll come down and meet you at the entrance."

"You're so well-organized, Harry."

"I have no choice. Uh, that food of yours. How much do you need?"

"A John Macdonald-sized portion."

John Macdonald, the first Canadian prime minster, was featured on ten-dollar bills.

"Okay," Harry said. "But hey. How are you doing, in general?"

"I'm working hard," I lied. "I've got this show of my own coming up, right, and that means at least fifty pictures."

"That's good, man. That's good. You're on the road to becoming rich and famous."

"I don't want to be famous, for reasons you know about," I said. "I wouldn't mind being wealthy. Especially since right now, I'm flat-out broke."

"Okay," Harry said, after a short pause. "So I'll see you at the hospital?"

"Correct. Between three and four."

"See you."

"See you."

I hung up and then I thought about all those other phone calls I should make: my parents, Roch, Chaz…

I called Chaz. It was a carefully calculated strategic move. The gallery didn't open until ten, but Melanie came in at nine. I'd leave a message with her that I called, and thus fulfil my duty.

However, as observed by the poet Burns, the best-laid plans of mice and men are often gang aft agley—Scottish for fucked up. I got Chaz right away: he actually answered the phone! He'd already consumed his breakfast, and was at his post. He said:

"Michael! I was about to call you. I've scheduled the opening of your show for the seventh of April. It's a Saturday. Do you know what that means? It means I need to see you like today, and also see at least twenty mind-blowing works of art that you've produced in the meantime. You've got them ready for me, right? Right?"

"I actually have a few pieces I think you might like," I said.

"I want to see them right away."

"Okay," I said. "Can I drop in sometime after four today? Say, between four and five."

"Perfect."

"I'll be there. Hey, how's Timmy? Still going strong?"

"No," Chaz said. "I had to kill him. He was getting obnoxious. So I'll see you before five?"

"You will."

"Great," Chaz said, and hung up.

I had over five hours left before I had to leave—it was wise to allocate at least an hour to the vagaries of Vancouver's transit system. It was just the right amount of time to review work I wanted to show to Chaz, and also dash off another masterpiece.

It made sense to start with the masterpiece: I felt like painting, and the paint needed a while to dry. I was very, very determined to paint something good. To that end, I smoked what was left of my pot and arranged everything just so and lit the mandatory cigarette required to start work on a new piece of outstanding art.

It turned out to be one of those cigarettes smoked before being shot by a firing squad, or hanged. I had absolutely no idea of what to paint.

Ten cigarettes later, I still had no idea of what my new picture should be like. I was close to hysteria so I just gave it all up and made myself an elaborate meal. It involved boiling potatoes—I'd bought a bag—and frying a sliced onion with with some corned beef. I'd salt-and-peppered the corned beef almost out of existence, but it still tasted good with the potatoes.

I drank tea after that and generally wasted time for an hour or so. Then I conducted a review of the stuff I'd take to show Chaz.

That picture of Timmy climbing out of the mug was sure to make Chaz feel a little guilty; I put it on top of the pile. I wanted Chaz to feel guilty because I was planning to ask him for a small advance on future earnings. Art dealers did that kind of thing all the time, most great painters wouldn't have become great in the first place without the handouts they received to keep them in food and booze and drugs.

The series with James was good too, I particularly liked the picture showing James in a cage. I identified with James there. The auto-portrait of myself skulking behind an armchair also promised to evoke at least some compassion. And the Tree of Life, which had cost me three days of really hard work, was just fucking outstanding. I'd really done a Rembrandt on this one. Then there was the deserted deck chair on a beach with the swimmer in the background, the rat crossing the road, the bar scene with Fiona…

I hesitated about that. That picture was good, no question about it. However, if Fiona decided to attend my new show, and saw that picture… I could easily imagine a train of thought that concluded with the thought that I thought she was a spoiled bitch.

So what? She was a spoiled bitch, no two ways about it. There was no way I'd ever get to fuck Fiona. If the occasion actually presented itself, I'd likely run screaming. Fucking Fiona meant death. If she liked it and we developed a relationship, I was as good as dead. And if she didn't like it, well, it would be a very quick death.

She was a genuine princess, in Vancouver. Anyone that she thought had insulted her was as good as dead.

I decided I'd take that picture along to show to Chaz. I was pretty sure he'd like it enough to include it in my show. It was good, and parts of it were very good—the way I painted the smoke curling from her cigarette actually made me swell with pride.

I had to hit the bank again to cash another cheque, so I left the house at half past one. Riding the bus downtown, with fifty-five dollars in my wallet and just enough left in my bank account to cover next month's rent, I felt a bit like one of those guys who throw the last of their money on a roulette number. By the time I got to the hospital—I had to change buses, it took a while—I managed to convince myself that I would win.

It didn't make any sense. My pal was around, grinning from ear to ear in anticipation. But I still felt that I would win.

I entered the hospital lobby and went up to the reception without any hesitation and asked the receptionist to call Harry down. She wanted to know why. I told her it was very urgent family business. I sounded like a Mafia don ordering an execution, and she complied.

Then I went to stand by the entrance, waiting for Harry.