The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 31 September 5 6th 1972

I awoke the next morning with a sense of deja vu: downstairs, Roch’s old man was shouting at him. I got up and waited until the shouting ended and the front door slammed: then I cautiously made my way downstairs.

Roch was in the kitchen, standing by the counter and hurriedly drinking a coffee: he told me that he’d forgotten he was supposed to meet with an electrician at one of the other houses early that morning. He banged down the empty mug on the counter and left without telling me when he’ll be back.

I went through the morning routine – wash, dress, eat – then stood at the kitchen window with a cigarette for a while. I was acutely aware of the fact that in just an hour’s time, at ten in the morning, an integration event for first-year students was taking place. It seemed like a party on a different planet. Michel had told me I could safely cut all September classes. I didn’t want to do go as far, but I decided, right there and then, to cut the first three weeks. I was starting a new job in the middle of the month, I could use a week without other obligations to break into it.

On top of all that, I was worried about the cops looking for us. More: I was worried about the past, the present, and the future. I tried to console myself: there was a painting worth one million dollars upstairs in my room. Technically, that made me a millionaire. But being a millionaire wasn’t that much fun, because being a millionaire meant a million extra worries. What was fun was living like a millionaire. This was why people got into debt up to their eyebrows: because they want to live like millionaires. Of course that brought worries of its own, but it was still a tossup between worrying over a million that you owed, and the million that you owned.

Either way, I had just over sixty bucks in hard cash, and that wasn’t nearly enough to live like a millionaire for a even a single day. I was supposed to start work at the Montrose on the 18th, and I was to be paid weekly: that made it three weeks until payday. I was a millionaire that had to live on two and a half dollars a day, less than a guy on welfare. I lit another cigarette and had the depressing thought that I should limit myself to five smokes a day, to save money. By the time I finished that second cigarette I was in a black funk, angry at everyone and everything. Michel was due to drop by the next evening, after another visit to the fence. But he’d warned us that he might not be bringing any money.

“The thing to do, mes amis,” he’d told us, with a smile indicating superior knowledge, “Is to live normally. Exactly as we’ve all been living until now. No big spending. Anyway, if I go to my guy with my hand outstretched, he’s going to use that to knock the price down.”

“How long to we have to wait to see any money?” I asked.

“You just got some money, non? Fifty bucks.”

“Okay. How long until we get any more money?”

Michel pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. Eventually he said:

“At least a couple of weeks. Maybe a month. Don’t get impatient. It’s best that we play it safe.”

“Play it safe? You’re going to keep all that stuff under your bed for a month and you’re talking about playing it safe?”

“No, no. It’s not going to stay under my bed. I’ve got a good hiding place, a professional hiding place. I’ll move everything there in the next couple of days. Don’t worry about it, I’ll take good care of all that.”

“Michel is right,” Roch said suddenly. He had been silent until then, exhausted by all the throwing up he’d just done. “Michel is right,” he repeated. “We just go about our business as if nothing has happened. Easy does it. If you’re broke, you can pay the rent next month, when we get some more cash. I’ll cover for you. Don’t worry about it.”

That had effectively shut me up. And now I was stuck with sixty bucks and three weeks until payday. I told myself that I had a place to stay, wasn’t in danger of starving and so on. But I also owed Roch that money he’d lent me earlier, and September’s rent; I was nearly a hundred dollars in debt, which was more money than I actually had. If I only had a few dollars more! I tried to convince myself that this was the way it always was: no matter how much money you had, you always needed a few dollars more. It didn’t help much.

I went upstairs and got the Rembrandt out and looked at it for a while. That didn’t help either. There was no way, absolutely no f.u.c.k.i.n.g way I would ever be half as good as Rembrandt was. I was beginning to get into one of those psychological tailspins that end with a crash in a pile of shit. I decided to go out for a walk; it was another fine day outside.

I put the Rembrandt back under my pillow – a hiding place that was even more stupid than Michel’s. Then I went downstairs, and had just stepped off the staircase when I heard the clink of the mailbox flap, and the pat of a letter landing on the floor.

It was fat white envelope, and it was addressed to me in my father’s hand. I really didn’t feel like reading it. I knew it would make me feel bad, one way or another. But of course I went to the kitchen and opened it with the big kitchen knife: it felt right for the task. Then I sat down, and read:

Dear Son,

It has taken me a while to write you back, because I’m writing this also on the behalf of your mother. She was very hurt that you didn’t call after arriving in Montreal, and that you’ve decided to stay there until the start of the academic year. I admire your finding work so quickly – from what I’ve heard, it’s not easy in Montreal, especially so if you’re not a francophone. I also understand that money may be short, but you could have called us collect. I am enclosing a check, and I hope you will let me know if you need more.

Josh is back home after his training camp, I must admit he looks fitter and healthier than ever. He has been made deputy captain on his team, and apparently talent scouts are already starting to take an interest in him. I am not sure I would be happy to see him follow a sports career, though. Choosing a career in sports means early retirement, with most of life’s rewards coming when one is still young. I have known many people whose biggest successes came early in their lives, and they were almost all bitter men. It is not easy to live with the knowledge that the best has come and gone.

You know very well that both me and your mother aren’t happy with your choice of career, either. From what I’ve seen and heard, committing to an artist’s career means committing to life of deprivation and pain. There are some famous exceptions of course, but they only confirm the rule.

I don’t think I need to say we both wish you a happy and prosperous life. You are an inteligent and talented young man, and you could easily have a life like that if you chose to. You could still paint and draw in your spare time. I hope that I am wrong, but I suspect that is what you’ll end up doing anyway. Except that you’ll have to take all sorts of menial jobs in order to feed yourself and pay the rent. Supporting a family will be very difficult if not impossible. And every man needs a family of his own, it’s his anchor to the world.

Of course you could always marry someone wealthy. It’s been known to happen. But I don’t think you would enjoy the subservient role you’d have thrust upon you. Make no mistake, the world is arranged according to power, and money translates into personal power. People with less personal power have less of everything.

That said, your mother and I continue to wish you every success. You have been accepted by a prestigious school, which fills us with hope. It might surprise you to know Josh is impressed. I know you don’t have a very warm relationship, but that is quite often the case between brothers. Men are born to compete and to win, and this competition can become really fierce when those involved are close to each other. I know you’re clever enough to understand that, and to draw upon your forgiveness when appropriate.

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that everything is going well. Please call us collect, your mother particularly would be happy to hear from you.

Dad

There was a personal check for a hundred dollars in the envelope. I looked at it for a while, specifically at my father’s name printed in the top corner. I took out and lit a cigarette, then lit the check and dropped it into the ashtray and watched it burn. He’d mentioned hope at least half a dozen times in that letter, maybe because it was his job to hope, he was a professional diplomat. Well, so much for his hopes. He’d know about that when his next bank statement arrived, and he saw that the check hadn’t been cashed.

He wouldn’t understand why, and would feel hurt. But he didn’t understand a lot of things, in spite of being older and a professional diplomat to boot. He didn’t understand that I would never paint and draw in my spare time. I could work for money in my spare time, if necessary. It was the other way around, and he just couldn’t get his head around that. He also couldn’t get his head around the fact that I did not want a family of my own, ever. Being part of one family already was bad enough.

I felt like shit after reading that letter and burning the check. I was still sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and fuming, when Roch showed up.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

I told him what was wrong. I didn’t tell him about the check. He said:

“Sounds like some activity will do you good. How about painting a room? You’re a painter, aren’t you? It’s worth thirty bucks, it will take care of this month’s rent.”

I didn’t really have any choice but to agree. After Roch had his lunch, we went to the house he was currently working on; it was just a few blocks away. Walking there, we talked about everything but the robbery. It was like a taboo subject. I wondered about it for quite a while, just couldn’t decide why it was so.

Roch was right: painting a room was ther.a.p.eutic. It was actually the first time in my life that I used a paint roller, which – Roch informed me – was a Canadian invention, quite possibly the only Canadian invention of any use to anybody. I knew about a few painters that had used a paint roller to create stuff, but I had never considered doing that myself: it was such a crude tool, and I didn’t like the work of those guys much anyway.

As it turned out, using a paint roller well was an art of sorts. First, I had make sure it was evenly soaked, and not too wet to avoid drips. The first stroke had to be done upwards, with little pressure; after going up and down a few times, several strokes sideways, right-left-right, then everything all over again while applying more pressure. After I got the hang of it, I started to enjoy it. However, I’d made a mistake by not doing the ceiling first; when it was done, I had to go all around the room once more to iron out the paint drips on the walls.

It was late evening by the time I was done: the bulb in the ceiling light was weak, and I was sure there would be corrections to make the next day. But Roch was more than happy. He said I’d turned that room into a work of art, and asked me whether I would like to do some more paid painting. There were two more rooms to do plus the kitchen, which was a horror story. It would pay my next month’s rent, and cancel my debt to Roch. Once again I didn’t really have a choice but to agree, however I did so on the condition that Roch would prep the kitchen himself: the smell of the chemical cleaner made me sick. We made a deal, and celebrated that evening by going through a sixpack and a couple of joints. Roch had purchased a quarter of bush weed that tasted and smelled like old socks burning, but worked well. We went to bed giggling like retarded kids.

We went back to working on that house the next day after a late breakfast. I had another room done by the late afternoon, and joined Roch for a final disgusting hour of getting the grime off the kitchen ceiling and walls. There was a working phone in that house, and it rang just as we were wrapping up.

It was Michel. He had news and wanted to meet at Roch’s place later that evening. We went back home and ate the Chinese takeaway we’d picked up on the way and were just about to smoke a post-dinner joint when Michel showed up.

The news he’d brought put us off smoking any pot that night. He said:

“Bad news, guys. Our buyer is in hospital. He had a stroke last night. From what I heard, he’s going to stay there for a while.”