The Homeless Millionaire

It was completely dark when I woke up. The house was silent, and no sounds came from the street. I lit my bedside lamp and checked my watch: it was a quarter to two in the morning. There was no way I could go back to sleep: I was wide awake.

For a while I just lay there, with chaotic thoughts racing through my head. Waking up early like that was a bummer, because by the time afternoon rolled along I'd be dead on my feet unless I managed to take a nap in the meantime. But then I remembered that I would be on the bus to Montreal in the afternoon, and could probably snatch some sleep there as long as the other passengers didn't make it impossible.

I got up, dressed, and tiptoed to the kitchen downstairs to make myself a coffee. I did everything very quietly; I didn't want to wake up my parents. I didn't even use the coffeemaker - it makes sounds like a guy throwing up - just put a heaped tablespoon of ground coffee into a mug and then waited for the water to boil, throwing nervous glances at the kitchen entrance when the kettle began to hiss and gurgle. I drank a couple of mugs, and smoked a couple of cigarettes on the back deck, looking at the night sky. The paranoid chatter inside my head that always started the moment I woke up died down; it was time to act.

I crept up the stairs and into my bedroom, shut the door, and started packing. I planned to be away for a week at most, so I didn't need to take a lot of stuff. What was more, I'd be staying with a friend (yeah, I actually have a couple of friends, maybe I'm not that f.u.c.k.e.d up after all). If I needed something, Roch - my friend - would help me out.

I guess I should say a few words about Roch (pronounced Rock - he's French). I met Roch at school, and we quickly became friends. We were both smokers, and I'll be forever grateful to him for helping me maintain my favorite addiction when my parents cut off my pocket money. He'd always offer me a cigarette when we went for a smoke during a break between classes, and gave me another to smoke after school. Cigarettes were about fifty cents a pack, so it cost him over a dollar a month, but he never said a thing, made no remarks such as 'you owe me a carton by now' that you get to hear when you're always cadging a smoke from someone.

The other thing that bonded us was that he was forever getting bounced from one place to another, just like me. I told you my father was a diplomat: for me, that had meant changing countries and cities every couple of years. By the time I landed back in Toronto at the age of sixteen, I had lived in half a dozen different countries, in places like Rome, Vienna, Paris, London, Stockholm - Stockholm actually was pretty shitty, even worse than Toronto. You may think that it's cool to have been to all those different places, and maybe it is when you're on a p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e trip. But for me, every time we moved meant a new school. I'd adjust to a new curriculum (always painful - I'd get lousy grades for the first few months), learn about the city, make a friend or two - and boom, it was time to move again.

Roch was in a similar situation. His dad was a hotshot manager and efficiency expert working for a consultancy firm, which sent him to various places all over the world. He was originally from Montreal, but got sent down to Toronto to improve things at a big meat-processing plant. He was to stay there for a while, so he took his family with him, but he must have kicked a.s.s a little too hard, because his contract was cut short and they all moved back to Montreal after just a single year. Roch and I became quite close by then: in addition to the smoking, we both hated Toronto, and shared many joyful moments complaining how awful and boring it was to live there.

When Roch moved back to Montreal, we kept in touch, exchanging letters at least once a month. Around Christmas, he shocked me by writing that he wasn't going to university. A rich relative of his had died, some aunt or whoever that owned several houses in Montreal. She had been renting them out, and she left them all to his family. Roch's Dad appointed him manager of this real estate enterprise. Initially he'd wanted to sell all those houses, but thanks to the f.u.c.k.i.n.g Front de liberation du Quebec real estate prices in Montreal took a nosedive, and he'd decided to hold on to them until the market rebounded.

To tell you the truth, I was quietly hoping that I'd be able to get a room in one of those houses, and get a break on the rent. I hadn't yet broached the subject to Roch, but I was planning to do that during my upcoming visit. I thought it would work out okay; he'd already invited me to stay with him when I came over. He had moved out of his parents' place and was living in one of those inherited houses, keeping an eye on the tenants and fixing things when something went wrong. He'd written me that something was going wrong all the time; it was an old house.

I was imagining how cool it was going to be to stay there while I was packing, and I was done in no time at all. I was only taking a big airline travelling bag - I had about half a dozen of these from various airlines, mementos of the travels I mentioned earlier; you got a couple of freebies from an airline each time you traveled first class, and diplomats always got to travel first class together with their families. Anyway, so I was all packed and ready to leave around three in the morning. My bus didn't leave until seven thirty, I had tons of time - the subway wasn't running yet - and so I stood and looked at the packed bag I'd put on my bed, and I had the realization that I didn't want to return home from my trip. I wanted to leave for good, or for bad, or whatever. I couldn't stand the thought of coming back, and getting s.u.c.k.e.d right back into the family swamp.

I didn't even have to make a conscious decision - I just unpacked the airline bag, put it away, and pulled out a canvas holdall I'd bought at an army surplus store: a large tube of rubberized fabric with a wide strap that you could put over your shoulder and across your c.h.e.s.t, to carry the bag on your back. I bought it because it was big enough to contain a folded easel - I had been planning to paint a series of watercolor landscapes, but then I started working at the two jobs I'd told you about, and nothing came of it. I guess I could have taken the easel out to the backyard and painted something there, but you can bet your a.s.s that the moment I did that, my parents would begin popping out of the house at regular intervals to look over my shoulder and make stupid comments about my painting. I tell you, the thought of coming home from Montreal made me feel sick.

And so I packed as if I was leaving for good. I had a very hard time choosing what to take and what to leave, and eventually I took out the easel and left it behind: it took up too much space and was too heavy. I could use a sketchpad instead, I didn't really need an easel: that's the advantage of using watercolor, pencil, or charcoal. You go into oil or even acrylic paint, and you can't do without an easel, plus you need literally gallons of paint thinner to get yourself clean afterwards. I just couldn't be f.u.c.k.e.d to do all that, and anyway I hate the smell of paint thinner.

I was all ready to go at half past three in the morning, and I couldn't stand staying in that house for a moment longer. I picked up my bag and went down the stairs like a trained commando. I forgot all about the third step up from the landing - it creaks loudly, it's almost like the groan of a dying man - and when it did, I froze for almost a full minute. It took me nearly that long again to close the front door: when the the lock snapped shut, it sounded like a f.u.c.k.i.n.g pistol shot. I walked down the driveway avoiding twigs and bits of gravel as carefully as if they were mines, and when I made it to the sidewalk I literally crept for a couple of hundred steps. I was wearing cowboy boots with leather soles, I was sure I'd wake up the whole neighborhood if I walked normally.

It took a while to get to the end of the block, because I lived in Rosedale, a posh part of Toronto with big houses surrounded by big lawns. My plan was to get to the subway station and wait for the first train there, equipping myself with a soda and something to read at the all-night convenience store nearby. The bus station was at the waterfront; there was no way I'd be spending money on a cab down there, at night it cost an arm and a leg.

I got to the corner and was just about to turn into the street leading to the station when there was an explosion of light. I was blinded for a couple of seconds, frozen to the spot like an unlucky rabbit crossing the highway. I heard a car engine start up, and mercifully the lights stopped shining in my eyes, but I'd lost my night vision and didn't see the patrol car until it pulled up right next to me.

"You got any ID, kid?" said the cop in the driver's seat.

"Yes," I said. "Sure". I swung the bag to the side and was reaching for my wallet in the back pocket of my jeans when the cop in the other seat said:

"Hold on. I know this guy. It's the Ryman kid."

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. They live in a house halfway down the street. Hey, kid. Wait a second... yeah, Michael. Your name's Michael, right? What are you doing out at this time of night?"

"I'm on my way to the Greyhound bus station," I said. "I'm catching the morning bus to Montreal."

They both laughed the way people laugh when they know they're being told a lie. The cop in the driver's seat said:

"That's still a few hours from now. What, you planning to walk all the way there with that bag? What have you got in that bag?"

I felt a rush of anger and said:

"My personal belongings. I'm going away for a year. What are you gonna do, frisk me? What is it to you, anyway? I'm not doing anything wrong."

I'm sure that would have gotten me into trouble if I hadn't been identified earlier as the Ryman kid. Toronto cops don't take lip, they take revenge on anyone who dares to stand up to them. But I was the Ryman kid, we lived in Rosedale, we were wealthy and thus respected members of the community. The cop in the driver's seat actually sounded apologetic when he said:

"Take it easy, now. We see someone creeping around with a big bag this time of night, we get suspicious. They call it an occupational hazard. Hang on." He turned to his partner and they conferred for a few seconds in low voices. Then he turned back to me and said:

"Hop in. We'll give you a lift, at least part of the way."

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, by then my paranoia was beating its hairy c.h.e.s.t with its fists and making growling noises. Cops don't have to beat you up or arrest you to give you a hard time. All they've got to do is decide you need to explain a few things at the police station. You end up sitting on a chair for hours and hours, waiting for someone to take down your statement. In the meantime, other cops are continuously bringing in various lowlifes, most drunk, some with vomit on their c.h.e.s.ts, and depositing them on seats next to you. I've been through that routine a couple of times already - maybe sometime I'll tell you more about it - the point is, it's not a nice way to spend time. So I said:

"Thank you, officer. That's very nice of you, but I'd rather walk. Can I go now?"

He was so surprised he didn't answer, just turned away and looked straight in front. The other cop didn't say anything, either. So I moved the bag in to the right position on my back, and resumed walking, no more creeping, I let my boots hit the pavement: whack-whack-whack. I sneaked a look over my shoulder after a few steps: they were still parked on the wrong side of the street, engine running. I walked on.

I was so angry that the rest of walk, buying stuff at the convenience store, waiting for the train at the subway station - all that passed in a sort of haze. The Ryman kid! That's exactly what I wanted to escape from: being the Ryman kid. F.u.c.k that. I was still angry when the first train finally came, angry when I bought my ticket, angry when I boarded the bus. A fat middle-aged smartass in a horrible blue suit and a porkpie hat tried to muscle his way in front of me when we were about to board, and I gave him a good thump with my heavy bag, pretending the strap had slipped off my shoulder. I said 'sorry' right away, so that he couldn't make a scene. I got myself a seat at the back of the bus. The ride was a bit bumpy when you sat there, and that made sure no one sat down next to me: the bus was maybe half-full when we drove off.

I felt like Armstrong and company must have felt when they blasted off in Apollo 11 on their journey to the moon. I'd bought a paperback in the convenience store to read on my trip, but I'd forgotten to take it out of the bag's side pocket and now it was stowed away in the luggage hold, out of reach. I looked out of the window until Toronto disappeared from view, cheered inwardly, then closed my eyes in order to embark on a mental trip of all that was going to happen once I arrived in Montreal.

I didn't fall asleep. I basically lost consciousness, blacked out.

I don't remember the rest of that trip. I have a hazy memory of arriving in Montreal and Roch greeting me at the bus station. He actually came out there to drive me to his place, I'd written him beforehand, and told him when I'd arrive - and I remember him pulling the cork out of the first of a series of bottles of wine when we got home. I also remember it was pretty good wine: I had several glasses in quick succession.

And that's it, that's where my memories of that day end. Pity, because as I found out later, a lot of interesting stuff happened that night.