The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 101 November 14 17th 1972

I didn’t follow the Moore trail. When I woke up the next day the whole thing seemed so incredibly stupid I burned with shame whenever I thought about it. So I pushed it firmly out of my mind, and got an unexpected side benefit: my paranoid pal disappeared. He was totally gone, off on an exotic vacation somewhere.

Unfortunately, without his company the next four days seemed so alike that they all merged into one.

I got up after the Noyces had left, did the bathroom routine, ate a skimpy breakfast, and smoked a couple of cigarettes over a coffee while contemplating selected issues without a single peep from my normally talkative pal. Then I went to work, where I’d be invariably greeted by Klein; Robinson didn’t come in every day, and when he did he came in the afternoon. My duties took up no more than a couple of hours. I’d type up half a dozen letters, make coffee and tea and answer the phone. There weren’t many calls, even though business seemed to be good.

“One of the secrets of being successful in business,” Klein explained, “Is keeping the initiative. Act, not react. Call people instead of waiting for them to call you.”

He was someone who practiced what he preached: almost half his time in the office was spent on the phone. Most of his calls were made right after lunch.

“If you want to have an easier time getting people on your side, talk to them after they’ve had a meal and hopefully also a few drinks,” he told me. “Don’t ever call them just before lunch. You can lose a deal if you do.”

I told him I truly appreciated his pearls of wisdom. I told him he should compile them into a book. He was very tickled. He puffed up visibly, and treated himself to a fresh cigar.

I was getting on all right with old Robinson, too. They both really liked the fact I could get a letter right first time around. I did have thoughts that maybe I was being too efficient for my own good. I was sure Robinson and Klein realized they could cut my working hours in half and still get everything done. But after a couple of days, Robinson paid me a compliment that dissolved those fears.

“You’re saving us a small fortune, old boy,” he said to me after returning from a well-watered lunch with Klein and some clients. I must have looked puzzled, because he added:

“The stationery, my boy. Our stationery. Forty pound bond paper, and the printer’s damned expensive, too. The, ah, people before you wasted a lot of stationery. Have absolutely no idea how they’d managed to get through school. There was this ghastly girl who drank milk all the time. Very suspicious. She was capable of wasting a dozen sheets on a single letter.”

“She was good on the phone though,” said Klein, who had just finished hanging up his coat. Unlike Robinson, he didn’t want my assistance with that. He burped, and continued:

“Excuse me. You gotta admit Jack, she had a great voice. Shelby fell in love with her voice. He was calling us several times a day over trifles just to hear her answer the phone.”

“This is a real estate office, not a brothel,” Robinson said huffily. “We don’t need this sort of silliness. By the way, have you heard what happened to Shelby?”

“Something happened to him? When?”

“Last weekend. Silly ass went hunting and his own dog shot him.”

“His dog shot him? Jack, you’re pulling my leg.”

“Absolutely not, old boy. He put his gun down on the ground and his dog stepped on the trigger. Put a few pellets in Shelby’s foot. Nothing serious, he was wearing good boots.”

“I’m not sure the dog didn’t do it on purpose,” Klein said. “Shelby can really get on your nerves.”

“There you go,” said Robinson. “Another good reason to have gotten rid of that cow. Less Shelby.”

Every day, I departed for the post office around three o’clock, bearing the leather doc.u.ment case with letters to post by registered mail. Robinson & Klein sent their business correspondence exclusively by registered mail. Everything they did was sewed up tight.

I was required to be back from the post office by five. So I walked there and back, rain or shine. I had the time, and I wanted to. My life felt cramped after the life I’d led on Harry’s island.

On my Wednesday visit to the post office, having had my morale slightly boosted by the tiny paycheck I received that morning, I called both Roch and my parents.

As usual, I called Roch at his deceased aunt’s house. No one answered. I smoked a cigarette and called him again and drew another blank. After another cigarette and some short but intense self-therapy, I called my parents.

I got my mother: my father was at work, and Josh was polluting the cosmos elsewhere. It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. She’d read both of my letters, and was impressed by the fact that I had a full-time job as well as a gallery contract. She wanted to know what my plans were for practically the rest of my life. I told her that recent events had taught me not to make any long-range plans. A lot was riding on how that whole gallery thing would turn out.

She wanted to know when I was returning to Toronto. I was very tempted to tell her never, but I said:

“I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not making any long-range plans.”

“So you’ll be staying in Vancouver for a while?”

She kept trying to maneuver me into declaring a specific plan of action. She wanted to know what I ate, how I dressed, how I lived. She wanted my postal address and phone number.

I told her I didn’t have a phone yet. I lied that I was staying with a friend of a friend, and still looking for a place to rent. She wanted to know whether I’d be home for Christmas.

I told her that fell under long-range planning for me at this time, and that I have to go. When I finally managed to wriggle free several minutes later and replaced the handset, I noticed it was sticky with sweat. I gave it a wipe with my universal-duty knit black tie before I left.

On Friday morning, when I was walking to work, I suddenly realized that I was in terrific physical shape. I hadn’t felt so good even when I was living on the island. I had more physical activity there than in the city, so my new wellbeing couldn’t have been caused just by doing all this walking, four to five miles every day.

By the time I reached the office, I’d worked it out. My sparkling health was due to my abstinence. I hadn’t had a single drink for four days. The island was a healthier environment, but while I was there I was averaging half a quart of liquor every day, with a few beers on top of that.

I spent most of the rest of the day trying to decide whether I could actually perceive colors a little differently while in this rare, stone-cold-sober-for-ages state. It was really hard to tell because each new day means new light, making any comparisons shaky. But I thought I could see a difference anyway, everything was slightly brighter and sharper. However, it also seemed flat and uninspiring.

That Friday, as Klein did his usual phone routine with his feet high up on John Macdonald’s desk, I realized why I hadn’t drawn or painted a single thing during my previous four evenings at home. Each evening I went to bed straight as an arrow: I didn’t even smoke a joint, even though I had enough pot to roll at least a dozen.

My evenings consisted of reading the newspaper front to back – I always bought the afternoon edition on the way home. For four days running, there had been absolutely no mention of Schmidt in any context. For four days running, I read all the rental ads and never failed to find at least one place that would be better and cheaper than my f.u.c.k.i.n.g studio.

That Friday, it was depressing to think that my creativity was so strongly linked to my drug and alcohol intake. Klein noticed that I was in a bit of a funk and sent me off on my post office trip a little after two o’clock. It had just stopped raining, and chances were it would rain again in the near future.

“Make hay while the sun shines,” he said. “I still don’t understand why the hell you can’t get yourself a car.”

“I really can’t afford one, right now.”

“The hell you can’t. You can pick up something for nothing. Every used car lot has a couple of clunkers that they just want to get rid of, they’ll let you pay in instalments with zero cash down. Basic insurance is cheap, hell, I’ll give you a twenty to sort it out if you get a car.”

He seemed a little pissed off that I didn’t take his offer. When I got to the post office, I called Roch at the aunt’s house and again, there was no one there. After a brief inner battle, I called his parents’ house.

His mother answered the phone. When she heard it was me she became embarassed. I swear I felt it through the f.u.c.k.i.n.g earpiece. She said, a little officiously, that Roch was out. He was in the process of renovating his own house, the aunt’s house was done, tenants would be moving in on the first. Did I want his phone number? Yes, he finally got a phone hooked up at his house.

I wrote down Roch’s phone number, noting that it was mercifully free of any 4-3-1 combinations. I thanked her and was about to hang up when she said:

“Roch has been telling us you’re on the way to becoming a famous artist. Is that true?”

“I can’t say,” I told her. “I’m the last person to ask if it’s true.” I didn’t want Roch to get any grief, so I added:

“I’ve signed up with a gallery and my stuff goes on show next month. We’ll see what happens.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, in a tone that indicated she knew a hell of lot more than I did. “It’s never easy. Especially at the start. I am glad you and your parents have sorted things out. They’re charming people.”

“Oh,” I said. It was really weird to hear them described like that. I thanked her for Roch’s number and apologized for any trouble and said goodbye.

I felt completely exhausted after that call. For some reason, it was worse than talking to my mother. Instead of walking back to the office right away, I scored another couple of hot dogs and a Coke from the guy near the post office entrance (I’d already had a couple before going in). His cart seemed to be parked there permanently. It was a good spot, he sold a lot of hot dogs, I bought at least a couple every day.

I ate and drank and smoked a cigarette. It still wasn’t raining. A pigeon fluttered down to the pavement right beside me, pecked at it a couple of times, and tilted its head to give me the angry orange eye. I swear he made me feel guilty for eating tidily, without scattering crumbs all over the place. I blew smoke at him and he f.u.c.k.i.e.d off.

I followed him in flight for a few seconds and when I looked down again I saw two cops coming in my direction. Their cop radars were on full alert because they both glanced at me almost the moment I noticed them. Then one of them said something and they both grinned and swerved and stopped in front of the hot dog cart.

I glided away as smoothly as I could, pretending to linger a little first. I walked back to the office with my head down and a cigarette permanently stuck in my mouth. I was out of breath from all this speed-walking and chain-smoking while dodging punches thrown by my paranoid pal, who came right out of his deep slumber thoroughly rested and in top form.

That robbery and Schmidt business was going to poison the rest of my life. I couldn’t bring Schmidt back to life, but I could return the painting. It wasn’t like I was gazing at it with admiration every evening, and would miss it sorely. Last time I looked at it was back in Montreal.

I wrestled with that thought for the remainder of my time in the office, drawing a couple of curious glances from Klein. Happily he went out for one of those late-afternoon meetings of his. When he returned, well-oiled and full of bonhomie, I had my pal back under control. He wasn’t throwing any more punches, he was busy taking plenty of notes.

This time, Klein had left his top drawer unlocked. I opened it – and found it completely empty, apart from an old Bic pen rolling around on the plywood.

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