The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 21 August 26th 1972

I was on my way to Tracy’s house by nine o’clock the next morning. I had gotten up with the sun, had showered and breakfasted by eight, and spent an hour walking around the house, bursting with energy. That’s what a single day without booze and drugs can do for you. I had to spend an hour walking around the house because I didn’t want to arrive at Tracy’s place too early. She sure as hell wouldn’t be pleased if I pulled her out of bed.

I was getting pretty close to her house when it dawned on me her uncle could be there, too. Somehow I had forgotten all about him. I didn’t want to deal with Tracy’s uncle. I was pretty sure he had me for an asshole. I hadn’t been rude to him on our first meeting, but then I wasn’t nice and charming either. That wisecrack about him stopping whatever he was doing, or doing it somewhere else – Jesus! That was probably why he wanted Tracy to move out.

He didn’t want people to suspect they’d been having a romance, not even if they weren’t really having one – it made no difference. He was most likely married, and if someone accused him of f.u.c.k.i.n.g his own niece, he was finished, true or false. F.u.c.k.i.n.g toast. Yeah, this was the era of free love, make love not war, and all that bullshit. Yes, bullshit. Love and war go together. All wars have been started because of love. Romantic love, starting with Helen of Sparta and Paris of Troy, and the resulting Greek war on Troy; love of a particular God; a nation’s love for itself that led its people to believe they were superior to other nations. The roots of all wars were firmly embedded in love. I thought hippies were full of shit, it was because of them that I didn’t wear my hair as long as I really wanted to. I didn’t want to be associated with hippies in any way. If someone ever took me for a hippie I would call the police or commit suicide, one or the other, I swear.

Yeah, love was bullshit, and that was why I was walking to Tracy’s house, walking at full speed, nearly half an hour each way. I was as full of shit as everyone else, including hippies. Maybe I could even beat some hippies on the shit meter.

I was fairly sure Tracy’s uncle would agree with that view. So when I got close to her house, I did things Vietnam-style, creeping between trees and bushes to get a take on the whole situation. I hadn’t seen a car at all on my first visit; maybe the red Mustang wasn’t owned by Tracy, maybe it was her uncle’s. Yes, that car fitted his disgusting shirt, his flared pants, his goddamn sideburns. That shirt really was a number, it could have served as an educational aid for art and design classes: and this shirt here is a perfect example of how NOT to design a pattern, thank you for your attention.

I found a good spot behind a tree, maybe twenty steps from the front door. There was a bush growing right next to it, and I could peer through its branches while well hidden. I felt like a cigarette, but was afraid it would give me away. F.u.c.k.i.n.g Vietnam, I shit you not. I really felt like one of those guys over there, lying in an ambush in the jungle. I might have been undetectable by human eyes, but quite a few insects took note and came over to investigate. They made my vigil both boring and irritating, a contradiction in terms. I thought about some of those philosopher guys I used to read and remembered one of them said life itself was a contradiction in terms, because it always ended with death.

I did my best to entertain myself crouched behind that tree, because it went on for a long time and got really boring. I was tempted to just go and knock on the door a hundred times. I was also tempted to just get up and go home a hundred times. It was real hell, without a cigarette, but my patience was rewarded. I started hearing stuff, hearing what went on inside that house.

I heard raised voices, and I had no trouble recognizing Tracy’s. Then a male voice began shouting and continued shouting for quite a while. It wasn’t loud enough for me to hear exactly what was being shouted. But it was loud enough for me to hear the word ‘f.u.c.k.i.n.g’ being used fairly often, it’s a word with a distinct sound, so to speak. I couldn’t tell whether it was being used as a verb or an adjective, though.

I surveyed the terrain in front of me, looking for a good spot to hide closer to the house. There wasn’t one. There was a hollow behind a couple of saplings that sort of semi-qualified, but anyone leaving the house would only need a single glance in that direction to spot the moron among the leaves. I was convincing myself to move there anyway when the male voice inside the house was raised to an angry screech, which was followed by the loud sound of a slap.

I half-rose from my haunches, but then settled back. I couldn’t intervene in anything going on inside the house. Had anything happened outside, in plain view – sure. But this would be home invasion, no matter what the reason. Or rather reasons, for the first slap was followed by two more in quick succession, and a short explosion of shouts from both Tracy and the guy – it was hard for me to think about him as her uncle. Uncles didn’t slap their nieces around, did they?

Right after I asked myself that question, the front door crashed open and Tracy’s bogus uncle stormed out. He was wearing a different shirt, but just as ghastly as the previous one: it looked as if someone had dipped a brush in a can of fluorescent red paint, and splattered it all over a perfectly good, plain grey shirt. He was also wearing a heavy scowl and carrying a brown leather traveling bag. He wrenched the door of the Mustang open, threw his bag in on the back seat, got in, and drove away. He was in such a hurry that he sprayed pebbles and gravel all over the place.

I waited until I couldn’t hear him any more. Then I stood up and approached the house.

I didn’t need to knock – the door had been left open by Tracy’s angry uncle. I put my head inside before entering and looked around. The layout seemed to be much like Roch’s place, after all both houses had been built by the same developer. There was a hallway leading to the living room and the kitchen and another to the bedrooms. But Roch’s place was painted white inside, while here the walls were finished in light, almost blond wood. Tracy’s uncle had gone for the rustic look, it suited him, he certainly behaved like a f.u.c.k.i.n.g peasant.

“Tracy?” I said. Then I called out, much louder:

“Tracy?”

I heard a sob from the direction of the kitchen and rushed there.

Tracy was sitting at the kitchen table and crying. She didn’t look up when I came in. She was totally absorbed in her own suffering. I stood in the kitchen doorway, and had no idea of what to do next. Finally I said:

“Tracy?”

“Get the f.u.c.k out of here,” she said without looking up from the table. Her words froze me to my spot. She looked up at me. There was a red mark on her cheek and her face was wet with tears. She said:

“Get the f.u.c.k out of here before he comes back and kills you. Get the f.u.c.k out, because if you stay here, I will f.u.c.k.i.n.g kill you myself.”

“I can’t,” I said. She stared at me.

“I can’t leave you here like that,” I said. “I just can’t, sorry. If you don’t want me here – leave with me. You can stay at my place, I mean Roch’s place.”

She looked at me in silence for a while. Then she said:

“You’re a f.u.c.k.i.n.g moron, you know that?”

“It’s crossed my mind,” I said.

“You must go. You really must go now. I will be going, too, don’t you worry. I just have to get my shit together.” She started crying again. I waited a bit and said:

“Come with me. I’ll help you get your stuff and carry it for you. It’s a long walk.”

She shook her head, but she stopped crying. She sat looking at the kitchen table and I looked at her. Eventually she said:

“I need some time. I’ll come over tomorrow, all right? I know the way. Now go.”

I almost couldn’t believe my ears.

“You’ll come tomorrow?” I said.

“Yes. Now go! Go, for f.u.c.k’s sake. Go now or you won’t see me tomorrow.”

That worked. I said:

“I’ll be waiting.”

Then I went home.