The Homeless Millionaire

I spent some time in my flat before joining Tony downstairs. I undressed, unpacked, and smoked a cigarette while admiring the two big, muscular Johnnie Walkers. I decided that was what I'd paint next—this would be my first attempt at a picture in acrylic. I already had a title for that : Double Sunshine.

Then I took a while to roll a couple of joints, and it was a long while because of all those fucking seeds and twigs. It was painstaking, boring work and my mind began to run through the meeting I'd had with Chaz.

He was such a fucking bullshitter! He'd said, 'I gave you a fucking big cheque a month ago'—really? To the best of my knowledge, there were two full, 31-day-months between the end of December and the end of February. And then there was that business of my getting paid for The Tree of Life three months earlier than I would've gotten paid for it if someone bought it at the show. The December show, my first show, opened on the second day of the month and I got my cheque after just eighteen days. If I didn't get my cheque by the end of April I'd be the one shooting Chaz, not the other way around.

He'd also made some hurtful comments about my pictures of James. He said I'd brought him some back in January already and that there were simply too many monkeys in my art.

"Why don't you try painting some people, for a change?" he'd said. It hurt.

He also told me that I hadn't brought as many new pictures as he'd expected—he'd expressly told me to bring thirty, back in January when I was showing him the first batch. He accused me of not working hard enough. And that was after he'd bought The Tree of Life for himself, after he'd admitted to thinking it took me a whole week to draw!

But what topped everything else was his claim that he lived a healthy life and ate well. I'd met him while he was consuming a gin-and-tonic breakfast, nibbling on ice cubes to get some roughage into his digestive system. He was so full of shit! No, that wasn't entirely true.

Eventually I forgave Chaz for all this because I knew what effect having an attack of hemorrhoids could have. I could remember a couple of occasions when a hemorrhoid offensive had turned my diplomatic father into a fire-breathing dragon, making him use language that fit a stevedore working the docks of a busy, understaffed port.

The one thing I couldn't excuse was the remark Chaz had made about taking a couple of months to pay me. I had some serious issues with that.

I got so carried away with all those Chaz thoughts that I found I'd rolled three joints instead of the planned two. And there still was a largely unsmoked joint in my ashtray! I decided to leave it there, for future reference when necessary, and take the three freshly-rolled doobies downstairs.

I grabbed my cigarettes and my lighter and my three missiles of joy, together with a Johnnie Walker, and went downstairs. When I descended on the first floor landing, I heard Tony move around in his bedroom. I stopped and said, loudly:

"Tony?"

There was no noise at all from behind his bedroom door.

"Tony?"

More silence, then what I fancied was a muffled sob.

"Tony? Tony!" I said, feeling alarmed. I heard scrabbling and shuffling and the door opened and Tony showed himself. He didn't look too good. It was depressing.

"What's wrong, Tony?" I stupidly said on automatic and instantly made repairs:

"Hey," I said. "Look at this. The caravan bearing the finest goods from Scotland and unnamed, unexplored regions has just arrived. Let's go downstairs and see what it's got to offer."

I waved the scotch and the joints in front of Tony's face and he brightened a little. He said:

"I, uh, I need to hit the bathroom. I'll be down in a little while. Why don't you go ahead and set up things?"

"Okay," I said. "Kitchen or the living room?"

"Whichever you prefer."

"Kitchen," I said. "The place where things get done. The factory in each abode."

"Kitchen," Tony agreed, sounding slightly stunned by my verbosity.

I actually thought about it myself on the way to the kitchen, and concluded thinking about Chaz made me adopt his style. That was what happened when you were looking up to other people: consciously or unconsciously, you attempted to copy their style.

And I definitely regarded Chaz as a demi-god—well, maybe a quarter-god after he'd confessed to having hemorrhoids—because of the power he had over my future. I was several god levels down from Chaz. It was perfectly natural for me to imitate him. That was the way to get ahead—aping people you thought were superior to you. Everything was learned through imitation.

When I entered the kitchen I grinned from ear to ear because my big gift, Tony's new kettle, occupied a place of honour on the kitchen counter. It was a great improvement over the old demon kettle aesthetically as well as functionally. Best of all, it had been bought and brought into the household by myself. It really made me feel good.

I set everything up—it was magic, I knew where everything was—glasses, ice, and so on—it was obvious that I'd gone through those motions in Tony's kitchen more that once, already. I couldn't remember doing that, and it shocked me. I was having dark thoughts when Tony finally came down and entered the kitchen and said:

"Looks great, but where are the snacks? No snacks?"

"I don't know where you keep them," I said, realizing with relief that after all, there were some gaps in my knowledge of Tony's kitchen. I'd already begun having uncomfortable fantasies by the time Tony showed up.

"You didn't bring any?" Tony asked sternly.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I completely forgot to buy some. I was carrying all that stuff and buying more stuff but I forgot to buy any snacks."

Tony let out a martyred sigh and pointed and said:

"I keep snacks in that cupboard over there. Next time you forget to buy any, don't even think about stealing some from me. But they're over there if your life depends on it, as it does now."

He opened the advertised cupboard and pulled out peanuts and chips and got busy filling a couple of bowls. One was plain wood but the other was glazed earthenware, with foggy, cracked varnish over a horrible green squiggle that ran around the bowl pretending it was a vine. Whoever had painted that was another candidate for the firing squad at dawn, no last cigarette allowed.

"I only got barbecue-flavoured chips," Tony said, happily interrupting my homicidal thoughts concerning the guy who had painted that bowl. "I remember you like plain salt best but barbecued is all I have. Hey, let's sit down and check out that bottle and those fine cigars."

His mood seemed to be improving rapidly, which made me feel good again. I said:

"Let's do it."

So we did and the frightened, paranoid Tony slowly blossomed into a laughing, relaxed Tony. I watched Tony's transformation and not for the first time, had the thought that everything was up to the chemicals active in your brain. You could be buried to neck in shit and enjoy life greatly, and you could sit right on the top of everything and want to slit your wrists.

Tony and I exchanged some inconsequential banter about my work and his work and the weather. Tony also questioned me about the kettle. I'd told him that I'd needed that whistling kettle of his for an experiment, and I was forced to make up something on the spot.

Unfortunately nothing pleasantly false came to my mind, so I ended up telling him:

"I wanted to see what life would be like without that whistling demon, Tony. I'm a little neurotic about sounds, you see. That's why you haven't heard me listening to any music, or making much noise in general. You know, there's a very successful biker gang in Vancouver you've probably heard nothing about, even though they're bigger than Hell's Angels. They're called the Vipers, and know what their motto is?"

"What is it?" asked Tony, swallowing the bait hook, line, and sinker. I said:

"He who travels silently travels furthest." Those weren't the exact words, but I hoped the Vipers' motto would work better on Tony if I made it sound biblical.

"Furthest?" asked Tony.

"Yes."

"Meaning a longer distance than people making a lot of noise?"

"Yes."

"That's such bullshit," Tony said. "The way to get ahead in life is to make a lot of noise."

I lost the argument, but I'd succeeded in steering Tony from uncomfortable questions about my motives in stealing his kettle. A quick torpedo strike was needed to complete the job. I said:

"Tony, I was really worried when I got home last night and all the lights were on and you weren't in."

Tony developed a sudden interest in his drink—he twirled his glass and stared into it as if seeking inspiration from the swirling liquid. He was the one who was uncomfortable now, not me, which was great. I added a heavy-weight lie for emphasis:

"I was so worried when you didn't show up by the morning I was ready to call the cops. I didn't because I had to leave and if I called them I'd have to stick around for God knows how long, I mean it wasn't like anyone was getting murdered, hopefully. So they'd take their time. What the fuck happened to you, Tony?"

"My wife came over," Tony said.