The Homeless Millionaire

Tony wasn't home. I checked every room except his bedroom—I did knock on the door, three or four times. When I got up to my room, I saw that there was no light in Tony's bedroom window.

That was odd, because the light was switched on in every room on the ground floor. Correction: the dark bedroom window was normal, what was odd where all those lights downstairs. My brain finally began functioning properly—all the good news I'd been receiving left me dazed, just like a misfortune would. I ran down to the ground floor and checked the clothes stand and saw that Tony's overcoat was missing.

Maybe he'd just stepped out for a moment. But successive moments passed, and there was still no sign of Tony. I poured myself a scotch and rolled a joint, observing that at least a third of the pot in my bag consisted of tiny twigs and seeds. Harry's gift wasn't as generous as it had seemed.

However, it was still good pot and I was greatly surprised when after a couple of hits, my desire to get stoned simply disappeared. I carefully placed the joint in my ashtray for future reference, and took a sip of scotch. That didn't go down well, either. It seemed to taste like medicine and I actually had to make an effort to swallow it.

Something really odd was going on. I'd gotten just stoned enough on those two hits to speculate whether all those lights ablaze downstairs didn't create some kind of subtle electromagnetic field that rearranged the receptors in my brain. I was beginning to feel hungry, so I ate a big can of sardines in tomato sauce with half a loaf of sliced bread. I mopped up every last drop of sauce in the can with bread.

Tony still hadn't returned home. I made myself tea and smoked a couple of cigarettes and ended pouring the scotch in my glass into the tea—I just couldn’t drink it straight. When I raised the glass to my mouth and smelled alcohol, I almost gagged. What the hell was going on?

I began to wonder whether I hadn't inhaled some sort of virus during my visit to the hospital, a virus that began its nefarious work by changing my sense of taste and smell. But the sardines had tasted and smelled fine—in fact, they were really good. It said on the can that they were real Portuguese sardines. I wondered briefly what unreal Portuguese sardines would taste like.

I was too tired to work so I picked up The Hashish Runners; I remembered I was more than halfway through. I felt compelled to finish that book if only to recoup my monetary investment.

I forgot, however, that there was a good reason why I'd stopped reading it. I'd stopped because Valentin had been examining his insides for many successive pages; there was no action at all, just Valentin's thoughts and memories. I actually commiserated with Valentin a little because he seemed to regret almost everything he ever did, like me. However, his regret was of the sickly, saintly variety and it was totally unconvincing. I mean he was quick with his sword the moment someone gave him a dirty look and yet here he was, self-flagellating like a fanatic monk with a serious self-esteem problem. It just didn't make sense.

I pondered that, and thought that maybe the Baron credited as the main author on the book's cover had decided to give the story some personal creative input. Maybe he'd been feeling maudlin after some wild party. Gripped by remorse over wasting his life on meaningless activities, he'd grabbed a pen and cried himself a river.

There were signs the plot would get more exciting soon—the ship's lookout had spotted suspicious-looking sails on the horizon—but I became too exhausted to continue reading. It was close to ten in the evening by then anyway, so I decided I'd hit the sack early and start mass-producing great art right at the crack of dawn.

Tony still hadn't returned home when I got into bed. There definitely was something going on. I hoped whatever it was, it wouldn't turn out badly for Tony. I'd really come to like him. True, he had those mood swings and owned a horror-movie kettle, but that was richly compensated by his generosity in sharing food and drink with other human beings.

But when I woke up before dawn the next day Tony still hadn't come home.

I became aware of that while I was doing the morning coffee-and-cigarette business by the front windows. It was still completely dark outside and the light from the ground floor reached the sidewalk.

After I'd showered and shaved and got dressed, I smoked another cigarette trying to forget about Tony and think about work, instead. I couldn't. I was beginning to get really worried about Tony. It was pretty obvious that something had happened to him, something he hadn't expected.

Of course it could have been something nice, like meeting an attractive woman who had subsequently invited him to her place for the night. But the fact that the lights had been left on hinted at something more sinister. His disappearance definitely had ominous overtones.

After some soul searching, I went downstairs and turned off the lights on the ground floor. I really didn't need cops passing in a patrol car and taking an interest in the house whose lights were on night and day. I could always explain to Tony that I was trying to save him money on the electricity bill.

I was switching off the light in the kitchen when my eye happened to fall on that fucking kettle of his. It gleamed malevolently on the kitchen stove: it looked like a kettle capable of sadistic murder.

I grabbed it, and ran upstairs. It was a totally automatic action, I didn't even think about it. When I was safe in my flat, I looked at the kettle in my hand and suddenly realized I now had the financial means to exchange it for an electric model that shut off automatically when the water boiled.

I also had to deposit the cheque I got from Chaz, and buy acrylic paints. This made it a day when I'd have to venture into downtown Vancouver yet again.

It was already after eight o'clock and right there and then it wasn't raining, although the sky was grey and grim. So I put Tony's demon kettle in a plastic shopping bag, got dressed in my veteran outdoor jacket—it had already had so many rich experiences—and left the house without eating breakfast. There was a small restaurant that served breakfasts a few steps from the Royal Bank branch near the waterfront.

I walked there, keeping an eye out for fucking Roy Maddon. I had so much good luck the previous day it would only make sense to get a stinker from Mr. Chance. But I safely made it to the restaurant, with a full hour for eating myself stupid before the bank opened for business.

I totally pigged out: three eggs, double bacon, double sausages, home fries. Three coffees and four cigarettes later, I was able to move again.

I left the demon kettle in the restaurant. I put the bag containing it on the floor, and shoved it against the wall with my foot. There was a chance it would survive there undetected until a cleaner stuck his mop under the table. Maybe that cleaner would be some poor guy struggling to make ends meet and he'd jump with joy at this find and take it home, and turn life into hell for everyone around. I could imagine him getting home after his shift at the restaurant ended—late, with everyone already asleep, and our boy fancying a cup of hot tea after a long day of hard work… It would definitely be one of those situations when someone's blessing turned out to be another's curse.

I deposited the cheque without withdrawing any cash: I still had over a hundred dollars in my wallet. I was feeling pious after donating that kettle so I waited for a bus instead of taking a cab. It started raining while I was waiting and it was raining even harder when I got to downtown Vancouver.

I had to visit a couple of stores before I purchased two automatic Russell Hobbs kettles: one for Tony, and one for myself. The kettle in my flat was an ancient model with a spout shaped like a swan's neck, and a metal handle that got uncomfortably hot. Then I went to the art store and bought tons of acrylic paint in various colours and some thick paper and cardboard.

This time, I was fully excused for taking a cab. When it drew up in front of the house my eyes popped: all the lights downstairs were on! It made me afraid to enter. I hovered on the sidewalk for a while after the cab drove off, feeling like an idiot. Fortunately I spotted Tony walk across the living room, not far from the front window.

I gathered up my shopping and went inside the house.

Tony was waiting for me in the hallway. He looked frightened. He greeted me with the words:

"We've been robbed."

"What?!"

"The house has been burgled. I'm still checking on what was stolen. You'd better check your flat, too. I've already called the cops."

"What!?"

"The cops. Police. The house has been broken into, you understand? I'll have to change the locks. Or did you leave the door unlocked?"

"I locked it," I said, and laughed. It was one of those weak, apologetic laughs, but Tony took it the wrong way.

""If you think it's funny—" he started, but I cut him off. I said:

"You saw the kettle was missing, right? I took your kettle, Tony. It was me. "

It was his turn to say:

"What!?"

"I bought you a present," I said, thinking it might be smart to cut to the chase. "I bought you a handsome new kettle."

Tony was too stunned to say anything while I set my shopping bags down and dug around and finally pulled out the shiny box containing Tony's new kettle.

"Here," I said, holding it out.

I had to step forward and prod him with the box before he took it.

"This is for me?" he said stupidly. He was looking at me with disbelief; he was thinking he was being pranked.

"It's for you," I said. "Brand-new Russel Hobbs electric kettle with automatic shut-off, three-year warranty included."

"Thank you," he said uncertainly. "But why—"

"Because I took your old kettle," I said. "I'm the one who stole it. I needed it badly for an experiment of mine. I'll tell you all about it over a scotch. But in the meantime, could you call those cops off so that we can also smoke a joint in peace?"

That got him thinking along the right lines.

"Of course," he said.

"I've got to carry this stuff upstairs," I said, glancing at the bags spread around my feet. "I'll be back soon with smokes and a bottle I'm sure you'll like. Can you call those cops in the meantime and tell them their presence isn't required any more?"

"Sure, sure."

Tony went inside the kitchen obediently, holding the box with the kettle as if it contained a bomb.

I heard a car approach and then pull up outside and it sounded like a cop car. I gathered up all my bags and was up the stairs like a panicked kangaroo.

I was about to enter my room when there was very loud knocking and an unmistakably cop voice called out:

"Mister Woods? Mister Anthony Woods? You called the police, sir."

Tony was silent. I was frozen. I was afraid to move. I was sure the cops were listening hard for any sounds from inside the house. Tony continued to be silent.

"Please open the door, sir," the cop called out. "It's the police."

Tony finally regained his voice.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he shouted weakly. He sounded like an octogenarian having an orgasm. I heard him shuffling out of the kitchen and closed my eyes.

It made me sway, and the bags I still held rustled dangerously.

I heard Tony opening the door and then I heard him say:

"Good evening, officers. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have troubled you. I've made a mistake. There's nothing missing."

"Are you sure? We could come in and check for you."

"No, no. There really is no need."

"You reported a break-in."

"There was no break-in. I thought something was missing but it isn't. I mean I've found it."

There was a short but heavy silence.

"Well, sir," the cop said speaking very slowly, the way people did to someone retarded. "Next time something's missing, please double-check."

"I will, I will. I'm so sorry."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. I mean I'm fine. I just feel totally stupid and ashamed."

The cop told him to take care and wished him good night and I heard the front door close and began breathing again.

"Oh man," I said softly, and opened the door to my flat.