The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 46 September 28th 1972 Late Evening

There were two guys milling around inside. One was in front of the counter and one behind the register and they both got very busy when I came in.

“Hi,” I said.

They didn’t answer. They were too busy too answer. The guy in front of the counter scurried away and disappeared between the aisles and started fooling around with the packages of pretzels and ch.i.p.s and shit – there was a lot of rustling. I walked up to the counter and stared at the guy who was staring at the register until he raised his eyes and said:

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Don’t call me sir,” I told him. “It makes me feel uneasy.”

He gave me a pop-eyed stare, made even more pop-eyed by the spectacles he was wearing. He was about my height, with longish dirty blond hair parted above his left ear and a fringe that swooped down to his right eyebrow in a greasy arc. There was a snort from the guy hidden in the aisle, and the rustling stopped.

“I need some help,” I said.”I realize help is a valuable commodity. So I would like to offer you a couple of bucks in the hope of securing your cooperation.”

The guy behind the register giggled. So did his friend, hidden behind the snacks. I put the promised couple of bucks on the counter and said:

“I’ve got to get to Vancouver. I’m short of money, and I need a ride. My name is Michael.”

“Jack,” said the guy behind the counter.

“Pleased to meet you. Take the money.”

“Hey, I mean, this isn’t necessary, I mean – ”

“Please take the money.”

He took it. He smiled an oily smile at me as he did so. There was a tense silence radiating from the guy hidden in the aisle. He was probably wondering whether his pal behind the register would split the money with him. I turned in his direction and said:

“Hey. I’m Mike, and I’ve just met Jack. You are?”

“Lionel.” He sidled out from behind the shelves, grinning. He was maybe an inch over five feet and had curly black hair and black eyes and very long lashes, like a girl. He said:

“You looking for a ride?”

“Yeah.”

“To Vancouver?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure, we can ask people when they come in. But you know, pretty much no one is going to come in over the next eight hours or so. And me and Jack, we’re here just till eleven. Then this other guy comes in and if I were you, I’d steer clear of him. He’s an asshole.”

“What do you mean?”

Lionel shrugged.

“He’s just an asshole, that’s all there’s to it,” he said and dived back into the aisle, disappearing from sight. I looked at Jack and Jack nodded and said:

“Yeah. That guy is definitely an asshole. He won’t help you out. He’s likely to call the cops to complain about a vagrant if you stick around. Basically, you don’t want to meet that guy.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, okay, I get it. But I still need a ride to Vancouver.”

“Best time to get one is like six, seven am. You won’t get a ride this time of night. Unless it’s a trucker running late. Hey, whaddya know.”

I followed his gaze and we both watched a trailer truck turn into the station and stop, wheezing and puffing, in front of the gas pumps.

“Looks like you might be in luck,” Jack said, and walked out from behind the counter and up to the huge fat guy that had got out of the truck’s cab, and was busy pulling the hose off the pump. They started talking and I felt movement behind my back and looked and Lionel was there, a pack of ch.i.p.s in his hand.

“Maybe you got lucky,” he said, and giggled and added:

“There’s been people disappearing between here and Vancouver. Really. They found a couple of bodies, bot far from the road. A guy and a girl. You better take a bus.”

“You trying to scare me?”

“No, man. Just letting you know what’s been happening. You make your own decisions.”

He went back to f.u.c.k around with the snacks: it sounded as if he was treating himself to a freebie, too. I watched Jack conclude his conversation with the fat trucker and walk back. He passed me without stopping and got behind the counter and said:

“That guy is driving straight to Vancouver. He said can take you.”

“He’s gonna be driving right through the night?”

Jack shrugged.

“Seems so,” he said.

I picked up my bag and walked out of the building and up to the fat driver. He was still pumping gas. I stopped a couple of steps away and when he looked at me and smiled and nodded and said:

“I’m Mike. I need to get to Vancouver and I hear you might help me there.”

He looked at me. He had one of those baby faces, with round blue eyes and plump cheeks and a small mouth with drooping corners. He had wavy blond hair descending in strands over his ears: it was ridiculous, it was as if someone had upended a bowl of yellow spaghetti on his head. He was also trying to grow a beard without much success: it was patchy and thin. He said:

“Yeah, I’m driving a shitload of food to the coast. Shitload of food, right?” He grinned at me. He had a reedy voice, a thin man’s voice, and small pointed white teeth. I grinned back to show that I appreciated his sense of humor and sparkling intelligence. I said:

“Shitload of food?”

“Breakfast cereal. Puffed wheat. Why some people choose to eat it, I don’t know. What about you, what’s taking you to Vancouver? Job? Family? Girlfriend? Someone waiting for you there?”

“Nope,” I said. “Just decided I’d like to live on the west coast.”

He nodded sagely.

“Lotus land,” he said. “Good timing on your part. You’ll hit the coast right at the start of the shroom season.”

I looked at him blankly, so he added:

“Shrooms. Magic mushrooms. You go for a walk outside the city and hear insane laughter, means someone has found some. Okay, hop in.”

I obeyed right away, in case he had second thoughts. I had some trouble getting into the cab with my bag. There was a ton of space behind the seats but it contained a bunk and a locker and it didn’t feel right to dump my bag in what was obviously his bedroom. There was plenty of leg space though, so I put the bag in lengthwise. It was jammed tight between me and the door.

When he got back from paying for the gas and climbed into the cab he said right away:

“You gotta move that bag. I gotta have a clear view outta the side window. Throw it in the back, there’s enough space right behind the seat.”

“Okay,” I said. It wasn’t easy, he actually had to help me. Our hands touched while we were manhandling the bag into position and he said:

“I’m Pete, by the way. Been driving this route for the past four years.”

He grinned and added:

“You’re in safe hands.”

He settled back into his seat and started the engine. The clock on the dashboard showed 10:28.