The Homeless Millionaire

It was raining when I woke up the next day. I was determined to carry out my plan, anyway. If I arrived at her place soaked, maybe she would invite me inside to dry out just a little. Yeah, I would just go up to the door and knock. No creeping around to check things out: full frontal assault, right away.

I washed my hair and shaved and nearly changed my mind about going over there when I saw myself in the mirror. I was scowling like a psycho killer regretting that a couple of intended victims had escaped. I couldn't go over there with a face like that. I had to get myself a new face.

Accordingly, I had a beer and a joint before breakfast. It helped immediately; it always does. There's a lot to be said for drinking booze and doing drugs. If there weren't, you wouldn't have hundreds of millions of people drinking booze and doing drugs. It's a very valid coping strategy as long as everything stays in control. And sometimes, it was the only way I could stay in control. Deprived of a drink and a smoke when I needed one, I'd likely end up running around n.a.k.e.d with a big f.u.c.k.i.n.g knife, or maybe using the knife to do myself in, just to stop the thoughts going through my head.

Naturally, I thought about talking to a qualified professional about that. But then I became aware that a lot of people feel the same way. A lot of people go through a shitload of mental tortures every day. Most of them just grin, and bear it. Yeah, everyone's got their own cross to bear, and once I realized that, I stopped thinking about seeing a shrink. Then I read an interview with one of those Sherpa guys that make a living as porters for people whose lives aren't complete without climbing a peak in the Himalayas. They asked the guy how he manages to get up there, miles and miles up where the air's so thin the slightest move makes you gasp and wheeze, all this while carrying a hundred pounds on his back. The Sherpa guy said he keeps his eyes on the ground and concentrates on taking the next step. He said that he doesn't ever look up, because if he did and saw how far he had to go, he'd just sit down and weep.

It struck me as a good philosophy to follow in life. Just focus on your next step. No sense in looking forward and up, just keep going. It all ends badly anyway, everyone's life ends badly, in fact as badly as it can only get.

I should mention here that Michel gave me his remaining pot before leaving. He and Roch had a quick, quiet conversation in French just before they went out to the car. Then Michel walked up to me, and pressed the pouch with the pot into my hand. He grinned and said:

"That's to help you think while you're making up your mind. Bonne chance, mon ami. Choose well."

I didn't thank him, because his 'choose well' implied there would be unpleasant consequences should I choose badly. I resented that. But as I f.u.c.k.e.d around with the frying pan and eggs the next morning, I thought that maybe he hadn't meant it this way. Maybe he had been telling me to make the right choice for myself. That's another plus of drinking a beer on an empty stomach: it makes you think nicely of other people.

It stopped raining while I was eating breakfast. By the time I finished my post-meal cigarette, I saw patches of blue appear in the sky. I got myself ready for my trip, agonizing over what to wear like a neurotic debutante before her big ball. I should have put on my high tops for the trek ahead, but I put on my cowboy boots instead. Wearing them made me feel better. That's why people make all the bad choices they make: because they make them feel better, at the time.

It became quickly evident why cowboy boots were a bad choice as soon as I entered the woods. The leather soles kept slipping on the wet dead leaves covering the ground. I very nearly ended up on my a.s.s a couple of times. After a while I realized that there had to be track leading to her house. I didn't have to go through all this Vietnam jungle shit. I turned and found the track to Roch's family cottage, then continued along it until I came to a turnoff. It was way back from Roch's place, I had to walk for nearly a mile to get there.

There was another turnoff just a couple of hundred steps further on, and I smoked a cigarette while trying to decide on the road to follow. I figured that the new turnoff led to the cottage that had burned down: it hadn't been used in a long time, there was a lot of stuff scattered over the tracks. I was butting out my cigarette in preparation to resuming my journey when I thought I heard a car engine. I froze and stood there with my ears flapping for a good half minute, but didn't hear a thing except for the wind and rustling leaves. A strong breeze had sprung up, and the sky was clearing fast.

The sun was shining with full force by the time I made it to my destination. It took a f.u.c.k.i.n.g long time. The track that led to her house ducked and weaved all over the place, making me glad I hadn't chosen the cross-country route. I was starting to understand why the whole holiday resort scheme had been abandoned; it would be hell to try and build anything in this terrain. It wasn't a hot day, not even with the sun out, but I had sweat running down my face when I finally saw the roof of her house between the trees.

I stopped and wiped my face and had a cigarette. It was nearing eleven by that time, but I still needed to convince myself it wasn't too early for springing a surprise visit on someone I hardly knew. Then I tried to think of something good to say when she answered the door. It doesn't ever work, even when you come up with the most brilliant line in the world it turns out twisted and not nearly as brilliant as it had seemed. In the end I decided I'd just tell her I came up because I wanted to find out her name. It had the advantage of being the truth. Of course it wasn't the only reason why I wanted to see her. There never is a single reason behind anything. A single reason is just the trigger for all those other reasons to kick in, spurring you on to take action and do stuff you're bound to regret at some point in the future. That gloomy Danish guy, Kierkegaard, had it right. Sooner or later, you get to regret every single thing that ever happened to you. You can win a million in a f.u.c.k.i.n.g lottery and next thing you know, everyone's hitting you for a handout.

I actually knew a guy that had won a million in a lottery. His name was Gabor, he was a Hungarian who had immigrated to Canada following the Soviet invasion of Hungary in 1956. He worked as a mechanic at the garage that took care of my parents' car. He had come over with his whole family, including a couple of aunts and uncles, and he was a generous guy. After treating himself to a new Aston Martin - his dream car - he distributed most of what he'd won among assorted family members. He gave his only son a hundred thousand to start a business on his twentieth birthday. The son ended up in jail, where they finally cured him of an expensive drug addiction he'd developed in the meantime. Gabor's wife started a hairdressing salon that went bankrupt barely a year later; an uncle drank himself to an early death; Gabor's own father, a stately gentleman in his sixties, developed a gambling habit that ultimately wiped out all the money still left from the lottery win. For Gabor, it was that or having a crippled father on his hands. The loan sharks he'd borrowed money from told him as much. They were planning to put his dad against a wall, and drive a car into his knees.

The only person that put the money to good use was one of the aunts. She spent what she got from Gabor on a condo in Florida, and moved there. It had been a model family, and it was destroyed by all that extra money. Gabor had told me winning that money was the worst thing that had happened to him in his entire life. He'd had to sell the Aston Martin too, the creditors acc.u.mulated by his wife's hairdressing business were getting nasty and he needed the cash to pay them off.

I was still sweating when I finished that preparatory cigarette prior to approaching her house. And so, I had another. Halfway through, some smoke went down the wrong way and I started coughing. So I said f.u.c.k it and threw away the cigarette and walked up to her door.

I knew something was wrong right away, because her car wasn't in the driveway. But I knocked on the door, anyway. It had a big brass ring knocker hanging out front, and it made a hell of a lot of noise. I waited a while, and used it again. And again.

After a while, it became absolutely clear she wasn't in. I stood there, tempted to walk around the house and maybe do some peeking through the windows. I wondered where she had gone, and if she was gone for good. I walked around the driveway for a bit, hoping I'd hear her car. I didn't. I waited for maybe half an hour. Nothing happened, save for a grey squirrel that suddenly appeared on the branch of a nearby tree. She took a good long look at me and let out a dismayed squeak and ran away.

I started walking back home. I was still hopeful, all prepared to wave and smile at her car as it came round the corner. It didn't. But somehow, I felt less defeated with almost every step I took. So she wasn't in; big deal. Maybe that day wasn't a good time to visit her, anyway. Maybe she had a headache or her period. One of those philosopher guys that I'd read said that everything happened for a reason. I thought that was a whole lot of crap. Everything, including my own life, happened by accident. I knew that my parents hadn't planned on having a second child. Josh was quite enough, an asshole like my older brother would make even the biggest child fanatic stop breeding. I was conceived because of an unfortunate oversight at the factory that made my father's c.o.n.d.o.ms. My whole existence was purely coincidental: Josh had made sure I knew that from very early on.

It didn't f.u.c.k.i.n.g matter. I was alive and around. And I would go again to that house, again and again if needed, until I found out her name and what she was like. I made that promise to myself on my way back. What the hell, it wasn't like I was busy with a ton of other stuff, anyway.

When I got back home, I realized that somehow, during my long walk, I had decided to go along with Roch and Michel, and rob the museum with them.

That evening, while I was eating supper, the light in the house across the water didn't come on. I sat on the deck and smoked and looked at the lake for a long time. I was about to turn in when I thought I heard something. The wind had died down in the afternoon; everything was perfectly still.

After a while, I made out the faint buzz of a faraway engine. I saw headlights slash the darkness over the other shore; my heart started beating faster. I ran inside to get the binoculars; when I returned, a light had appeared across the water.

She was back, and I would be going back there, too. First thing in the morning.