The Homeless Millionaire

I had to pay for that stupid call because it officially went through. But this little interaction - paying and talking to the post office clerk - worked wonders. It felt so mundane, so normal. I instantly convinced myself that I'd simply had a bad connection. It was probably one of those deals where you couldn't hear the other person, but they could hear you. That was why the line sounded so clear, with long-distance calls you always got a low hiss running in the background.

I wanted to call Roch again, but I caught one of the clerks, a middle-aged woman, giving me the suspicious eye from behind the counter. So I went out and walked a few steps away from the entrance and stopped and checked the time. It was just a few minutes past four. I had nearly two hours to kill before Harry came along to pick me up.

I was very determined to give Roch another try, but didn't want to go inside that post office yet again. So I wandered around until I found a store where they let me change five dollars into quarters. Then I did some more wandering until I'd found a payphone box that was relatively secluded and quiet.

This time, I called Roch's parents' house. I was reassured to hear that the line fizzed and crackled. His mother answered almost instantly. She sounded chilly. Yes, Roch was still busy at the aunt's house; he actually was there right now, together with an electrician. Yes, I could call him there. She added very pointedly that she was sure he'd enjoy hearing from me, and hung up the moment I said goodbye. It dawned on me that my name was probably mud in that household. Roch had likely called me many names after I'd pulled off my disappearing act.

I stepped outside the booth to smoke a cigarette, and prepare a series of at least partly convincing excuses for my behavior. My paranoid friend took this opportunity to inform me that Roch's mother had been so hostile because the police had been around, asking about me.

"F.u.c.k off," I told him, and went back into the booth and called the aunt's house.

I had to wait for quite a while before I heard the receiver being picked up. Then Roch said in an exasperated voice:

"Oui."

"It's Mike," I said, and could almost hear his jaw hitting the floor. He was silent, so I repeated:

"It's Mike. I'm sorry I couldn't call earlier. I am living out of town in a place that has no phone."

"F.u.c.k," said Roch, in the dazed tone people use when they've just witnessed a miracle. But he recovered very quickly, and became very angry.

"Where the f.u.c.k have you been?" he shouted, and then proceeded to give me shit without waiting for the answer. He continued to give me shit for over a minute, no kidding - I actually checked my watch. Anything I would say would only make it worse, so I kept silent and he eventually he ran out of steam.

"Remember Tracy? Your neighbor across the lake?" I asked. That threw him off track, and I explained she'd turned out to be a whore, had been bringing her johns to the Montrose every night, and that I just couldn't stand it any longer. I concluded by saying:

"So I quit that job, and one thing sort of led to another. I promise I'll tell you all about it later. But now, you tell me: how are you? Is everything all right? And how's Michel?"

He picked that up right away: he knew I was asking about the museum robbery. He said:

"Michel's fine. So am I. The people who aren't fine are your parents."

"Oh f.u.c.k," I said.

"Exactly. They called my parents twenty times. Last week, they even paid us a visit. I was forced to sit on the sofa for two hours while the four of them grilled me about you. When I told them I had no idea what you're up to, they were convinced I was lying. They even threatened to call the cops on me. I went through f.u.c.k.i.n.g hell. You're a f.u.c.k.i.n.g asshole, man. How could you do this to me."

"I know. That was horrible. I left you a note, though. Didn't you read it?"

"I did. You'd said you were returning to Toronto. That's why your parents were going nuts. They were sure something happened to you on the way back. Oh yes, and they also went around to the Montrose. During the day, so maybe it wasn't so bad. What was really bad is that they went to see the cops, too. You're listed as missing, in Quebec and in Ontario. Maybe in all of Canada, by now. I don't like that. Michel doesn't like it either. You'd better do something to clear this mess up."

"I've already started," I told him. "I just posted them a long letter a couple of hours ago."

"Why don't you call them?"

"You must be joking," I said. He was silent for a moment, then said:

"Yeah. I was just joking. So now I'm the one who has to call them and explain that I've heard from you and that there is a letter on the way."

"Can't you just wait until they get my letter?"

"No. The sooner this madness ends, the better. Your parents were even talking about hiring a private detective to look for you. Do you want to have a private d.i.c.k looking for you?"

I told him I did not. I told him I would instantly dash off yet another letter to my parents: he could tell them there were two letters on the way. He didn't press me to call them; instead, he said:

"I would have forgotten. Remember that loan you gave Michel? He got his shit together and he can pay you back. The whole sum. You've got a nice bit of cash waiting here."

I swallowed twice before saying:

"Take it. It's yours."

He started protesting, thus forcing me to recite all my sins before insisting that he take the money. I told him no money could ever repay what I owed him, and he melted. I promised I'd call him again within the next couple of weeks, and thanked him in advance for calling my parents. Then I hung up and went back to that goddamn post office to write them again.

I could make it short this time; there were no lies involved. I wrote that I'd just spoken to Roch, that everything was fine with me, and that I didn't call them because I was scared they'd rip my head off over the phone. I added I'd be leaving Vancouver within days, to stay at a cottage and paint. There was no phone at that cottage, but one way or another I'd be in touch.

I signed off and hesitated and added a lie, after all. I wrote that I'd just received news someone had bought a drawing of mine for two hundred dollars! Yeah, I put an exclamation mark in there. There was this popular saying: money talks, bullshit walks. I wanted my money to shout, not just talk.

When I was getting the stamp and posting that letter I noticed that the middle-aged woman was giving me the suspicious eye again. Her service window was next to mine, and my paranoid pal was l.i.c.k.i.n.g his lips with anticipation. I disappointed him: I turned and walked out of the post office without anyone trying to stop me.

It was around five and another hour before Harry would show up. I had so many quarters in my jean pocket that they felt uncomfortable. I decided I'd spent some of them on a beer, along with something to eat. Of course I went nowhere close the bar where I'd seen Jane and D.i.c.k. I spent ten minutes finding a hole-in-the-wall greasyspoon and ordered a burger with fries and a beer, and the only beer they had on tap was Molson f.u.c.k.i.n.g Canadian. Well, that made sure I wouldn't order a second one.

But the burger was gone and so was the beer and it wasn't even half past five. So after a short internal struggle I did get another, which necessitated hitting the can. I glanced at my watch while washing my hands and saw it was twenty five minutes to six. So I spent another fifty cents on another Canadian, and that took care of most of the quarters left over from my phone calls. The guy behind the counter loved the fact I paid him in quarters. He told me most people paid him with a note, and that he was always short of change.

It was my paranoid friend that was to blame for those extra beers. He was determined to get maximum mileage from the fact that cops were officially looking for me, at the very least in Quebec and Ontario. Molson Canadian was nowhere as effective as Johnnie Walker, but at least it made my pal's voice a little less shrill. I told him Jane hadn't recognized me, and nor did D.i.c.ky. I was invisible in my new, magic Canadian Tire outdoor jacket. That big anchor on its b.r.e.a.s.t clearly identified me as a sailor.

I smoked a couple of cigarettes while waiting for Harry, keeping my face away from passers by. Night had fallen, but the front of the post office was very brightly lit. My paranoid pal had fully recovered from the beers, and really started kicking the shit out of me.

He told that I was broke and yet had just given away my share of whatever loot Michel and Roch had managed to sell in the meantime. Roch had used the phrase, 'the whole sum'. That meant all of the loot had been sold. That meant my gift to Roch was into five figures, at least halfway up five figures. No wonder he became friendly after that.

I was broke but just gave away at least fifty thousand dollars. And the f.u.c.k.i.n.g police were looking for me, possibly accompanied by a private d.i.c.k. My paranoid pal particularly liked the private d.i.c.k. A private d.i.c.k wasn't hemmed in by provincial boundaries. He could make a quick call to another private d.i.c.k in Vancouver, and I was f.u.c.k.e.d.

It went on and on and on. When I saw Harry's Volkswagen among the approaching cars, my knees went soft with relief.

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