The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 81 November 1st 1972 Morning Afternoon

November arrived with a smiling, sunny face; the clouds that passed overhead were innocent little fluffy things. Over breakfast, Harry agreed with me it was the perfect day to hit the city. We made no specific plans as to what we would do once we got there: getting off that island and spending some time elsewhere was what we wanted. I definitely abandoned any idea of spending the winter on the island; by the time spring rolled around, I’d be ready to be packed off into a loony bin.

Of course, I remained very aware of my Wanted status. I discussed it with Harry, and he thought I ran no risk of being recognized as the last hitchhiker Peter Schmidt had ever picked up. I wasn’t quite so sure, in spite of my new hairstyle (which I hated) and my new outdoor jacket (which I liked, in spite of that stupid anchor stitched on its b.r.e.a.s.t). But I really needed to get off that island for a little while, even if that carried a slight risk.

I also wanted to call Roch, very badly. I even thought about calling my parents. My emotions had completely changed overnight. The previous evening, it felt as if it didn’t matter whether my friends and family lived or died. Twelve hours later, I missed everyone so badly just thinking about them brought a lump into my throat.

It was surprisingly warm outside; my breath hardly steamed at all. Harry and I weren’t the only ones appreciating the weather: there were a several sailboats mucking around in the bay, although it was the middle of the week. We passed pretty close to one of them on the run to Lion’s Bay. It was a small white job crewed by a single guy with plentiful black hair spilling out from under one of those silly sailor caps, small and round and white. He had a full beard and when he grinned at us as we passed by, his teeth were very white too. Harry waved to him and he waved back in a way that implied familiarity.

“Who was that? You know him?” I asked Harry, watching the sailboat bob as it sailed across our wake.

“Yeah, I know him. I know him well. Couple of years back, we went into a little operation together. He’s got a bit of land and we got a nice field of prime pot going on his property. It promised to be excellent bud, man. But that guy, he f.u.c.k.i.e.d it all up just as it was about ready for harvesting.”

“What did he do?”

“He dropped some acid and had this idea he’ll make the buds taste extra sweet by smearing some honey on the colas. So he spent like a whole afternoon wandering around with a jar of honey in his hand, dabbing it on the flowers. It involved lugging a stepladder around, that’s how determined he was. Anyway, he was woken up in the middle of the night by a bear stoned out of its gourd, thrashing around in the pot field and roaring its head off. Just a couple of plants survived, man. That bear really did a job on our pot.”

“What happened to the bear?”

“Who the f.u.c.k knows. It was gone by the morning. Probably went into a cave somewhere to sleep it off.”

“I’m not sure it could sleep, being that high.”

“Now look who we have here. An expert on stoned bears.”

“I once got a hamster stoned. A friend had this pet hamster and we put some hash oil onto a piece of apple. We thought it might be turned off by the smell but man, it just gobbled that apple up in no time at all.”

“What did it do? Sung an aria, or maybe sat down to write a novel?”

“It had this treadmill wheel in its cage. It got going on it as if it was competing in the Olympics or something. It had a hell of a time. My friend said he’d never seen that hamster so happy.”

“Did he teach it how to smoke a joint?”

“He said he’d try, but I think nothing came of that.”

“Figures. It’s kinda hard to smoke a joint when you’re running on a treadmill. Anyway, pal, I think that hardly qualifies you as an expert on stoned bears.”

“Well, you said yourself it spent the night thrashing around in the pot field. I don’t think it would just go off and lie down and fall asleep.”

We discussed stoned bears for the rest of the run into Lion’s Bay. When we docked, Harry went off to talk to the guys running the marina shop: it was open. I stood on the pier smoking and looking at the bay and the boats and the sky. I had the thought that it was pretty amazing that Harry was a cop’s son. He seemed to be the most laid-back person in the world, and had apparently become a pot plantator the moment he could walk.

I was reminded of a guy I’d known in school when I was living in Italy. His parents were doctors and he was the dirtiest guy I’d ever met. I once saw him drop a lollipop on the ground and pick it up with all sorts of stuff stuck on it and resume licking it, just like that. I’d also seen him retrieve chewing gum stuck under his desk by God knows who and when, and pop it into his mouth and start chewing with bliss all over his stupid face. He really was a moron, he flunked almost every test and yet his parents were doctors, intelligent people who’d presumably taught him the rudiments of personal hygiene. You never really knew how people would turn out, not even when they shared most of your genes.

It struck me that maybe my parents were similarly surprised by the way I’d turned out. Josh didn’t exactly fit their idea of a perfect son, either. I knew they wanted us to become professional men, doctors or lawyers or university professors; I suspected my father had a secret dream one of us might become a professional diplomat. Not a politician; my father disliked and mistrusted politicians. Once I overheard him telling someone at a barbecue that diplomats lied when they had to, but politicians lied whenever they felt like it.

Harry spent quite bit of time inside that shop, I was on my third cigarette when I saw him walk out and give me a wave. The car was parked behind the shop, as usual, and when I was getting in it struck me that the first time I went to the island with Harry, his boat was at Brunswick Beach, not at the marina. I asked him about that as soon as we drove away.

“Hey, you’re a sneaky one,” he said. “You sure you aren’t working undercover for the cops? Whatever. Remember those three American chicks I was with when we first met? They’d been staying with me at the house. I didn’t want the guys at the marina watch me come in with a boatful of chicks, man. It would have excited comment. Anyway, I’ve got to drop by my Mom’s place. You want me to drop you off anywhere in particular before that?”

“The post office,” I said. “I have to make a couple of long-distance calls.”

“I’ll take you to the post office on Abbott. They’ve got plenty of phone booths and when you’re done, it’s a nice area to wander around. Lots of bars.”

“Are we going back to the island tonight?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see. Maybe we’ll drop by Gina’s place in the evening. She’d already agreed to let you sleep on the couch once, so that won’t be problem.”

In the end, we agreed that Harry would pick me up at the post office around six. That gave me almost five hours to make my calls, and get acquainted with a nearby bar. I watched him drive away and speculated whether I shouldn’t hit that bar first, before calling Roch. But when I checked the time I realized it was after three o’clock in Montreal. I had to hurry to make sure I’d still catch him at his aunt’s house.

I went into the post office and placed a call and it came through very fast, I was on the phone within a minute. But there was no one at the other end. I waited and waited, and eventually the operator cut in and asked me if I wanted to continue. I said no and hung up and left the booth feeling pretty deflated.

Of course he wasn’t there! It had been over a month. He’d probably done everything he had to do at that house, didn’t work there any longer. I had my address book with me, so I could try calling his parents’ house to find out what he was up to. But it was too early for that, his parents would be out and I didn’t fancy talking to his pimply sister.

I left the post office and stood by the entrance smoking a cigarette and thinking about calling my own parents. But I just couldn’t face talking to them, anyway I was sure I’d get an earful for what I’d done, chucking my studies and disappearing like that. They’d probably start shouting at me to come home while they arranged for an emergency lobotomy procedure or something.

So in the end, I wrote them a letter. I found a shop and bought a cheap stationery set and went inside the first bar I came across. I got myself a Molson Canadian, because that was the cheapest beer they had and it definitely tasted the way a cheapest beer should. I ended up buying a packet of peanuts to kill that taste, so it didn’t exactly work out cheap. I also had to get a double scotch before I could get that letter going. Writing letters was a hell of an expensive business.

The scotch worked: it provided me with a good lie. I wrote my parents that I’d actually sold a couple of pieces for money good enough to live on for a month. I told them that I was in Vancouver to sign a contract with an art gallery, but that I’d be leaving shortly. I didn’t tell them where I’d be going next, but promised to be in touch soon.

After drinking another double scotch I managed to end my letter with the groveling I knew my parents wanted and expected. There had been so much happening that I lost my head (this was true). I had been going crazy with painting and drawing and running around, talking to people who were interested in my work (partly true). I had already made more money than I did in a month of slaving away in my two part-time jobs back in Toronto (that was a total lie). I concluded by repeating that I would be in touch, assured them I was theirs forever, and included best wishes for Josh. I was amazed to find that it all sounded very sincere when I read it before signing off.

I folded the sheet and put it in the envelope and put away the writing stuff into the side pocket of my new outdoor jacket from Canadian Tire. The side pockets of that jacket were big enough to accommodate supplies and tools needed for serious outdoor stuff. They were deep enough to hold a quart each, no problem at all. I really liked my new jacket.

I lit what I planned to be my final cigarette before going back to the post office and tipped the last of the peanuts onto my hand and threw them in my mouth and almost choked on one, because I saw Jane: D.i.c.k’s boat companion.

She must have just come in with another girl, she was in the act off pulling off a glove as she talked to her friend in that special animated way people have when they’re looking forward to having a good chinwag over drinks. They were standing by the bar counter, both dressed in long leather coats: Jane’s was black, her friend’s burgundy. Jane had one of those long scarves that resemble priests’ stoles, and she threw one end over her shoulder while glancing in my direction.

I f.u.c.k.i.n.g froze. But her eyes swept past me without any sign of recognition, and she resumed talking to her friend. I watched them out of the corner of my eye as they got their drinks and went to sit down at one of the small round tables by the wall. They were drinking c.o.c.ktails.

Jane sat down facing away from me, and I took that opportunity to finish off my beer and leave. It was good that I did. The first person I saw upon exiting was D.i.c.ky. He was headed right for the entrance of the bar, looking deeply pissed off. He wearing the familiar peacoat and beanie and his hands were thrust deep into the coat’s pockets. Whatever pissed him off this time must have been a real weight on his mind, because he didn’t recognize me. He didn’t even notice me, even though we almost brushed shoulders as we passed.

I went back inside the post office: it seemed the safest bet in the circ.u.mstances. I got a stamp and posted the letter to my parents, and my paranoid pal sprang into action. He was delighted with what had just happened, and joyfully informed me my parents would spend no time at all in asking Vancouver police to keep a special eye out for their wayward son. There would be an undercover cop lurking at every art gallery in Vancouver, waiting to snatch me the moment I showed up.

Within a few minutes, I was fully convinced that trying to contact Roch would be a mistake. He was probably already behind bars. There would be a cop waiting by the phone over there, the call would be instantly traced, by the time I found out that Roch was unavailable there would be sirens in the street outside. I left the post office and walked around the block smoking like a madman, and then went back in again and placed another call to his aunt’s house.

It went through almost as quickly as the first one. I heard the phone in Montreal ring once, twice, thrice. And then I heard the receiver being picked up, and someone breathing into the microphone. I had a very good connection, there were no background hums or crackles. Someone was breathing down the phone at the other end without saying a word. My paranoid pal smiled, and said: what did I tell you.

I opened my mouth a couple of times and closed it without a sound. Then I hung up as delicately as I could.

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