The Homeless Millionaire

I woke up the next day in a different world. I was lying on a sofa in a room with log walls. The window at my feet was speckled with raindrops. But the rain had stopped: I could hear trees rustling outside, and the cries of seagulls circling over the shore of the island.

I had been sleeping in my clothes, and they felt hot and clingy. I threw the blanket off myself and over the sofa's backrest and sat up, rubbing my face. There was a low coffee table in front of the sofa. It was decorated with with an overflowing tin ashtray, an empty pack of Rothmans, a booklet of matches that had just one bent match, and a half-full bottle of Kokanee True Ale. My mouth tasted horrible, so I reached for the beer and made it taste even worse.

I got up and went into the open kitchen and drank some water at the kitchen sink. I remembered dimly that Harry had told me to conserve water: it came from a tank that collected the rainwater from the roof. From what I'd seen of the weather so far, there was no danger of a water shortage.

I filled the kettle and put it on the gas stove and got it going. The coffee was in plain view, a square, squashed pack of Maxwell's on the kitchen counter, and so was the sugar. It was kept in an ornate pewter pot with sculpted handles. Tossing the kitchen matchbox up and down, I went to get a fresh packet of cigarettes.

It took me a while to locate my bag in the living room - I had slid it behind the sofa. I wondered why I'd gone to the trouble of moving the sofa and squeezing the bag in against the wall. I pulled it out and pushed the sofa against the wall and it was only when I'd unzipped the bag that I remembered there was a million-dollar stolen painting hidden inside.

After I'd made myself a coffee and emptied the ashtray, I sat down on the sofa with a foot pressed against my precious bag and began the laborious process of getting a bearing on my situation.

The house I was in consisted of a big room with an open kitchen at the back. There was a rudimentary bathroom next to the kitchen: an ancient shower cabin and a chemical toilet. Entering this bathroom involved bending in half to fit under the ladder-like stairs that led to a large bedroom. When we'd arrived at the house the previous afternoon, Harry made it plain that the bedroom was his very own, very private preserve. The Yale lock on the door emphasized the point.

Harry explained this along with several other things to me while we drank half a dozen bottles of Kokanee True Ale and smoked the last of his excellent Lebanese blond hash. Among others, I learned that the girls I had seen him with when we first met at the A&W were no-one special. He'd met them in the warehouse in Gastown, they were American, they'd gone back to Seattle after traveling to Vancouver with a couple of boyfriends who were draft-dodgers seeking shelter in Canada.

I also got a bunch of instructions. While staying at the house, I was to keep a low profile. Fishing off the pier was okay, but no waving to boats passing by and making friendly with their crews. Shitting was best done in the woods, unless it was freezing and I was really pressed. There was small sapper's shovel by the entrance I could use to dig a hole; it was important to cover up the hole well when finished, preferably throwing a dead branch over the spot to mark it as used.

Harry also made it clear that although there was a gas-powered generator, we were to use it as little as possible. The fridge functioned as an airtight cupboard. There were a couple of Coleman lights and an antique kerosene lamp, and I could also light a fire in the fireplace, provided I collected enough firewood first. There was a ton od dead branches lying around in the forest, and and the occasional piece of driftwood. Did I know how to sharpen an ax? The whetting stone and the ax and a bunch of tools were kept in a storage box by the side of the house, next to a chopping block.

It was pretty clear that staying on the island would mean getting a taste of the good old pioneer life. In addition, we would be working pretty hard once the pot harvest started in earnest. All in all, I would be pretty busy. Was I okay with that?

I'd said that yeah, I was okay with that. I told Harry I didn't want to have time on my hands, time to think too much. Then I really opened up to him, and over consecutive beers I told him pretty much everything except for the museum robbery, and Peter Schmidt. I'd even told him about Tracy and the Montrose. He'd really enjoyed that.

It made him trust me enough to reveal that there two guns in the house - a .22 varmint rifle with a scope, and an ancient double-barreled shotgun. Both were locked in Harry's room, but if it made me feel better he could leave the shotgun and a box of shells out in the front room. I'd said no thanks, but as I was thinking about that part of our conversation I saw that the shotgun was standing propped up against the wall in the far front corner of the room.

I got up to take a closer look. It was ancient all right: it had been made by Purdey & Sons in 1912. There was a yellow cardboard box of shells on the casual table next to the gun. I broke the gun to see whether it was loaded. It wasn't. I put the empty shotgun back where Harry had left it.

I finished my coffee and made myself another one and did a bit of exploring around the house, excluding Harry's room. The kitchen cupboards were full of packaged food, tons of cans and boxes and bags, enough to survive for the entire winter. Harry had told me that fresh food on the island was limited to the weekly haul of groceries brought in from the mainland. Apart from that, there were only berries and mushrooms from the forest and fish caught in the bay, mostly herring and ocean perch.

It looked as if this was going to be a very different experience from staying at Roch's family cottage by the lake. But funnily enough, when Harry had finished giving me the lowdown on everything, he said:

"I'll be splitting soon. Got stuff to do in the city, and tomorrow I'll be at my parents' place. You know, family dinner and shit."

I couldn't help it; I started giggling, maybe it was because of the hash. Everyone around was having Sunday dinners with their parents. I seemed to be the sole exception.

"Yeah," I'd said, when I'd finished giggling. "I understand."

"Great. And hey, I'll bringing in groceries for the week on Monday. You'd better tell me right now what you need, like cigarettes or whatever. But hey - no serious booze. We drink nothing but beer here, and not too much of that. You f.u.c.k around with fire all the time, you want to stay sober."

"Getting high is all right?"

"Man," Harry had said, grinning, "I'm at my most sober when I'm stoned."

"Yeah," I'd lied, "I'm that way too."

"Great. Great! You know something, when I saw you in that burger joint, I just f.u.c.k.i.n.g knew you were a twin soul. I knew it, man."

He must have meant it. He wouldn't have left me a gun plus ammunition otherwise. It was nice to feel so trustworthy, right after killing someone.

After I'd explored everything there was to explore in and around the house, I sat down to examine the newspapers I'd bought the previous day. I spent several hours with those newspapers. I quickly found out there was absolutely no mention of any deaths on the highway, not even a car crash or some other accident. Then I spent several hours reading the retail ads and the classifieds and thinking about what I'd read. I'd developed that habit while being thrown all around Europe with my diplomatic dad. Reading the ads, especially the classifieds, gives a good feel for the place you're in. It basically provides an overview of what's going on.

I had munched on my biscuits and salami while looking through the papers, but by the late afternoon I was ready for a proper meal. I had rice with a can of mixed vegetables: it was tasteless but filling. I spent some time examining the three fishing rods that were on display in a cabinet near the front door. There were books on the shelves near the stairs, and before it got dark I managed to pick out a couple to keep me entertained. I chose L.u.s.t for Life by Irving Stone and The Young Lions by Irwin Shaw; I.S., all the way.

I had read L.u.s.t for Life earlier: it's about van Gogh's life, more precisely about how life shafted him left, right, and center, causing him to lose his mind and eventually commit suicide. Of course nowadays he's recognized as a genius and his paintings cost the earth. If there's an afterlife, van Gogh probably feels he got a good deal: an unhappy life is a good trade for an eternity of great success. It's a shitty deal though when you aren't around to enjoy that success, and most likely there is no afterlife. Well, you make your choices and you take your chances, as they say.

I hadn't read The Young Lions so I got going on that once I'd lit the kerosene lamp. It turned out to be f.u.c.k.i.n.g good and I kept reading it until my eyes lodged a formal protest. The flame in the lamp kept flickering no matter how many and what adjustments I made to the wick.

It was around eleven at night by then, and I smoked a final cigarette congratulating myself on the fact that Canada wasn't involved in a war, and had no conscription. Fighting might be fun for some people but it accounts only for a tiny percentage of time spent in the military. The remaining time, 99% or more, is spent waiting for the fighting while living the military life, and military life is extremely shitty. It's no wonder soldiers are more than ready to kill people, simply being in the military makes you want to kill people because of all the hardsh.i.p.s and bullshit you have to endure.

I was in no danger of being forced into that, which was great. On the other hand, I was in great danger of being forced to live in jail, and life in jail was much worse than the shittiest life in the military.

I tossed and turned for a long time before I fell asleep.