The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 94 November 9th 1972

Of course, I just had to check out 4 Myrtle Street – it was a given. But it was raining when I woke up the next day, no, not raining: pouring. The clouds were so thick and dark that I had to switch on the light.

It was eight o’clock and Birgit’s brood was wide awake and excited about something: the heating duct transmitted their squeaks and squeals and giggles. I made myself a coffee and smoked a cigarette, thinking about looking for a new place to live. Unfortunately, there was no way I could do that in this downpour. I got out my map anyway and smoked another cigarette while locating Myrtle Street. It was maybe a couple of miles south of where I was – a half an hour’s walk. I decided I’d go and have a look the moment weather improved.

I breakfasted on bread and corned beef and apples, listening to the family below get their shit together prior to leaving for the day. I knew from the rental agreement that the family name was Noyce; it should’ve been Noise. After I’d eaten, I had a belt of scotch and opened the window a notch and smoked a couple of cigarettes, fuming silently. Finally they left the house, and I hoped they’d all get wet.

It was still raining hard when I’d finished my bathroom routine and went back inside my ‘studio’ and indulged in some self-flagellation. I wondered what the f.u.c.k had induced me to rent this place and I knew it was because I was determined to have it even before I saw the f.u.c.k.i.n.g thing. I remembered thinking that it was somehow fated, and that made me cringe.

I had another belt of scotch and saw clearly that believing something was fated was what turned people into stupid f.u.c.ks. There was no bored old bitch called Fate, there was a bland, thoughtless guy called Chance. Had my father’s s.p.e.r.m connected just a few seconds later with my mother’s egg, there would have been a slightly different combination of the genes, and a different Michael Ryman would have ensued. Maybe to start with it would’ve been a Michaela or Michelle, not a Michael.

I had the thought that I might have turned out to be a total asshole like Josh, and then I had the thought that maybe I was an asshole anyway. I would be unaware of it, of course; most assholes weren’t aware they were assholes.

That rainy Thursday morning really was the shits. I medicated myself with scotch and pot and eventually got motivated again, and tried to draw something. It was so dark that it just wasn’t possible without the ceiling light. But it wasn’t possible with the ceiling light either, because it made everything look like shit. Overhead lights always made everything look like shit. Light had to slant to make things interesting.

I felt really f.u.c.k.i.e.d. I remembered how beautiful the light had been when I was looking at that place for the first time. I’d been really naive to think I’d see much sun throughout the winter. I really needed something to engage my mind, a distraction that would stop me thinking all those morbid thoughts. But I hadn’t bought a newspaper the day before, and I had nothing to read. I was seriously considering taking my new umbrella for a walk when there was a flash and a booming crack that made the windows rattle. That put paid to any ideas about going out.

I spent the next few hours sitting at my table and drinking scotch and smoking cigarettes and pot and looking at the rain, mind adrift. I was pretty disciplined about it, I was careful to to have two sips per cigarette and smoked that joint in instalments. I also got up every three or four cigarettes and opened both windows wide for a couple of minutes. My paranoid friend was very happy about my booze and drug intake, he was sitting on the floor in the corner and humming a tune.

Around two o’clock the storm changed back into rain and I went out for my big meal of the day. There was an A&W within a few minutes’ walk, and I pigged out there. While I was eating, I tried to figure out the probability the Jane of 4 Myrtle Street was the Jane I knew. It was likely something like one in a million.

I had never bought a lottery ticket in my life except when forced to: a couple of the schools I’d attended held lotteries in order to raise money for something or other. Buying a ticket was pretty much mandatory: those ‘lotteries’ were just disguised heists of the parents’ money.

I thought people who bought lottery tickets were deluded. The chance they’d win anything was microscopical. They had a greater chance of getting run over by a car the next time they stepped out of the house. But they bought those tickets anyway because hey, someone would win that prize, wouldn’t they? Sure, and by the time the lottery draw came ten times as many people would have died in automobile accidents. Someone had to get killed by a car from time to time, didn’t they?

But of course all that didn’t stop me from checking out 4 Myrtle Street. In fact, I walked there right after my meal. I told myself it wasn’t raining so hard any more, and anyway there wasn’t much for me to do that afternoon. I also told myself that I’d buy something to read on the way, and maybe a lamp. It would be best if I could get a drafting lamp of the kind used by architects. They could be moved and adjusted in every way possible, letting me manipulate the light with great precision. The problem was lamps like that tended to be expensive.

While I was in the A&W, it got gusty outside and I couldn’t use my umbrella – it was turned inside out by the first gust of wind and once that happened a few times, my new umbrella would become a broken umbrella. So I folded it, and put up the hood of my Canadian Tire jacket. It was one of those nylon condoms hidden inside the collar and it wasn’t really waterproof. I walked as fast as I could thinking that this whole Myrtle Street business was beyond stupid.

What would I do once I got there? Ring the bell for apartment 31 and say what? I spent the rest of my way there thinking of various excuses to gain access, and speculating on the voice I’d hear on the intercom. What if it was a guy’s voice? What to say, how to lie?

It was nearly half past three when I got there. Myrtle Street turned out to be one of those cheap commerce streets lined with auto repair shops and warehouses and old office buildings with cage-like rooms and cubicles rented out to various enterprises. Number 4 was one of those.

I got inside without any trouble: there was no reception or security. It was totally silent inside the building, no sight or sound of any human activity. There was an information board down in the lobby, one of those black things with snap-on plastic letters that made changes easy: I guessed the tenants changed frequently. Unit #31 was listed as belonging to Brightstar Inc., and I decided to go up to the third, last floor and check it out.

The third floor was a drywalled maze with strips of frosted glass along the ceiling and dark wooden doors that looked as if they had seen plenty of people come and go. A typewriter clacked faintly somewhere deep in the bowels of that maze. Unit #31 was immediately to my right when I got out of the elevator, and there was light behind the frosted glass.

I went up to the door, looking around: the place seemed to be mostly empty. Business seemed to be weak at 4 Myrtle Street.

I went up to the door of number 31 and knocked and pressed the handle right away. The door opened to reveal two desks and a fat bald guy that sure as hell wasn’t called Jane. The red plastic name plate on his desk identified him as G. Papadopoulos. He had five o’clock shadow on his jowls and a pink bottle of Pepto-Bismol next to the phone. I guessed his line of work involved many stressful phone conversations.

There was a newspaper spread in front of him and he looked up from it when I entered. He had basset-hound eyes with drooping lids that made him appear sorrowful. I said:

“Please excuse me for barging in like that. I’m looking for someone who works here. Her name is Jane.”

The basset-hound eyes examined me thoroughly. I put on an ingratiating smile.

“There’s no Jane here, pal,” said G. Papadopoulos. “At least not now.”

“You mean she used to work here?”

He shrugged.

“How the hell should I know,” he said. “I’ve only just moved in here. On the first. Didn’t even have time to fix the place up.”

It was true: the walls of his office were bare. There were none of the framed certificates, photographs, and posters such offices usually have. There was nothing but two desks and G. Papadopoulos and his Pepto-Bismol. I wondered what line of business Brightstar, Inc. was in. I said:

“Is there anyplace I can find out more? I’ve just moved into a flat nearby and I found a letter addressed to a Jane at 4 Myrtle Street, unit 31. No second name, just Jane. I guess it was meant to be hand-delivered.”

He reached out with his palm up and said:

“Let’s have a look.”

“Is your name Jane?”

He looked at me for a while with those sad eyes and said:

“You know something, pal – get the hell out of here. Get out before I get angry.”

“I wouldn’t want to make you angry,” I said. “I know this pink stuff tastes like shit.”

I turned round and was about to leave when he said:

“Hey, wiseass. Check at the post office. Maybe she’s had her mail redirected.”

“Thanks,” I said glancing over my shoulder. He wasn’t looking at me; he was already unscrewing the top of his Pepto-Bismol.

I was already outside by the time I realized that I should have asked about the location of the post office. It finally dawned on me how absurd this whole thing was, and I shrugged and decided to pass on the post office and just go home. On the way back, I would pick up a couple of burgers to take away at the A&W, and also buy a jug of water.

I was on the point of turning and leaving Myrtle Street behind when I saw a sign advertising Office Supplies And Materials. It was on the other side of the road and half-obscured by a tree in front of the building lined with storefronts that spoke of difficult times and hard-earned money. I went over, and a few minutes later I was the proud owner of a drafting lamp. It was second-hand but in perfect condition, and it cost me just eight fifty with tax.

I got all my planned shopping done, and got double fries with the burgers and had another major pigout at home. I got there just in time to avoid dealing with the Noyces. They returned, oddly silent, when I was reading the day’s paper by the light of my new lamp.

I’d bought a couple of clear glass light bulbs of varying power and a frosted one too, just in case. I loved the light from the clear forty watt bulb, the sixty was a bit too harsh. The light from the frosted sixty was good for painting, but not for drawing: it was nice and soft, but smudged contours and I wouldn’t know where to put the line.

There was nothing in the paper about Schmidt, but there was a story about a murder in Toronto. A small-fry businessman who had been missing for a few days was finally located in the trunk of car parked at the Toronto Airport. He had been shot in the head twice: his killers really wanted to make sure he was dead. It made me think about G. Papadopoulos. He probably had some very good reasons for bingeing on Pepto-Bismol.

Then I thought about my parents and realized my letters must have reached them in the meantime. In no time at all I was sucked down into a vortex of unpleasant memories and even more unpleasant anticipations. The more I thought about it all, the more obvious it became that I would have to call them, soon. I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation. If Roch hadn’t been involved and hadn’t had his head dipped in shit because of me, I wouldn’t have needed to call. But he was involved, and I was obligated to at least try and cover his ass.

I ran variants of the upcoming phone conversation through my head. I wasn’t creating any scripts; in my experience, scripted conversations never worked. The other party always departed from the script within a few seconds. But running through all that in my head let me get used to the idea that I’d be talking to them sometime soon. It took some getting used to, that idea.

Before I fell asleep, it crossed my mind that such feelings for one’s parents were the sure mark of an asshole. Somehow, it didn’t trouble me.

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