The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 111 December 1st 1972

It was snowing when I woke up the next day. Big white flakes lazily floated down past my window; the ones that stuck to the glass melted almost instantly. They made me feel as if it was already Christmas, and that was the right way for me to feel: I was getting paid that day.

I went through my morning routine imagining various pleasant situations that could be created with my new money. I particularly liked the situation which had me refreshing my relationship with Johnnie Walker. Then I remembered about the rent. I owed a week’s rent already. It had been reduced to fifty a week, but I would be paying sixty – the deal was that I would repay the fifty I owed in instalments of ten.

That left me with around ninety bucks until next payday: fifteen days of life at six dollars a day. I still had eleven bucks in my wallet, but I’d be forking out for a cab to get to the show opening. Whichever way I looked at it, I really needed to sell a couple of pictures before I could afford to treat myself to something nice.

The snow had stopped by the time I left for the office. As I was walking there, I realized that I’d forgotten to call Harry. It had completely slipped my mind which was a little surprising, because he’d promised me an ounce of free pot. I had enough pot left to roll three toothpick-thin joints. Granted, each of these was guaranteed to pack a punch. I was hit by the sad realization the free pot I was to get from Harry would likely be of inferior quality to the infamous Cambodian killer weed.

When I got to the office, I was still thinking about drugs and alcohol and generally about ways in which I could get high on the little money I had. The door was locked; there was no one inside. I was totally shocked. I had the absurd thought Klein and/or Robinson hadn’t shown up because they didn’t want to pay me.

I hovered in front of the entrance, smoking a cigarette and wondering what to do next. I had Robinson’s and Klein’s home phone numbers: they were on the business cards they gave me when they hired me. I decided I would smoke one more cigarette, then go and look for a payphone.

I didn’t need to. Robinson showed up before I’d finished smoking. He’d parked elsewhere and arrived on foot, totally surprising me.

“Morning,” he said, avoiding my eye. “Sorry you had to wait, old boy. Nasty weather.”

We went in and I helped him with his overcoat and asked if he’d like tea. He shook his head.

“Much too busy, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’ll have to talk to you about that. Just give me a few minutes.”

I retreated to the annex and drank coffee and smoked wondering what the hell was going on. Robinson spent a couple of minutes leafing through his notebook. Then he made half a dozen short phone calls, speaking so softly I couldn’t make out what he was saying. However, I had the impression he was rescheduling appointments.

I was on my third coffee and seventh cigarette when he finally called me over. He seemed to be in a very somber mood and I had the thought that maybe I was about to get fired and my heart dropped into my stomach and the palms of my hands became clammy with sweat. I put my hands behind my back and stopped a respectful six feet from Robinson, not daring to look him in the eye.

“I have bad news for you, old boy,” Robinson said and I was one hundred percent sure I was about to get fired. But then he continued:

“Abel’s had a heart attack. He’s in hospital. Dreadful business. He’s going to make it all right, but I suppose he won’t be enjoying life as much as he used to. He won’t be coming in for a couple of weeks, at the very least. It’s going to be up to you and me to keep the business running.”

I told him I would do everything to help. It was the wrong thing to say.

“Really? Well in this case, my dear boy – could you stay a little longer tomorrow? I know you have this show opening, and I can imagine how important that must be. But do you think you could possibly stay put until one, well certainly not longer than two o’clock? I’ll give you the money for the cab.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I said:

“I don’t know what to say. I want to help, but I’m scared the gallery guys might take it as a personal slight if I don’t show up for the opening.”

“Well, call them and find out. You can use my phone. I’m awfully sorry about all that. But I can also tell you that with those things, not much business gets done in the first couple of hours. People get mildly drunk and gossip and it’s a while before they remember why they are there in the first place. And sometimes, making a late entrance is better than being on time. Go on, call them and let’s find out.”

I had left the gallery card at home, clipped to the notebook I’d been using to come up with ideas for cartoons. Robinson was extremely helpful in locating the phone directory, and finding the number for The Space. He hovered eagerly near my/his desk while I called the gallery.

Melanie answered the phone. She sounded bored. I reintroduced myself and she told me that Chaz was out, and wouldn’t return till around five. I asked her about the show opening, and she instantly turned on the charm.

“Oh yes! That’s right! You’re part of the show! You know, I still have your invitation here. You didn’t give us your mailing address and when I talked to Chaz about it he said it’s all fixed, that he’d talked to a mutual friend of yours. So, we’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I work Saturdays,” I said, a little nastily. “There’s an emergency, and I can’t get off from work until later in the afternoon. There’s no way I can be there at noon.”

“Oh. But will you come? What shall I tell Chaz?”

“Tell him to call me,” I said, in a voice that implied his legs might get broken if he didn’t.

I gave her Robinson’s office number, and added:

“I should be able to make it around two. Hopefully that’s not too late.”

“Most of the free booze will be gone,” she said teasingly.

“I’ll have to live with that. You know something, don’t tell Chaz to call me. I’ll call again at five o’clock. Hopefully he’ll be there.”

“He should be.”

“Talk to you later,” I said, and hung up.

“Trouble?” asked Robinson.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’ll find out later.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Would you like some tea?”

“Actually, I would. Will you be so kind?”

I was. I made his tea very tempted to add a spoonful of powdered detergent. I was boiling inside. I tried to convince myself that being late to the opening could work to my advantage. It didn’t help. I wanted to be there when the show started, wanted to drink the free booze and get officially acknowledged as an artist. It was all f.u.c.k.i.e.d up and made me so angry I started considering not going there at all.

I brought Robinson his tea and said:

“By the way, mister Robinson. I understood that I will be getting paid today.”

He actually blushed.

“My dear boy! Oh my goodness. Abel always take care of that, you see. Calculates all the deductions and so on. Oh goodness me. You need money, don’t you? Wait.”

I smoked a cigarette, feeling increasingly stupid while Robinson rummaged through Klein’s desk and a couple of file cabinets. Finally he got out the binder with the corporate checks and said:

“I have no idea of how to do it right. I expect I should, but I don’t. So what I’d like to propose, my dear boy, is that I’ll write you a check for your gross pay, no deductions. You’ll have to work it out on your own when it’s time to file your tax return. When Abel’s back in circulation, he can help you with all that. But you know, it might be to your advantage if you set yourself up as an independent contractor.”

“What do you mean?”

“You would be getting paid as usual, each first fifteenth day of the month. Without any deductions for tax and unemployment and CPP, that’s Canada Pension Plan. You would have to handle all that stuff on your own. However, you’d also be able to claim substantial deductions. Get receipts for everything – restaurants, cab rides, purchases that are needed to run your business. In your case, that would cover all artistic supplies, and necessary items such as an easel or drafting table or desk and chair. Pencils, pens, paintbrushes – ditto. You can save quite a lot of money this way, old boy, even though you’ll have to pay for an accountant. And come to think of it, you’ll be selling your pictures too, won’t you? You need a proper setup for that, anyway. In my opinion, the best move you can make is go independent.”

“Sounds very good,” I said. “But also quite complicated.”

“Oh, it only seems that way. End of tax year, you get an accountant to do the numbers for you. I’ll recommend you to mine. Give you a reduced rate. Yes, you’ll have to pay him but if he doesn’t save you more than double his fee I’ll eat my hat.”

“That sounds like a very good idea. Thank you,” I said.

“My pleasure. And now, let’s get down to business. You make, what is it, four dollars an hour?”

“Three. Four fifty for Saturdays.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. That’s Klein, he loves to play with numbers. Let’s make it four across the board. What do you say?”

I said it was fine. Getting paid four dollars per hour flat meant I would be getting $142 a week instead of $117. $142 in hand instead of $117 with deductions – most likely, ninety bucks net. It was a no brainer.

I said I liked getting four dollars flat very much. I told Robinson that I was very grateful for his advice on how to set myself up in business. I said that if he wanted me to, I’d just give the whole show opening a miss.

“No, no,” said Robinson. “That would be a grave mistake. You mustn’t. Now let’s see, fifteen days, two Sundays and Thanksgiving, hmmm, seventy two hours total.”

And he wrote me a check for $288. What was more, he countersigned it on the back and instructed me to run to his branch of Royal Bank and cash it right away. The bank was just a few minutes’ walk away.

“But please come back promptly,” Robinson said. “No celebratory drinks. I need to see someone and need you here while I’m gone.”

I practically flew to the bank, doing sums in my head. I could pay the Noyces $110 and clear my debt right away. I had to set aside $50 for next week’s rent. That still left me with over a hundred and twenty till next payday. I could easily live with that, especially if Harry came through with an ounce of something good.

I called the gallery at five on the dot and Chaz was there. He seemed preoccupied. When I told him I’d be late and why, he said:

“Sure, sure. No problem. As long as you make it before three. The photographer’s until three and I need a couple of shots of you with your pictures. Just in case, don’t let it go to your head.”

I assured him that I wouldn’t, and thanked him and made Robinson’s evening when I told him the show thing had been successfully resolved. He was very happy and assured me I’ll be free to go by two, if not earlier.

When I got home I treated myself to a toothpick joint, and sat for a long time wondering about the mysterious workings of Mr. Chance. He threw me a real stinker to start with, but then rewarded me with a roll that basically erased all my pressing money problems. Did he have a drink before throwing the dice again?

I had the feeling that he did.

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