The Homeless Millionaire

"No," I said.

"Yes," said Tony.

"That's great news. I mean it's good she came over, isn't it?"

"No," said Tony.

"Oh… Sorry to hear that. Why?"

"Well, it's complicated," Tony said. I could see he was turning morose again. So I fired up a second joint and within minutes Tony was back in shape, joy-giving chemicals percolating through his brain cells. I resumed the interrogation, treading softly:

"Tony, I'm dying of curiosity. I mean you've been talking about her a lot and I got the impression that you missed her. When you said she came over, I thought it was great news."

I'd hit the right note. Tony said:

"I don't blame you. I thought so too, for a moment. Maybe even two or three moments. She's such a devious, scheming cunt."

"Tony!"

"It's true. I wish it weren't, but it is."

I forced myself to stay stunned and silent, even though there were many questions boiling in my mouth. I grabbed the bottle and topped up Tony's drink, then mine.

Tony took a sip and let out a sigh that mixed satisfaction with pain and said:

"She showed up just as I was preparing to cry while washing up. You know, after my dinner. It's always so fucking depressing when you wash up after a meal eaten alone while wishing you were sharing it with—you know what I mean. Anyway, I thought it was one of those fuckers that lurk waiting for people to come home from work, and then ring the doorbell and try to sell you something."

"Maybe someone really was trying to sell you something," I said. Tony waved my words away impatiently. He said:

"I know, I know. I mean that was my first impression and it turned out to be right. A little late, but still. Anyway, I didn't even bother to dry my hands. I actually took the wet dishcloth with me to the front door so that I could swipe that asshole's face with it, if he got obnoxious. Sometimes they imply you're retarded to turn down whatever they're selling, right? I was kind of hoping he would do that. I was hoping for an excuse to hit someone, even if with just a lousy dishcloth. I had the feeling it would make me feel better."

"I totally understand, Tony," I said.

"Well, it was her, not some salesman asshole. I must've looked pretty fucking stupid, standing in the doorway with that dishcloth in my hand."

He didn't need to add that his mouth was probably open and his eyes popping. Mine would be popping for sure, in those circumstances. And that kind of faceplay always shouted out you were a moron, no two words about it. I said:

"So you started with a disadvantage."

"Yeah. She barged in without asking and she was all sweetness and light, you know? She asked if I'd just had dinner, and I told her it wasn't much of a dinner. She invited me over to her place! She said she had this casserole left over that was really good. It's her star dish, that casserole. It's beef with mushrooms and onions and herbs, but the big thing about it is that it's also with burgundy. You know, the wine. "

"You mean boeuf bourguignonne?"

"Whatever. She knew that would nuke me, the cunning bitch. I went over to her place."

He'd been nuked, no doubt about it: he'd been in such a hurry that he'd left the lights on. I said:

"Was it good?"

"It was great. We bought an extra couple of bottles of wine along the way and had a great evening and I stayed the night."

There was an uncomfortable silence. I cut it short. I said:

"Did you, uh, I mean…"

"I did. We did. A couple of times. She got up early to make me breakfast, can you believe it? By the time we were leaving for work we'd practically agreed to get back together."

He dried up again. I encouraged him to reveal more by saying:

"Sounds good so far."

"I thought so too, for a while. Everyone at the office was commenting on my good mood. Then just as I was getting ready to do lunch with some guys I got a phone call from that prick of hers, that fucking lawyer. He told me that they'd broken up and that he wasn't representing her any longer, I mean in the divorce. And that he wanted to congratulate me on my recent promotion."

I felt totally confused. I said:

"I'm totally confused, Tony. Your wife doesn't want a divorce any more, and you're unhappy?"

Tony laughed a very bitter laugh. He said:

"Listen, pal. You may be, I mean you are a fucking artistic genius but you don't know much about life. I mean you're about the age I was when I met that fucking scheming perfidious bitch, and fell in love with her."

"Love has nothing to do with intelligence or talent," I protested. "Love makes everyone equally stupid. It's the great unifier as far as mankind is concerned."

"What?"

"Falling in love with someone totally wrong for you doesn't make you stupid. It's the norm. Everyone does it all the time."

"I know. It doesn't change the fact that it's totally stupid."

"You can't outdo what I've done, anyway. Last time I fell in love, it was with a whore."

I'd expected Tony to perk up and start asking questions but he surprised me. He said:

"Makes perfect sense. If you want to get laid, why not get a top-notch professional to do it for free. Correction, that's stupid. I didn't mean for free. Marriage is the most expensive way to make sure you're getting laid, ever. There's nothing as expensive as a marriage. You can hire a full-time housekeeper and a great fuck, maybe both in one package if you get lucky, and spend less than half of what you would in a fucking marriage."

"Have another drink."

"I don't mind if I do. Hey, take it easy. We're already more than halfway through that bottle."

"I've got another one of those upstairs," I said. "We're safe."

Tony seemed to become suspicious. I took me a while to realize he simply was wondering if I'd ever give him another hit from the joint I was holding in my hand. We'd been drinking and smoking steadily and it was having an effect.

I hurriedly relit the joint and inhaled and passed it to Tony. To my surprise he took just a tiny hit and passed it back to me and I perched it on the edge of the ashtray.

"Look," Tony said. I did, and saw that he was puffing smoke diabolically, the glass of booze firmly in his hand. He took a sip and said:

"My wife just got dropped by her lover and her lawyer. She'd also heard—I guess it's big news in this shithole—that I got a promotion. Can you add two and two together, pal?"

"I'm not sure," I said, and reflected and added:

"No, I can't."

"Let me do that for you," Tony said. He refreshed himself from his glass and silently held it out for more and when I fulfilled his wish, he said:

"She wants to move in again and live with me for a little while, rent-free and with next to no expenses, for a year or however long it takes her to find another dickhead and leave me again. She'll get higher alimony too, it's calculated according to the money you're earning at the time of your divorce. I just got a big raise, right? God spare me from getting another one while she's living with me."

"You make her out to be very calculating," I said. "But look on the bright side. She wants to be with you for personal profit, because you're a winner who can deliver that profit. Do you see what I mean? If you were a loser, you'd be less than the dust under her chariot wheels."

"Wow," Tony said. "I—you're saying I'm a winner?"

"Of course you're a winner," I said. "But unfortunately, you're a naïve winner. A winner who is so happy to have won that he'll let everyone suck him dry."

I hit the wrong note. It had sexual connotations for Tony. He sounded worked up when he said:

"Don't you tell me who's naïve, buddy. You thought you could steal a million-dollar panting and get away with it, too."

That fucking knocked me out. It took me a while to recover. My pal was shrieking with laughter, and when he wasn't he was saying I told you, I told you, I told you.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I said.