The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 120 December 8th 1972

My next morning turned out to be uncomfortable, because Birgit stayed home with one of the kids. I spent a lot of time at the door with my ears flapping, trying to pick the perfect moment for a quick dash to the bathroom. I didn’t fancy being intercepted by Birgit while carrying my piss bottle. It was only quarter full, so in the end I just put it back in the closet.

My vigil by the door let me overhear snatches of conversation, from which I deduced that one of the little witches was unwell. Birgit eventually went to the kitchen downstairs, and I instantly nipped down to the bathroom and limited my activities there to a quick shower. I didn’t want to be interrupted with knocks on the door because the sick little witch needed to use the toilet just as I was using it myself.

I didn’t even shave, although I needed to. I managed to return to my room while Birgit was still in the kitchen and just said f.u.c.k it, and pulled the haversack out of my traveling bag. While I was doing that, my fingers brushed against the Rembrandt, wrapped in one of my T-shirts, and I realized I hadn’t been able to look at it at all in the past three months.

I had stolen it so that I could look at it whenever I wanted to. That had been the whole point.

I was in a foul mood when I packed the haversack with food for breakfast – the immortal corned beef, half a loaf of sliced bread, apple – and on my way downstairs I nipped into the bathroom to grab my shaving tackle and took my toothbrush and toothpaste too, what the hell. I planned to brush my teeth and shave after eating at the office. Robinson would probably be delighted to see me come in so early.

I was sure that Birgit had gone back into her bedroom – I’d timed my run in the hope she was lying down – and I got an unpleasant shock when she popped out of the kitchen just as I was stepping off the staircase.

“Good morning,” I said. She was looking very stern and I assumed it was because of her sick kid. I might have been partly right. She said:

“Good morning. Are you off to work already? I thought you start at noon.”

“I do,” I told her. “But one of the partners is in hospital, and the other is running around handling twice the usual number of appointments. So I need to hold the fort.”

“Oh. Is it something serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I said, wondering why she was being stupid. People went to a hospital only when things were really bad, didn’t she know?

“I hope he’ll be all right,” she said, without a smidgin of sympathy in her voice.

“One of your daughters is unwell, too?”

“Yes. Hopefully it’s just a cold, not flu. Have you called Jane?”

I had difficulty understanding what she was referring to and stared at her and this was actually the right thing to do, because it was no f.u.c.k.i.n.g business of hers to ask about whom I did or didn’t call. That was how she interpreted my stare anyway, because she blushed a little and said:

“I’m sorry. I brought it up because she’s coming over this evening. Are you going to be around?”

“I’m meeting someone after work,” I lied. “I’ll try and get back home early. I’m sorry, I really have to run.”

I escaped outside burning with shame and it started raining before I’d walked twenty steps. It really felt like punishment for all my crimes.

I wasn’t even sure why I’d lied to Birgit. I liked cowgirl Jane and her mobile lips when I met her. What was so bad about spending the evening with her and the Noyces? I was sure good old Dave would keep pouring the scotch and yeah, they’d expect me to bring a couple of joints, but I had plenty of pot left and had another half-ounce coming. It seemed f.u.c.k.i.e.d up, and then I thought about the stolen Rembrandt that I hadn’t looked at once in the past three months – the Rembrandt I stole because I loved it and wanted to look at it constantly – and that was the ultimate proof something was seriously wrong with my head.

Robinson didn’t mind, though. Robinson was overjoyed to see me come in so early; I entered the office on the stroke of eleven.

“Good morning, good morning, my boy,” he practically sang out in response to my greeting, then instantly got worried.

“Has something happened? Something at home?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said. “But you let me go early yesterday, so I thought I’d return the favor. I know you’ve got a lot to deal with.”

He beamed at me. It was clear that at this particular moment, I was his favorite person in the whole world. It made me feel much better.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “This is wonderfully convenient. And very white of you, old boy. I’m truly grateful.”

He was gone within five minutes, and I could finally eat breakfast. After two more coffees and two cigarettes I went to the office can to complete my morning ablutions, and of course the moment I pulled down my pants and sat down the phone started ringing.

I ignored it, I had no other choice. I brushed my teeth and shaved ready to dash out if it rang again, but it didn’t. I got out of the can all spic and span and celebrated with a cigarette and a coffee.

Robinson had left the morning paper on his desk. I hadn’t bought a newspaper in several days, so I picked it up and started reading, and found out why Moore had postponed our tryst at the police station.

A couple of cops had been shot to death in the city on the very day Moore had paid a visit to Robinson & Klein motivated by the desire to speak to me. The two cops were responding to a call made by a demented old woman who believed she was being persecuted by her neighbors. To put her mind at ease, they knocked on a couple of neighboring doors. Actually, they wanted to make polite inquiries about her – they were concerned about her mental state.

They had the bad luck to knock on a door behind which a major drug deal was taking place. The criminals panicked and started shooting and as of the previous day, the whole Vancouver police force was after their asses. They had no time for anyone and anything else.

I wasn’t surprised. As a rule policemen rarely got shot at in Canada, and if they got killed in the line of duty it was likely by a drunk driver who hadn’t seen the cop signaling him to stop. And it was a double hit too, two cops killed. No wonder Moore didn’t have any time for me.

All this cop stuff and the Rembrandt made me feel I really had to talk to Roch. I decided I’d try to call him collect: I gave him my share of the remaining swag, so he could spare a dollar to talk to me for a few minutes. I’d tell Robinson about the call, of course. I didn’t think he’d object to a collect call from the office. We’d become really friendly over the past week.

I was picking up the receiver to call the operator when I had the thought that if things had gone bad at Roch’s end, my call could be traced. It wouldn’t matter that much if it was traced to a f.u.c.k.i.n.g post office booth, but my workplace was another story.

It really drove home how f.u.c.k.i.e.d up my situation was: I was afraid of calling an old pal from my work phone number! I went into a downward spiral, like one of those lethal corkscrews that had killed thousands of pilots in aviation’s early days. I tried to draw something to calm down, and ended up drawing such awful shit I was ready to commit suicide. Not a single line was right, a drunk chimpanzee would have done better.

I applied my standard coffee-and-cigarettes therapy while walking around the office. A couple of phone calls asking about Robinson helped straighten me out. I noted the details of each call on the pink slips Robinson & Klein used for that purpose, and it made me feel useful and reasonably competent at tasks that required no more than a room-temperature IQ.

Then I spent quite a while examining Fiona’s father. I was getting the hang of this guy. I definitely wouldn’t want him to be my adversary. I decided I’d model his portrait on the picture where he was talking. It had inherent time flow – something had just happened, something was about to happen. But of course he wouldn’t be talking to anyone in his portrait, wouldn’t be looking at anyone or anything but himself and his past, and his imagined future.

By the time Robinson got back – around five – I was feeling reasonably normal. I had even convinced myself to join, and enjoy, the Noyces’ house party that evening.

I was so wrapped up in all this stuff I didn’t notice Robinson’s sad mood until he said:

“Michael, we have to talk. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

It was. Klein wasn’t getting any better. And even if he eventually did, he would be quitting work. His health left him no other choice.

“And I cannot imagine running this business by myself,” said Robinson. “Even given your most capable help. So when I saw Abel this afternoon, we agreed we’re going to close down. Robinson and Klein are going out of business, my boy. Sadly, this means I have to give you notice.”

I was completely stunned. I was out of a job!

“I’m really sorry,” Robinson said. “I’ll need you for a couple of hours tomorrow – you know, Saturday – but otherwise, your time’s your own. I’ll pay you in advance up to the end of the month. We can settle this tomorrow. I realize it’s not going to be easy to find a new job, this time of the year. But January is usually very good, and I’m sure someone like you won’t find it hard to land something nice. Of course, I shall recommend you heartily to any prospective employer that calls for a reference. Will give you a letter to that effect, as a matter of fact. We’ll draft it together tomorrow.”

I really felt like crying. It was like being thrown out of home. I had no idea how much I’d grown to like that place until I was told I’d lose it. But that was the way things always played out: a loss always hurt more than a gain could hope to please.

For the next few minutes, Robinson and I told each other how sorry we were at the way things turned out. He grasped my shoulder when shaking my hand on goodbye, and asked me to come in around one o’clock in the afternoon the next day. And that was it.

I did some shopping and discovered I had less money left than I thought. Then I went home, consoling myself by thinking about the Noyces’ little party, and about Jane with the highly mobile lips.

The house was quiet when I got home; the only light downstairs was in the kitchen. I knew Mr. Chance had rolled me another turd even before Birgit told me, holding a hand over her mouth:

“I’m sorry, Michael. We’ve called it off. The doctor was in this afternoon and it’s flu, a really bad strain. That’s why I’m talking to you like this, I don’t want you to get infected and God knows, I might have it already, too. Why don’t you call Jane? You’ve both got time on your hands tonight and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy yourselves.”

The way she put it sounded as if Jane had confessed she wanted to f.u.c.k me. It was a real pity I already felt completely f.u.c.k.i.e.d, courtesy of Mr. Chance.

“I’m not sure if it’s a good idea,” I said. “I didn’t want to worry you, but I actually don’t feel too well myself. I think I’ll just go up and lie down and take it easy.”

“Oh.”

She looked at me and I looked back at her and nodded and moved my mouth soundlessly and went up to my room.

I’d bought plenty of food, including a curry that only needed boiling water to make ready. So I smoked a joint and boiled some water and succeeded in turning my dinner into a sick-looking yellow mush.

I ate it anyway. Then I had to eat two apples and a couple of slices of bread to kill the taste.

I smoked another joint and lazily drew Jane number two, as well as I remembered her. She turned out quite nicely, although I made her b.r.e.a.s.ts and lips too big. So I made them bigger still, and her drawing became a caricature.

Well, that was true too. That was how things went. You had too much of a good thing, it always turned bad.

My paranoid pal woke to inform me that he’d pointed out this fact numerous times, with no effect at all.

“F.u.c.k off,” I told him.

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