The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 57 October 7th 1972

First thing I did the next day, I went to investigate that resort I’d discovered. It was a stupid move, I knew that all along. I knew that I couldn’t hope to learn anything from skulking in the bushes and watching people on a holiday walk around and do all those things people on a holiday usually do.

I did it anyway. As I walked there, it came to my mind I was just like a moth attracted to a flame. It would get burned to death, but it was compelled to fly into the fire anyway.

But really, I had no alternative. The other thing I could do was stay in the house or maybe take a walk somewhere else and fret all the time about all those people on my island. Yeah, my island. It had become MY island in my mind.

I knew it was absurd. But that’s how it works, doesn’t it? You enter an empty space and stay there for a while and it becomes YOUR space. When someone or something else enters it, it feels like an intrusion.

It was also absurd for me to skulk in bushes when I could have simply walked into that resort and talked to people to find out what’s what and maybe even scored a meal at the canteen. It was very unlikely they had WANTED posters with my mug pinned to the walls.

I tried to convince myself to do just that on the way there. I couldn’t. Somewhere deep inside me, there was this unshakeable determination to stay hidden, a deep conviction that revealing my presence would be a bad move.

Maybe it was the circ.u.mstances. I felt guilty like hell because of a lot of things, and there was all this Nature with a capital ‘N’ around. Nature alone could do strange things to the mind. It woke up the caveman buried deep within.

At one time I read a novel called Lord of the Flies. It was about a bunch of teenage boys stranded on an island after a plane crash. It didn’t take long for them to turn into murderous savages. They even began to worship a pig’s head on a pole, or something like that.

There is a caveman or cavewoman inside all of us. They’re asleep most of the time, but quick to wake. Once they’re awake, they try to take control. Because that’s how people react to their environment: they try to control it. A lot of the time they are too scared to make a move, and don’t. But they still want to.

By the time I reached the resort, I had graduated to a fantasy of descending on those assholes with an automatic weapon and grenades and just wiping everyone and everything out. The ultimate act of control.

I stood half-hidden by a convenient tree and watched all those future corpses walking around and talking and shouting and doing all sorts of stupid things. None of them were as stupid as hiding behind a tree.

It wasn’t a resort, it was too spartan for that: it was some sort of a holiday camp. It was surprising that it had guests at that time of the year. People like to connect with nature when they’re on a holiday, and they want that connection to be pleasant. Warm, sunny, flowers everywhere, that kind of thing.

As I was spying on the camp, a young woman came out of one of the buildings. She was a blonde and wore her hair in a long ponytail and was wearing a long red leather jacket. I instantly thought of Tracy, and it instantly made me angry. I couldn’t remain still. I turned away and started to walk home.

You’re a f.u.c.k.i.n.g moron, I told myself over and over again. You’re a f.u.c.k.i.n.g moron. Go home and do something useful. Get productive. Get more firewood. Or maybe draw or paint something.

I heard the motorboat when I was still a good half mile from home.

It was a big boat. The deep thrumming of its engine hinted at many cylinders. I began running through the woods. It was suddenly very, very important to get a look at that boat.

It was a big cabin cruiser, white with blue highlights here and there – the right choice of colors for the setting. It appeared to be making straight for the pier in front of Harry’s house.

It was Harry, all right. When I’d reached the house, the cruiser was already on the way back wherever it had come from, and Harry was climbing the slope from the pier. He was carrying lots of stuff, including a big blue gas canister that looked heavy. The caveman inside me stepped back into the shadows, the slick and civilized guy came forth, and I rushed to help Harry with his load.

I asked about his father right away and he shook his head and said two words:

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. There was nothing more to say.

Harry had brought a couple more big bottles of rum recommended by Henry Bloody Morgan. I remembered how firm he had been about no serious boozing at the house because of the fire hazard. But rules are made to be broken, most often by people that had made them in the first place.

Harry told me what had happened over tea with rum. His old man had never even regained consciousness after that heart attack. They kept him going by artificial means for a couple of days before they gave up. His three sisters had all come home – from Seattle, from Calgary, from Saint John’s. They were all married, and they had all brought their husbands with them. It was quite a crowd.

“I’m going back late tomorrow,” Harry told me. “The funeral’s on Monday. I figured you wouldn’t budge, so I brought a tank of gas. I’ll take the empty with me. If the stove tank runs out, you’ll just have to switch the heater tank and take cold showers for a while.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ve kind of gotten used to them.”

“Good, ” Harry said. Then he started crying.

He didn’t make any sounds or grimaces or attempts to cover his face. He just sat there, smoking a cigarette and taking sips of tea with rum, and the tears rolled down his face. A couple splashed down on the table. They were big tears.

I began to cry, too. Silently, just like Harry. It wasn’t because of Harry’s father. His death was just the trigger. I was crying because I was sorry for myself.

After a while, Harry got up and brought a couple of glasses and we drank a couple of shots of neat rum. Then he said:

“Let’s get some more firewood while it isn’t raining. It will be raining in the afternoon.”

So we went and got plenty of firewood. Physical labor of any kind is always cathartic. It’s the best way to get rid of unwanted psychological shit. We went back and forth for a good couple of hours. When we’d carried in so much wood it didn’t fit under the lean-to by the chopping block, we went for a walk in the woods.

I showed Harry the mushrooms I thought could be psilocybin. He said they weren’t. He knew about mushrooms, and we ended up taking off our jackets and using them as makeshift bags for all the edible mushrooms that we gathered. It was a f.u.c.k.i.n.g lot, they were everywhere.

I got the newspapers I’d brought a few days earlier and we spread them in front of the fireplace. Harry had built a good fire that gave plenty of light and warmth and we sat on the floor by the dancing flames and cleaned the mushrooms. It had begun raining, just as Harry had prophesied. He really had a nose for weather.

We had talked about frying those mushrooms up for our next meal, but cleaning them killed that desire – we got kind of sick of them after f.u.c.k.i.n.g around with them for a small eternity. Harry selected some choice caps and put a thread through them, and hung the resulting necklace off a nail next to the fireplace. He said that dried wild mushrooms were the best thing to happen to a lot of soups and sauces. I agreed, and he looked at me as if he didn’t believe me. I had no idea why.

Much later, when we had eaten and were winding down before turning in, I said:

“Harry, why didn’t you tell me there was a holiday camp on the southern shore, couple of miles away?”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. The very first night. Maybe you can’t remember. I didn’t make a speech about it. Just kinda mentioned it, in passing. You went there?”

“Yeah. Didn’t talk to anyone. Listen, aren’t you afraid someone might discover you’re growing pot here?”

“You kidding me? Remember what it took to get there? Those kids from the camp can’t venture out for more than a mile before they start crying for mommy. It’s wild out there. Easy to break a leg or twist an ankle or whatever. Easy to get lost too, unless you stick to the shore. It’s not a big island but believe me, it’s very f.u.c.k.i.n.g easy to get lost and spend hours going in f.u.c.k.i.n.g circles.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s easy to get lost and go in f.u.c.k.i.n.g circles. Yeah, I dig that.”

We went to sleep right afterwards.