The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 45 September 28th 1972

Winnipeg seemed to be full of drunken Indians. I saw the first one on the almost deserted platform, when I got off the train at a quarter to three in the morning. He was well over six feet tall and four across the shoulders and was standing next to a closed newspaper stall. I made sure I passed by him without a single glance in his direction: I had the feeling he was watching me, that he wanted to approach me, and that he would do so the moment I acknowledged his presence.

I ran into three more drunk Indians in the station washroom. I had been forced to go there by a pressing need to take a shit; I had been afraid to do that on the train, because it would have meant leaving my bag unattended in my compartment. I was totally paranoid about leaving my bag unattended: after all, it contained a painting worth a million dollars.

The Indians in the washroom didn’t as much as glance in my direction: they were huddled in the far corner over a washbasin, arguing about something in their native language. I squeezed myself into a cabin together with my bag and stood it on end – there was just enough space for my legs if I sat slightly sideways. It wasn’t a comfortable position for defecating, and it took me a while. The Indians took a while, too: at one point they started shouting at each other. Then there was the sound of a smack and they fell silent and left right afterwards.

I washed my face and shaved. One of the washbasins, the basin the three Indians had been standing near to, was speckled with blood. The mirror told me my hair was getting long, and I regretted not having it cut before I left Montreal. Long hair was very fashionable, which was exactly why I wanted it short. When I ‘d brushed my teeth and was putting everything away in my bag, my hand encountered one of the half-bottles I’d bought back in Montreal. It was the brandy. I pilled it out and pushed it into the wallet-free rear pocket of my jeans. I also dug out and put on my black wool jumper and my jean jacket on top of that. It had been chilly on the platform, and would be colder still when I left the station.

When I left the station, I ran into four drunk Indians: the guy I’d seen on the platform accompanied by the gang of three from the washroom. I walked away from them and towards a big intersection maybe a quarter mile down the road and heard steps behind my back: at least one of them was following me. I lengthened my stride, thinking: first I saw one, then three, then four. One three four, or 431 in reverse order. Shit!

“Hey.”

I couldn’t really walk faster without breaking into a run, but I did my best. I looked around quickly: no one else in sight, no one to run to, and this was supposed to be one of Winnipeg’s major streets, it was f.u.c.k.i.n.g called Main Street! Well, it was around three in the morning, but still –

“Hey. Hey, you! Wait.”

I could hear that he’d started running. It was no use trying to escape, I wasn’t able to outrun an overweight cripple with my f.u.c.k.i.n.g bag. So I stopped and turned around.

It was the big Indian from the platform. When he saw that I’d halted, he slowed down to a walk. He stopped right in front of me. His eyes were narrowed into slits and his mouth was twisted in a sour, cruel curve. I could smell the booze in his breath when he said:

“Give me a dollar. Two dollars! Give me two dollars.”

I didn’t wait for him to get up to five bucks. I said:

“I’m not going to give you a single quarter. I have no job and no home and I need every f.u.c.k.i.n.g cent I have.”

That surprised him. He blinked and thought about it. So did I. I pulled the brandy out of my rear pocket and said:

“What I can do is share this with you. I need a drink. Would you like a drink?”

The cruel lips split into a grin.

“Hell, yes,” he said. He glanced around and added, pointing a finger down the street:

“Let’s go to and sit at that bus stop there. The cops drive by now and then. It’s better to be sitting at a bus stop.”

“But there are no buses. It’s three am. We’ll look just as odd sitting there when there are no buses running.”

“There is a night bus every hour. Let’s go.”

We went to the bus stop and sat down and I opened the bottle after checking for patrol cars. I took a small sip and gave him the bottle and he chugged down half the contents in one go, I was beginning to think he’d kill the bottle. When he’d finished he wiped his lips and said, handing the brandy back to me:

“That was good. Thank you, friend.” He whacked my shoulder in what he probably thought was a friendly way. He had a hand like heavy-duty hammer.

“You’re welcome,” I said and drank as much as I could without choking. I managed about half of what was left. I was only half as good at drinking brandy as he was. I offered the bottle to him but he surprised me: he waved it away.

“No, no,” he said. “I’ve already had my share.”

“You sure?”

He whacked my shoulder again, in exactly the same spot: it was getting painful.

“Sure I’m sure. You really don’t have a home? Where you headed?”

“West coast. I was thinking of hitching a ride.”

He nodded, slowly.

“West coast,” he said. “Nice. Good idea.” He did some more nodding, then added:

“But you ain’t gonna find no ride here. There’s a service station, BP, on the road out of town, a lot of westbound traffic there.”

“Long way?”

He looked at me and pursed his lips.

“For a guy like you? No, not too long. An hour, maybe an hour and a half.” He pointed to the intersection and added:

“You go there and head west on Broadway and keep going till you reach Portage. Keep going west on Portage and after a while you’ll see a big hospital, it’s called Deer Lodge. The BP station is four-five blocks west of there. They got a car wash and a big garage, you can’t miss it. Hey, why don’t you have a car?”

“I can’t afford to run a car. You sure about that walk? How about I wait for the night bus?”

“Don’t take the night bus. It’s easy to get into trouble when you take the night bus.”

“With a driver and conductor around? Come on.”

“The trouble will wait until you get off, and follow you. Trouble always follows you.”

He seemed very pleased with that thought. I wasn’t. I said goodbye and he wished me good luck and I got going. I hoped that he wouldn’t follow me.

He didn’t. I crossed the dead Main Street and started walking west on Portage, as instructed. There was absolutely no one and nothing around for quite a while. A taxicab passed me after ten minutes or so; a few hundred steps later, I saw a cop car driving in the other direction, headed downtown. It was on the other side of the road and it slowed down to a crawl and I could almost hear the cops debating on whether they should turn around and give me a closer look. They didn’t.

I got lucky just before I reached the BP service station – I could actually see it. It was nearing five by then, the night was in retreat and there was a vehicle passing by every couple of minutes, mostly delivery vans and trucks headed downtown. When I heard a car approaching me from behind and identified the engine as belonging to a saloon, I looked over my shoulder expecting to see a cop cruiser. But it was an ordinary car and I stuck out my thumb in a reflex.

I didn’t expect it to stop, but it did. It was a relatively new station wagon with fake wood paneling in the rear and I trotted up to it arranging my face into a grateful smile.

The car contained a retired husband-and-wife couple. They were going all the way to Calgary and they were happy to give me a ride. I got in explaining I’d prefer to put my bag on the floor instead of throwing it in the back because it contained fragile items. I had to answer some pleasant but pretty sharp questions from the woman, a plump blonde whose hair had been permed and lacquered into a miniature mountain on her head. I identified myself and generally told the truth except for the purpose of my journey. I said my older brother had had an accident (something I’d frequently wished on Josh), and required my assistance while recuperating in Vancouver.

Stan and Barbara – these were their names, their second name was a Polish tongue-twister – commiserated with me and expressed wishes for my older’s brother swift return to health. Then Stan – a gaunt guy with a full head of close-cropped hair like iron filings – fell silent and focused on the driving. Barbara told me that they intended to be in Calgary that very day, nine at the latest; a favorite TV program started at nine thirty, and you’ll get us there on time, won’t you Stan?

“Sure,” Stan said, in a resigned voice.

Then Barbara got going on me. What was life in Montreal like? Wasn’t it dangerous, with all those crazy Quebec nationalists running around? She’d heard that plenty of people were moving to Toronto, why did I choose to move the other way? Was it true you could buy alcohol anywhere in Montreal? I distinctly saw Stan’s ears perk up when she asked that.

I answered her at length, making sure to sound more and more tired and sleepy with every minute. When she couldn’t ignore it any longer she called me a poor boy, and let me be.

I pretended to sleep so well I actually did nap on and off throughout the morning. We stopped for lunch at midday in a proper restaurant and they insisted on treating me: I turned red with embarrassment, which endeared me to them even further.

We ate steaks and fries – we’d already entered big beef country – and the portions were enormous. I was close to bursting by the time I was done. Barbara had polished off her plate without any trouble – she’d actually finished eating before I did – while Stan struggled to finish his steak. He left close to half of his fries uneaten, too, and his wife plucked at them with her fingers while we waited for the coffee.

There were a few increasingly desultory utterances from Barbara when we got back into the car; then she went into full digesting mode and fell silent. It was a beautiful day, but the view was as boring as it gets: a flat plain with crop fields and pastures and farms and the occasional cookie-cutter town. Stan drove on at a steady sixty-five miles per hour; we still had nearly five hundred miles to go.

When I wasn’t napping, I was staring at the monotonous landscape and noting the distance to Calgary on the signs we passed. It seemed we would indeed make it there by nine in the evening, but around six we stopped for coffee and snacks and Barbara had to go power her nose. She powdered it for something like twenty minutes and Stan was getting concerned by the time she finally returned to our table. She seemed a little pale in spite of the all the fresh powder on her face.

We reached Calgary around a quarter past nine despite Stan hitting seventy most of the time. Then he did something that blew me away. Braving an increasingly hostile silence from Barbara – her TV show was starting any moment! – he drove me all the way out to a service station at the western road exit. He was sure I would get a ride there straight into Vancouver.

We said goodbye and I gave them a sketch I’d made one morning in Montreal. It depicted the view from my bedroom window and it had taken me all of fifteen minutes: I got everything down one morning and then touched things up a few days later, after I’d decided doing it was worth the effort. They were very pleased, Barbara especially: she declared that I was a genius.

I watched their tail lights fade away. It was sad to see them go; they were good people. Then I picked up my bag and walked up to the glass doors of the station building.