The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 43 September 25th 1972

I woke up just after three in the morning or rather three at night: it was completely dark outside, and I felt dark inside, too. I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t: I’d already slept for over ten hours. It was going to be a very tough day: I’d be on my feet for at least twenty eight hours.

There were nearly seven hours until my first class, the first class that I would attend this academic year. Just a month earlier, I had been looking forward to that moment; now it filled me with dread. I forced myself to get up and took a long bath. Lying in the bathtub and watching my shrunken d.i.c.k bobbing around in the water, I realized that I hadn’t dreamed about any women for weeks. I wasn’t feeling horny either, although almost a full month had passed since that night with Tracy, at the cottage.

Something was seriously wrong. Was it caused by the stress caused by my participation in the museum robbery? It contributed, for sure, but there also were other factors. My family situation, my work and education situation – the perspective of doing nothing but studying and working for the next ten months, while trying to survive on a shoestring – that was a real downer. The thing with Tracy was the extra straw that was breaking my back.

My fingertips resembled very old, thoroughly desiccated prunes by the time I got out of the bath. I went downstairs and drank coffee and smoked cigarettes until my ears buzzed. The night was beginning to lift; birds cheeped and twittered in anticipation. I inhaled some smoke the wrong way and coughed my lungs out for a full half-minute; that shut the birds up, they all fell silent.

It was nearing six by then; I would be be finishing work in twenty four hours’ time. I felt like crying. A big, tasty breakfast would have probably improved my mood, but I had absolutely no appetite. I didn’t really want to face Roch either, so I went upstairs and got dressed for the full day: shirt, tie, jacket. The kids in my class, the people I would meet that morning would think I was seriously retarded. They would be all wearing tie-and-dye and torn jeans and shit like that to show the world that they were artists, and could dress any way they liked.

Showing up for classes three weeks late, and wearing a jacket and a tie – man, I was in for a really tough time. But I really didn’t want to have to return home, and change my clothes between the classes and the start of my shift at the Montrose. I couldn’t pack them either, my knapsack was already half-full with the stuff I had to take.

I went downstairs and forced a couple of eggs and some bread down my throat and drank my fifth coffee that morning. Roch was starting to move around upstairs by the time I was done, and the last thing I needed was him cracking jokes at my expense. So I grabbed my things and headed out and bumped into the mail guy on the front steps. He had a letter for me, a letter from my parents. I put it in my pocket and went to the campus.

I was over two hours early. There were benches in front of the building where the class took place. I sat down and had a cigarette and drank a Coke I’d bought on the way, taking in the scene. There were already some kids milling around, and most of them looked at me curiously: it was the f.u.c.k.i.n.g jacket and tie that did it. I felt a great hate for all of them, I didn’t want to be one of them. I’d had enough of school. I’d rather be working in a blue-collar job and paint in the evenings and f.u.c.k the rest. What the hell was I doing in that place? What the f.u.c.k had possessed me to work like mad for ten months, saving up money so that I could study at the Ecole? Assembling a portfolio so that they’d admit me wasn’t easy too – it involved a major, sustained effort.

All this work, all this striving to end up somewhere I didn’t want to be. It was insane.

I shook my head, drawing a couple more curious glances from the people passing by, and got the letter from my parents out of my pocket and opened the envelope.

The letter was written by my father, like the previous one; my mother wouldn’t lower herself to dropping me a few words. She was extremely hurt, my father informed me, and so was he. My refusal to call them after he’d practically pleaded with me to do so wasn’t just inexcusable, it was nasty. He commanded me to call them the moment I got his letter, right away. After all, he had sent me enough money to take a cab to the post office and back, and make a dozen phone calls. I could tell from his tone that he knew I hadn’t cashed the check he’d sent me, and that it had made him very angry.

I swore out loud, and startled a girl that had been passing by. It was obvious she was a student, the bag slung from her shoulder was bulging with books. She was wearing bell-bottom jeans and a long-sleeved red shirt and a heavily embroidered brown kaftan,. She was quite pretty and gave me a look full of contempt for my language, my clothes, for myself.

“F.u.c.k right off,” I said to her, and she blushed and walked away as fast as she could without actually breaking into a run.

I tore the letter into tiny pieces and got up and deposited them in a nearby waste can. Then I walked out of the campus without really thinking about it: my legs just carried me away. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to get back any of the money I’d paid for my courses; it was too late for that. But that didn’t stop me.

I was too upset to sit down or stand still so I started wandering around, walking without any goal or purpose while trying to convince myself to do the sensible thing: turn back, and go to my class. But I just couldn’t do it. I circled the campus like a captive planet orbiting a star, chain-smoking cigarettes, until it was past ten and too late to attend the class. Then I just walked away from it all, kept walking right ahead in a straight line with my inner voice screaming that I was being a total fool.

Around half an hour later an anxious, pleading outside voice asked me if I wanted a ticket.

I stopped and re-orientated myself. I was in front of the Central Station, the railway station where Michel had left the Brueghel in a locker. The guy that spoke to me had short sandy hair and wore a tie and a jacket just like me. He was my age, and had despair written all over his freckled face.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Ticket to Winnipeg, man. A couchette on The Canadian. You’re practically guaranteed the compartment to yourself. Leaving tomorrow. I’ll let you have it for fifty bucks.”

“Why are you selling?”

“Can’t go, and can’t get a refund. I was just fifteen minutes late, man. Fifteen minutes. But no refund possible less than twenty four hours before departure, not even twenty three hours forty five minutes. F.u.c.k.i.n.g assholes. Okay. Forty bucks.”

“And what would I do with it?”

“What the hell do you mean? Go to Winnipeg. Or wipe your ass with it, I don’t care. Come on, man. I got to be someplace like, right away.”

“You sure you can’t get a refund? Hey, you should try selling it to someone lining up to buy a ticket. It’s silly to try and sell it on the street.”

“Oh man, don’t f.u.c.k with me. Please. I tried. They threw me outta the station, f.u.c.k.i.n.g security took me away. Come on. Thirty five bucks.”

“Twenty,” I said.

“Thirty.”

“Twenty. I have no use for your ticket. Except maybe to wipe my ass. I’m basically giving you a twenty to help you out.”

“Twenty five.”

“F.u.c.k,” I said, and reached for my wallet and gave him twenty five bucks. It involved a bit of maneuvering so that he wouldn’t see I had lots of cash: wages from the Montrose plus Michel’s payout.

He didn’t even thank me. He snatched the money from my hand, pushed the ticket at me and went off in a trot. He was definitely in a hurry to get somewhere, somewhere that wasn’t Winnipeg.

I stood and looked at the ticket, feeling a complete fool. It was genuine enough. The train was leaving at ten sharp the next morning. Suddenly I felt that this was exactly what I should do. That desperate guy was sent by Fate. Fate knew I needed a radical change of scene. It was all preordained by the cosmos.

I tried to talk myself out of it all the way home. I had already made one monumental mistake that day when I didn’t go to my class as planned. I knew no one in Winnipeg, I had never been to Winnipeg. I knew people who had, and they agreed it was the armpit of the world. But you’re not going to Winnipeg, said my inner voice. You’re going to Vancouver, all the way to the Pacific. The West Coast, also known as Lotus Land.

Roch wasn’t at home, he was working away in his aunt’s old home. I gathered up all my stuff and spent three hours on a watercolor of the backyard that I glued on top of the Rembrandt with water-soluble paper glue. I used suitably dark hues and it fit the frame well, no one would be able to tell something was fishy without a close look.

I packed my things and wrote a note to Roch. I told him that I’d received a letter from my parents and that circ.u.mstances were forcing me to leave right away, which was almost wholly true. It inferred I was going home to Toronto; well, I would be passing through Toronto, on the train. I could explain everything to Roch another time. I added that I would call him with the details at his aunt’s former home, or write him a letter.

I smoked a cigarette hesitating about what to say when I called the Montrose to tell them I wouldn’t be coming in. All the reasons I came up with sounded lame, and eventually I decided I wouldn’t offer any explanation at all. I’d just tell them I was leaving town on urgent family business right away. Larry was going to have a fit. F.u.c.k Larry, and Henry Houghton-Briggs and Tracy and her clients. F.u.c.k all that shit.

I finished my cigarette and opened the kitchen cupboard with the wine. There were two bottles, so one was rightfully mine; we’d split the cost fifty-fifty. I squeezed the bottle into my bag, and checked whether the Rembrandt was securely wrapped up in clothing, and conducted a quick review of all my pockets. I had everything I needed. I was all set to leave.

I left my keys to Roch’s place on top of the note I addressed to him and went out, letting the latch slip. The bag was heavy: it contained a million dollars, after all.

When I got to the main street, I caught a cab to the station and still had nearly a hundred and sixty dollars left. So I went to a station store and got a couple of packs of cigarettes and a paperback about the CIA-inspired Bay of Pigs invasion of Castro’s Cuba: when I leafed through it, it seemed the best-written and most interesting book on offer. Then I left the station and wandered around until I found a cheap restaurant and sat there till the evening, smoking, drinking beer and coffee, and also treating myself to the day’s special: pork chops and fries with gravy.

Around nine, I paid my bill – just seven dollars with tip – and went back to the station. I called the Montrose at exactly half past nine. Larry was totally stunned, he didn’t know what to say. So I wished him good luck, and hung up.

Then I equipped myself with a couple of Cokes and a bag of ch.i.p.s and found myself a comfortable seat not far from my train platform and settled in for a twelve-hour wait.