The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 92 November 7th 1972

It was still dark when I woke up. My nose was blocked and my mouth completely dry and I hit my head on the sloping ceiling when getting up from my bed. When I touched my face, it felt hot. It seemed I was running a fever.

My watch showed half past five; I’d slept for over thirteen hours. The house had been empty when I returned with my shopping the previous day, and I still hadn’t seen or spoken to Birgit, my landlady. I wondered if she was aware that I’d moved in. I hadn’t put anything in the fridge downstairs. I’d made a point of buying food that didn’t need refrigerating: sliced bread, corned beef cans, teabags, instant coffee, sugar, and a five-pound plastic bag of apples. I’d also had to buy a carton of cigarettes, and rounded off my shopping spree by buying a small electric kettle, plastic plates and cutlery, and a small tin ashtray. I had no intention of leaving my room to face the world in the mornings without first getting some caffeine and nicotine into my system.

I had two hundred dollars plus change after doing all that, and I knew I’d spend the rest of that day worrying about money and getting the shit kicked out of me by my paranoid friend. I felt pretty tired, and in no shape to put up a fight. So after I’d taken out and put the stuff I’d bought on the table and admired it for a bit, I changed into dry clothes and had a slug of Seagram straight from the bottle. Then I went downstairs to fill my new kettle in the bathroom, but I started feeling really tired and didn’t even plug it in: I went straight to bed. I was asleep right away. It couldn’t have been later than around four in the afternoon, it was getting dark but not quite night yet.

I woke with my empty stomach tied into a tight little knot, but I felt no hunger. I dug out my metal traveling mug out of my bag, and made myself some instant coffee. It had no taste at all, and it was hard to tell whether this was because of my cold or because instant coffee generally tasted like shit. It worked though, and halfway through my second mug I became awake enough to realize that my body generally felt as if I’d rolled down a steep, stony slope the previous day. I also had a headache and shooting pains in my joints.

This wasn’t a cold, it was full-blown flu: I’d fallen sick just when I had to go and find a job. My pal congratulated me on my exquisite sense of timing. I fought off an urge to drink all the booze I had and smoke a joint and get back into bed. I just put a healthy slug of rye into my third coffee and forced myself to eat a couple of slices of bread. Then I fired up a cigarette and that was a mistake.

I thought I’d cough my lungs out. I threw myself on the bed and pressed my face into the pillow, but still woke up the kids in the bedroom directly below mine. They kept their voices low and it was a while before I identified them as two girls, five or six or eight – kids under ten all sounded pretty much the same. I got off the bed and tiptoed to the heating vent and lay down on the floor to put my ear next to it. I could hear the two girls as clear as day through the heating duct, at least until the thermostat turned the heat on. There was a metallic click and hot air blasted into my ear and I got up from the floor with a new understanding of why Birgit had been so happy when I told her I didn’t even have a radio.

I’d bought a newspaper the day before for the job ads, but hadn’t looked at it yet. So I made myself some medicine: scotch and hot water, half and half. The first couple of sips improved things enough to let me smoke a cigarette without choking. I cleared my shopping off the table, stuffing it into the bottom drawer of the dresser: it was the biggest. Then I sat down at the table with a cigarette and the newspaper.

There was nothing about Schmidt. I looked at the rental ads before reading the help wanted and sure enough, there were half a dozen places that sounded good and cost as little as half of what I was paying for my ‘studio’. True, it was easily the size of two rooms, but it didn’t have running water or even the semblance of a kitchenette. I told myself that the light alone was worth the price, but right at that moment it was still dark so my paranoid pal wasn’t convinced. I could tell he was sitting down to compile a list of all the occasions when I’d hopelessly overpaid for something.

I went through the help wanted ads even though it really was the last thing I felt like doing. There was a handful of the usual shitty bar and restaurant jobs – just thinking about them made me cringe. I put the paper down and smoked and thought about the Bella Notte job, presently taken by a fellow with eye-catching nose hair. I couldn’t really understand why they would need a receptionist at a place like that. Richard and Nancy’s guesthouse of the same size, and they managed just fine between the two of them. And it wasn’t like either guesthouse was experiencing a rush of guests, nor could it expect one. Vancouver in the winter wasn’t exactly a hot vacation spot.

There had to be a catch of some sort, I was sure. But speculating on what it could be was a waste of time, so I picked up the paper again and had another go at the job ads.

This time around, I didn’t scan them, stopping to read the ones that caught my interest: I read all of them one by one, even the ones that asked for architects and qualified lathe operators. I was rewarded with this gem:

REAL ESTATE OFFICE requires clerk for reception and light administrative duties. Responsibilities include answering calls, taking down messages, and some typing. Good presence and impeccable spelling a must. Office hours 12 – 6 pm Monday through Friday, 9 am – 3 pm Saturday.

It was basically a full-time job, thirty six hours a week: I wondered whether the Saturdays paid extra. I made up my mind to call them, hoping they wouldn’t be located at the other end of the city.

It was getting light outside by this time which was good, because I needed to hit the can, and also refill my kettle. I left my room and glided down the stairs like a f.u.c.k.i.n.g ghost and was back in my room in under two minutes. But my flushing the toilet seemed to activate the whole house. Everyone seemed to get up at the same time. There were footsteps, voices, coughs. I opened the window onto the backyard – when I returned to my room, I saw it was full of smoke and steam – and cold, wet air blasted my face. It was beginning to rain.

I forced myself to air the room out and also to eat some more bread with corned beef and an apple. I got it all down with the help of more scotch with hot water and then sat and smoked and listened to Birgit and Dave get themselves ready for work and the kids for school. My plan was to sit there quietly until everyone had f.u.c.k.i.e.d off, then treat myself to a long, hot shower. Then I would call the real estate office about that job. I hadn’t asked Birgit whether I could use the phone, but this was a local call, no big deal.

They seemed to be taking forever to leave and at long last I heard the whine of a garage door and a car being started up. I actually got up, all ready to exit my room, when I heard steps on the staircase leading to my floor.

It was Birgit. She knocked and I asked her to come in and she did. She was already dressed to leave, wearing a tan trench coat that reached past her knees.

“Hello,” she said, eyes flitting around the room before meeting mine.

“Good morning.”

“So you’ve moved in,” she said. “We weren’t sure if you did last night. I came up and knocked but there was no answer.”

“I was asleep,” I told her. “I think I’ve caught a cold.”

“Oh. Okay. You want me to bring you anything on the way back from work?”

“No thanks, I’m fine. I’ve got aspirin somewhere. That should be good enough.”

“Okay. Take care, then. Oh, one more thing. After you’ve used the bathroom, can you make sure to wipe everything down? It’s the children. They are like little magnets for all sorts of germs.”

“Of course, no problem,” I said, conscious of a growing dislike for Birgit’s children. It stopped me from asking Birgit whether I could use the phone. She would have probably requested I wear a gas mask and protective gloves.

“See you later,” she said, and left. It was my first full day in my new home, and already I was starting to regret moving in there.

I had a scotch straight up to improve my mood and sat sipping it and smoking until they’d all gone for good. Then I got the paper and went down to the ground floor. There was a phone there, midway between the front door and the entrance to the kitchen, and I used it to call the number in the job ad.

The phone was answered almost instantly by a guy whose accent I couldn’t place: he was trying very hard to sound American. He said:

“Robinson and Klein, good morning.”

“Good morning,” I said,. “I’m calling about the position advertised in the paper. Is it still open?”

“Wide open,” he said. “Can you work Saturdays, pal?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Lemme see… Can you come in tomorrow? My partner will want to see you, and he’s not around today.”

“Sure.”

He asked me to come anytime between eleven and noon, and gave me the address. He explained it was right on the corner of Willingdon Avenue and Albert Street, and when I returned to my room and checked my map I found I was in luck. It was maybe a ten minute walk from my home on Yale Avenue. Of course, I took it as a sign that the job was meant for me and was already practically mine.

I spent a few frustrating minutes looking for the bottle of aspirin in my bag. I found it under the Rembrandt.

I took out the painting, tightly wrapped in a couple of T-shirts, and hesitated. I really wanted to look at it, and I couldn’t. Looking at it meant removing the watercolor I had pasted on top, and however gently I did that it would be damaged, and I would need a new picture for camouflage. And in order to view the Landscape With Cottages I’d also have to remove all the dried glue that remained on its surface, a delicate process that could easily take a couple of hours.

I couldn’t look at it. I had it, and I couldn’t look at it. That painting was meant to be looked at, that was the reason behind its existence. I treasured that picture above everything else in the world and had it in my possession and I couldn’t even f.u.c.k.i.n.g look at it. It was as bad or maybe worse than having a great car that wouldn’t start, or a beautiful wife that wouldn’t f.u.c.k.

I came pretty close to crying when I was putting it back in the bag, still wrapped up.

It was still too early to call Harry about corporal Evans. I forced myself to eat a little more and popped two aspirins and drank two mugs of tea without any booze.

Then I got into bed, trying not to think about the painting in my bag or anything else that was upsetting, and found out that left nothing to think about.

I spent the rest of that day in bed, worrying about things. I didn’t leave my room: I pissed into the now-empty whisky bottle. I hoped Johnnie Walker wouldn’t be offended, and would continue to assist me as and when necessary.

When Birgit and the rest of the gang came back, I pretended I was asleep. I did it so well that I really fell asleep, much earlier than I’d planned.

I woke up at a quarter to midnight, ravenously hungry. I ate pretty much a whole loaf of bread and a can and a half of corned beef and three apples. I drank most of the rye that remained and a mug of tea and promised myself to buy a standing lamp as soon as I could afford it. The single ceiling light made everything look ugly.

I promised myself I would get that job the next day, no matter what. Then I went back to sleep.

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