The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 99 November 13th 1972 Morning

I woke up just as the Noyces were leaving the house: someone, most likely Dave, had slammed the front door hard. I had plenty of time, at least an hour before I actually had to haul my ass out of bed to begin getting ready for work. It struck me that I was starting my new job on the thirteenth, and I found myself wondering whether that wasn’t unlucky.

This made me so angry I instantly sprang out of bed. Deeply regretting I had no scotch left, I made myself a coffee and drank it while walking around my room and smoking cigarettes. This unlucky thirteenth shit was ridiculous beyond words, and to find myself wondering if it wasn’t true was depressing.

I knew that most people regarded thirteen as an unlucky number. In fact, its unlucky status was officially enshrined – in Canada as well as the States, tall buildings did not have a thirteenth floor. You went from floor twelve to floor fourteen. Books did not have a chapter thirteen, either. It was crazy.

I’d become aware of this lunacy when we all returned home after bouncing around Europe for almost ten years. But when I tried to make fun of it, I drew blank stares: people didn’t know what the f.u.c.k I was talking about. Pretending the number thirteen didn’t exist was part of the landscape. You didn’t question the landscape: it was something that simply was there.

Disbelieving this whole unlucky number shit used to give me a secret feeling of superiority. I sniggered inwardly at all the idiots who became popeyed with anxiety when they saw a Friday the thirteenth on the calendar.

But in recent months, I’d joined the idiot club because of that 4-3-1 business. Generally speaking, the last couple of months had been pretty bad for my character development. I’d done things that merited a long stay in jail, and now I was also turning into a full-time superstitious freak. That whole Jane trip, my plan to write a fake letter – it was stupid beyond words. Maybe I was simply too stupid to live on my own. I was like a kid left alone in the woods at night, seeing things that weren’t there.

I was still pretty angry when I left for work. I walked to the office doing my best to get into a better frame of mind for my first day in a new job. I was determined to make a good impression. I told myself that it wasn’t raining and it wasn’t foggy and that this was indisputably lucky, at this time of the year. It wasn’t even especially cold.

But my paranoid pal wasn’t convinced. That was the way it always was, he said. Fate always manipulated people into believing they were on top of things before pulling the plug. It was good entertainment, much better than if they’d expected a misfortune in the first place.

There was no such thing as Fate, I told my paranoid friend. There was only Mr. Chance and his lazy dice-rolling and people’s tendency to look for meaning where there was none.

By the time I got to Robinson & Klein, I had my pal under control: he was sulking in a corner. I was determined to be the ambitious young man, eager to embark on the road to success. I even straightened my tie before I went in.

All that effort was wasted: Klein barely glanced at me when I entered. He was seated with his heavily buckled loafers up on his desk, and I noticed his socks didn’t match: one was navy blue, one was black. But who knew, maybe it was a thing of his, cultivated to bring him luck in his commercial real estate wheelings and dealings. He appeared to be currently doing just that, frowning into the distance while he listened to someone on the phone.

I took off my Canadian Tire outdoor jacket and hung it up on the stand next to the entrance. It looked really cheap there, the guy that had designed and made that stand had been thinking of cashmere overcoats. I stood next to my cheap jacket like an idiot for quite a while: I mean, I didn’t even know where I was supposed to sit.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” said Klein into the receiver. “However, my client cannot accept those terms. It just isn’t possible.”

He fell silent, and did some more listening. He also became aware of my presence: he looked at me and pointed a finger at the far corner of the room. It featured a cupboard, a sink, and a small table decorated with a drip coffeemaker and associated items – a couple of mugs, sugar pot, roll of paper towels. There was also a single wooden chair set against the wall, and I assumed that was where I was supposed to sit, like a f.u.c.k.i.n.g cloakroom attendant.

“Like I told you, I understand that,” Klein said, as I passed him on my way to the designated chair. “What I propose is that we meet somewhere in the middle.”

I stopped by the chair and examined it. It didn’t look comfortable. My paranoid pal giggled.

“F.u.c.k.i.n.g asshole!” screamed Klein, making me jump. I turned just in time to see him slam the receiver down so hard it was a miracle it didn’t break. He swung his feet off the desk and stood up and looked at me and said:

“He hung up on me! The sonovabitch hung up on me. I’m going to – why are you standing there like that? Where’s my coffee?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize – ”

“Yeah yeah. Okay, you’re new. First thing you do when you come in, you make a pot of coffee. And when there’s already a pot of coffee ready, you make sure I have some. Black, three sugars. That f.u.c.k.i.n.g prick, I’m going to rip his head off and stuff it up his ass. But I need a coffee first. Where’s my coffee?”

“It’s coming,” I said. The glass jug on the coffeemaker was half full. There were a couple of white coffee mugs standing next to it. I made Klein his black with three sugars, and brought it to his desk and took away the dirty mug. Klein was f.u.c.k.i.n.g around with a cigar, sniffing it and rolling it in his fingers next to his ear before snipping the end off with what looked like a gold cigar cutter. I tried to ingratiate myself by offering him a light, but he recoiled in horror.

“Don’t you dare light that thing,” he said. “This cigar cost three bucks. Understand? I don’t spend three bucks to smoke something that tastes like a rag soaked in gasoline. Get yourself a proper lighter. Butane gas. Ronson or Dunhill. Like this one.”

He dug out a flash gold lighter and spent half a minute lighting his cigar.

“Okay,” he said, puffing smoke. “Where was I? Oh yes. When you come in, the first thing you do is run a coffee check. Then you park your ass over there, and look professional.”

He pointed at the other desk in the room, a beautiful antique piece that I thought was rosewood. It had very comfortable-looking armchair, a typewriter, and a dark green leather pen-and-blotter set with a gold pen. It was actually more elegant than Klein’s own desk. I was dumbfounded.

“It’s Jack’s desk,” explained Klein. “He doesn’t use it nowadays. He does business playing golf and getting loaded on gin and tonics while I wrestle with assholes. Forget I said that. Jack Robinson is a great guy. A fantastic guy. But you better make sure you keep that desk of his spotless. It’s a family heirloom, and it’s worth a shitload of money. The girl we had before you spilled milk on it while Jack was in. She drank milk all day, can you believe that? Had a glass standing by at all times. F.u.c.k.i.n.g irritating. An accident waiting to happen. Jack fired her on the spot.”

He plugged his mouth with his cigar and I took that chance to ask:

“Wouldn’t it be better to get a third desk in here? There’s plenty of space.”

Klein pointed his cigar at me in an accusing manner and said:

“Do you know how much it would cost? No you don’t. Try ten grand. That’s right. This is a professional office. A real estate office! The furniture has got to match. This -” he rapped the surface of his desk with his knuckle – “This cost more than what the average guy makes in a year. It’s actually more valuable than Jack’s. It used to belong to John Macdonald. John A. Macdonald, get it? Canada’s first prime minister. Used to keep his gin in there. Now I keep – never mind. Okay. Let me show you the typewriter.”

The typewriter was a Mercedes that knew pre-war days. It was in perfect working condition, though: the keys made a soft, snicky sound when pressed. Klein got me busy with a little test: he gave me a couple of notebook pages covered in scribbles, and asked me to turn them into two formal business letters. I couldn’t decipher some of the words; I guessed what they were from the context. There was also a bunch of spelling mistakes and a few were so bad I thought Klein had made them on purpose, to check whether I really could spell. The ability to spell had seemed to rank high when Robinson was interviewing me for the job.

I spent maybe ten minutes on each letter, typing them really slowly so as to avoid mistakes that would necessitate typing them from the beginning. Klein had told me I wasn’t allowed to use correction fluid. It always showed, and Robinson & Klein did not make mistakes. Their reputation was built on that. I was beginning to see why that job was open in the first place. They probably had to hire a new office assistant at least twice a year.

I was really apprehensive when I handed the letters to Klein for inspection. A professional secretary would have spent maybe five minutes on both, not twenty. But to my surprise, Klein was really pleased.

“Looks good, ” he said, when he’d finished reading. “Looks really good! Finally, someone who knows English. Now type the addresses on the envelopes, seal the letters – and make sure your hands are clean, no finger marks on the letters or the envelopes, or it’s your ass. Put them in this doc.u.ment case, and go round to the post office to send them by registered mail. Get a dollar from the petty cash box in the top drawer, and note it down on the pad you’ll find in the box. And don’t forget to bring the receipts. Staple them together, and put them in the box. Jack goes through that stuff once a month, make sure everything is in perfect order. You know where the post office is?”

I didn’t. It turned out that the nearest post office was over a mile away. It also turned out Klein thought I had a car.

“What the hell do you mean, you don’t have a car?” he said. “Everyone has a car. Even the little kiddies have push-pedal cars.”

“I don’t have one of those either,” I said.

“You got a driver’s licence?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmph. What’s the use of having a licence when you don’t have a car? Never mind. Okay, you can post those letters later. I’ve got to leave right now and someone’s gotta mind the office. I’ll be back around two, you’ll go then. Got it?”

“Anything you’d like to get done in the meantime?”

“I said, someone’s gotta mind the office. So that’s what you do. Mind the office. Answer the phone, take messages, anyone comes in through that door you make sure they’re happy. Smile and offer to help and generally use your intelligence.”

“I understand.”

“I sure hope so. Jack may come by in the early afternoon, if he’s here before I get back tell him I’ll be in at two, two-thirty at the latest.”

I nodded, trying to look as intelligent as I possibly could. It wasn’t easy. This was very different from serving beer in a bar or kitchen-portering in a restaurant.

“Nice tie, by the way,” said Klein, and left. I examined my tie when he did. It was a black knit number, pretty common neckwear, there really was nothing special about it. It was a Christmas present from my father, which had initially prejudiced me against it. But after wearing it a few times, I discovered the big advantage of knit black ties: the stains don’t show. You can wipe your nose on the broad end and rub the snot in and it won’t show.

There were no visible stains on my tie. I had no idea why it had drawn Klein’s attention. Maybe it was just the way he said goodbye, instead of ‘later’ or ‘see you’ or whatever. Maybe he said that to his wife when he was leaving for work.

I got my map out of my outdoor jacket and located the post office. If I splurged on a cab, I would be able to work in a visit to G. Papadopoulos on the way back. 4 Myrtle Street, unit 31. 4-3-1.

I sat down in the comfortable armchair at my elegant desk and put my face in my hands and groaned.

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