The Homeless Millionaire

I thought, today's my birthday even before I'd opened my eyes.

I didn't want to open my eyes, I wanted to go right back to sleep and sleep through the whole f.u.c.k.i.n.g day, if possible. But it wasn't possible. It was my birthday. That kept me awake.

I had lived for a full nineteen years - plus the nine months, give or take a couple of weeks, that I'd spent in my mother's w.o.m.b. Alive, but not alive. It didn't count. The first three years or so of being officially alive didn't count, either. A life doesn't count when its owner isn't aware of himself. Some people die without having ever lived.

Lying on a sofa in a wooden cabin on an island, I reviewed the past sixteen years of my life and saw clearly that things had been getting steadily worse.

My third, fourth, fifth birthday: lots of presents, cooing parents, even Josh was nice to me. Seven, eight - things were getting tense. Nine, ten, eleven - even more tense. By the time I turned twelve, I'd had my first shouting match with my parents.

Thirteen, fourteen - more shouting, more fights, verbal and physical, with my family as well as other people: I remembered coming home from school in Rome with a shiner and a bloody nose. I got punished for that, of course. I got no sympathy. Josh really rubbed it in and called me a pansy and I'd tried to punch him and failed: he ducked. Then he tried to punch me, and succeeded.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Three years of f.u.c.k.i.n.g horror sprinkled with moments of absolute ecstasy. Eighteen, a year ago: as usual, my parents insisted that they'll throw me a party, even let me invite people I liked and they disliked. As usual, I refused. They always wanted to throw me a birthday party and I never wanted one. I knew what it would turn out like.

They'd stay, of course, and they'd constantly check on me and my guests and issue a stream of whispered comments and instructions: go talk to Gina, she's all by herself. Make sure everyone's got something to drink and to eat. Turn down the music. Put out those candles and switch the lights back on. Was someone smoking in here? Why aren't you talking to Luigi? He's such a nice boy. You could learn a few things from Luigi.

I guess that all birthday party thing is a throwback to the Stone Age when you were really lucky if you'd made it through the year. Life expectancy was in the low twenties back then, and people didn't get the chance to get sick of birthday parties.

Anyway, after a whole month of intense negotiations, it was finally agreed that I WOULD have a party for my eighteenth birthday. I was about to turn into an a.d.u.l.t, strictly in a legal sense naturally. I'd never be anything but a kid to my parents.

I spent a few hours in the library. Then, a few days before my birthday and the planned party, I simulated the onset of typhoid fever so convincingly that I very nearly got put in a hospital. I used my mother's hydrogen peroxide (she liked subtle highlights in her hair) to bring out a red rash on my c.h.e.s.t. I kept a spare thermometer in bed, identical to the one I was given to stick in my armpit, and rubbed it to keep the indicated temperature high. I also talked nonsense - I enjoyed doing that.

I was about to get blood tests done when I began to recover. The day after my birthday I actually joined everyone at the dinner table, a wan smile stuck to my face as they all - Josh included! - commiserated with me on having spent my eighteenth birthday sick in bed.

All that had been exactly a year earlier. It felt like two years. It felt like three. It felt like a whole f.u.c.k.i.n.g eternity. Well, I definitely managed to pack in a lot of action into the past twelve months. I'd even managed to kill someone.

I heard Harry open the door to his room and I instantly sat up on the sofa, and commenced my morning eye-rubbing routine. We exchanged good mornings and he was about to enter the kitchen when he stopped. I was still rubbing my eyes, but I felt him looking at me. Then he said:

"Hey, man. What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"You look all f.u.c.k.e.d up to me."

"Do I?"

"Yeah. Hang in there."

I stopped rubbing my eyes and smoothed my hair and got a cigarette going. Harry was making all sorts of productive sounds in the kitchen. After a while he came out and went up to his room and then returned to the kitchen to make more productive sounds that resulted in his bringing a tray of tea and rum and a plate of the infamous Scottish shortbread.

He didn't say a word and the silence got pretty heavy while we sat there drinking tea, sitting side by side on the sofa. So eventually I was forced to say something that explained my behavior. I said:

"It's my birthday today."

"No f.u.c.k.i.n.g way."

"Yeah, I feel that way too. But it is."

"You shit me not?"

"I shit you not."

"Shit. Wow. Shit."

He got up and got busy in the kitchen and returned with two glasses and Captain Bloody Morgan - who else.

We drank the first two shots in silence and then Harry said:

"F.u.c.k that. I'm not going back today. I'm gonna go straight to the funeral on Monday. I just can't stand those f.u.c.k.i.n.g bitches."

"Uh?"

"My f.u.c.k.i.n.g sisters. Three stupid cunts, I tell you. And their husbands - three dumb pricks. They all make lots of money, you know."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. One's a banker - that's Newspeak for gangster. One's a lawyer - I don't think I have to explain that one to you. And the third one, the asshole married to my youngest sister - he really takes the cake, man. He's a broker. He's boasted to me how he cheats the system and his clients out of thousands of bucks every day."

"How?"

"Well, it's like this... Hang on. How about we smoke a joint?"

"Sure."

It was a while; Harry had to retrieve the smoke from his room ('F.u.c.k! It's the last of that hash. But it's your birthday. Let's just smoke it all.'). Then he took his time rolling several humongous joints. But he picked up right where he'd left off:

"Let's say a couple clients call and ask him to buy some stock. He says sure. He buys some of that stock for himself. Then he goes round the room dropping hints to a couple of buddies. They buy that stock too, for themselves. Then he buys it for his clients. All those buys, a few totally unconnected guys jump in - hey, Asshole Unlimited seems to be gaining, maybe we should get some while the price's low. It starts a chain reaction. Many of those guys know perfectly well it's one big scam. It doesn't matter. As long as you make a profit when you sell, everything's great, you dig? My brother-in-law sells his stock, makes a profit, and earns a commission on the stock he'd bought for his clients, too. All perfectly legal. No laws broken. So some investor paid a little more for his stock. Big deal. With the inflation being the way it is, long-term the price will rise anyway. No one gets hurt. Everyone profits. Nothing but smiles all around."

"F.u.c.k."

"Yeah they do a lot of that. In all kinds of ways, to all kinds of people."

"F.u.c.k."

"Hey. Happy birthday. Let's have a drink."

We had several. I very nearly told him about Peter Schmidt after smoking some more of that hash. Maybe I should have, I don't know. Harry seemed to be one hell of an understanding guy. I got a little paranoid, started to get suspicious - we'd only met a few days earlier! I'd had fresh, bad experiences with people I'd just met being friendly with me.

I said:

"Harry."

"Yeah?"

"I mean, Harry."

"Yeah?"

"Why are you so nice to me?"

His eyes turned sharp and sober in an instant. He said:

"Oh, man. You're just f.u.c.k.e.d up beyond belief. What's the matter with you? Did something happen while I was away? Being here all alone freak you out?"

"Last time someone was nice to me, it didn't turn out too well. Last time, and plenty of other times too."

"You associate with the wrong kind of people."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. The kind of people who'll f.u.c.k you for a dollar. I don't f.u.c.k people for a dollar. I don't f.u.c.k people, period. Sometimes, when I like a girl and feel so inclined, I make love. There's a big difference between f.u.c.k.i.n.g and m.a.k.i.n.g. .l.o.v.e, birthday boy. It's the difference between existing and living a life."

"Are you going to get mystical on me?"

"Sure as f.u.c.k I'm going to get mystical. But it's only mystical for people who don't have a soul, man. And you've got a soul, admit it."

"I like to think so."

Then Harry told me a joke that we both found very funny, most likely because of the rum and the hash. It went like this: a lost soul is wandering around, and meets another lost soul. He asks: where you headed?

The other lost soul says, nowhere.

And the first lost soul says: follow me, I'll take you there.

Then Harry told me all about his last girlfriend. She was a goddamn dentist who put on stockings and a pinstripe skirt suit to work, and when she got there just took off the jacket, exchanging it for a white smock. She styled her hair so that it would look good with the headband that held her head mirror.

"Why did she wear stockings to work, Harry?"

"She said pantyhose doesn't work good when she's sliding around on her stool, poking in people's mouths."

"F.u.c.k. She really a dentist?"

"Yeah."

I just couldn't believe it, then I thought that maybe that was why Harry had such nice teeth, for a hippie. I said:

"Harry. Is that why you have good teeth?"

"No, man. It's got nothing to do with that bitch. I don't do smack."

"Eh?"

"Smack. White horse. Heroin. Heavy-duty hippies all do smack. It's called smack because it smacks you right in the face, man. Rots your teeth. Rots your brain, too. It doesn't feel like doing no work when it's feeling so good. You dig?"

"I dig."

"Good."

We drank and smoked and talked all through the afternoon. My brain was feeling so good it stopped working. It was great.

When night fell, we went outside. It was cold, but Harry insisted. It was a clear night, and he said it was very rare to have a clear night this time of the year. He wanted to see the stars.

So we stumbled out of the house and looked at the stars and Harry said:

"You know, one of these stars- maybe that one, see, it kinda looks good - it has a planet orbiting it that's just like Earth. And there people on this planet just like us. And just like us, they like to get hammered and stare at the night sky and say: 'See that star over there? Maybe it has a planet - "

We started laughing so hard that we ended up falling over and rolling halfway down the slope to the shore.

It was the best birthday party I'd ever had.