The Homeless Millionaire

My next morning turned out to be uncomfortable, because Birgit stayed home with one of the kids. I spent a lot of time at the door with my ears flapping, trying to pick the perfect moment for the dash to the bathroom. I didn't fancy being intercepted by Birgit while carrying my pissbottle. It was only quarter full, so in the end I just put it back in the closet.

My vigil by the door let me overhear snatches of conversation, from which I deduced that one of the little witches was unwell. Birgit eventually went to the kitchen downstairs, and I instantly nipped down and limited my bathroom activities to a quick shower. I didn't want any knocks on the door because the sick little witch needed to use the toilet just as I was using it myself.

I didn't even shave, although I needed to. I managed to return to my room while Birgit was still in the kitchen. I wasn't hungry enough to eat breakfast, and I suspected I'd be required to stay in the office all day.

I was in a foul mood when I packed my haversack with food—the immortal corned beef, half a loaf of sliced bread, apple—and on my way downstairs I nipped into the bathroom to grab my shaving tackle. I took my toothbrush and toothpaste too, what the hell. I could brush my teeth and shave after eating at the office. Robinson would likely be delighted to see me come in so early.

I dressed and went downstairs and got an unpleasant shock when Birgit popped out of the kitchen just as I was stepping off the last stair.

"Good morning," I said. She was looking very stern and I assumed it was because of her sick kid. I might have been partly right. She said:

"Good morning. Are you off to work already? I thought you start at noon."

"I do," I told her. "But one of the partners is in hospital, and the other is running around handling twice the usual number of appointments. So I need to hold the fort."

"Oh. Is it something serious?"

"Unfortunately, yes," I said, wondering why she was being stupid. People went to a hospital only when things were really bad, didn't she know?

"I hope he'll be all right," she said, without a smidgen of sympathy in her voice.

"One of your daughters is unwell, too?"

"Yes. Hopefully it's just a cold, not flu. Have you called Jane?"

I had difficulty understanding what she was referring to and stared at her and this was actually the right thing to do, because it was no fucking business of hers to ask about whom I did or didn't call. That was how she interpreted my stare anyway, because she blushed a little and said:

"I'm sorry. I brought it up because she's coming over this evening. Are you going to be around?"

"I'm meeting someone after work," I lied. "I'll try and get back home early. I'm sorry, I really have to run."

I escaped outside burning with shame and it started raining before I'd walked twenty steps. It really felt like punishment for all my lies.

I wasn't even sure why I'd lied to Birgit. I liked cowgirl Jane and her mobile lips when I met her. What was so bad about spending the evening with her and the Noyces? I was sure good old Dave would keep pouring the scotch and yeah, they'd expect me to bring a couple of joints, but I had plenty of pot left and had another half-ounce coming. What the fuck was wrong with me?

Robinson didn't think anything was wrong with me. Robinson was overjoyed to see me come in so early: I entered the office on the stroke of eleven.

"Good morning, good morning, my boy," he practically sang out in response to my greeting, then instantly got worried.

"Has something happened? Something at home?" he asked.

"Not really," I said. "But you let me go early yesterday, so I thought I'd return the favour. I know you've got a lot to deal with."

He beamed at me. It was clear that at this particular moment, I was his favourite person in the whole world. It made me feel much better.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said. "This is wonderfully convenient. And very white of you, old boy. I'm truly grateful."

He was gone within five minutes, and I could finally eat breakfast. After two more coffees and two cigarettes I went to the office can to complete my morning ablutions, and of course the moment I pulled down my pants and sat down on the toilet the phone started ringing.

I ignored it, I had no other choice. I brushed my teeth and shaved ready to dash out if it rang again, but it didn't. I got out of the can all spic and span and celebrated with a cigarette and a coffee.

Robinson had left the morning paper on his desk. I hadn't bought a newspaper the last couple of days. I picked it up and started reading, and found out why Moore had postponed our tryst at the police station.

A couple of cops had been shot to death in the city on the very day Moore had paid a visit to Robinson & Klein. The cops killed were responding to a call made by a demented old woman who believed she was being persecuted by her neighbours. To put her mind at ease, they knocked on a couple of neighbouring doors. Actually, they wanted to make polite inquiries about her—they were concerned about her mental state.

They had the bad luck to knock on a door behind which a major drug deal was taking place. The criminals panicked and started shooting and as of the previous day, the whole Vancouver police force was after their asses. They had no time for anyone and anything else.

I wasn't surprised. As a rule policemen rarely got shot at in Canada, and if they got killed in the line of duty it was likely by a drunk driver who hadn't seen the cop signalling him to stop. And it was a double hit too, two cops killed. No wonder Moore didn't have any time for me.

All this cop stuff made me feel I really had to talk to Roch. I decided I'd try to call him collect: I gave him my share of the remaining swag, so he could spare a dollar to talk to me for a few minutes. I'd tell Robinson about the call, of course. I didn't think he'd object to a collect call from the office. We'd become really friendly over the past week.

I was picking up the receiver to call the operator when I had the thought that if things had gone bad at Roch's end, my call could be traced. It wouldn't matter that much if it was traced to a fucking post office booth, but my workplace was another story.

I was afraid of calling an old pal from my work phone number! This was so fucked up. I felt myself falling into a downward spiral. I tried to draw something to calm down, and ended up drawing such shit I was ready to commit suicide. Not a single line was right.

I applied my standard coffee-and-cigarettes therapy while walking around the office. A couple of phone calls asking about Robinson helped straighten me out. I noted the details of each call on the pink slips Robinson & Klein used for that purpose, and it made me feel useful and reasonably competent at tasks that required no more than a room-temperature IQ.

Then I spent quite a while examining Fiona's father. I was getting the hang of this guy. I definitely wouldn't want him to be my adversary.

By the time Robinson got back around five, I was feeling reasonably normal. I had even convinced myself to join, and enjoy, the Noyces' house party that evening.

I was so wrapped up in all this stuff I didn't notice Robinson's sad mood until he said:

"Michael, we have to talk. I'm afraid it's bad news."

It was. Klein wasn't getting any better. And even if he eventually did, he would be quitting work. His health left him no other choice.

"And I cannot imagine running this business by myself," said Robinson. "Even given your most capable help. So when I saw Abel this afternoon, we agreed we're going to close down. Robinson and Klein are going out of business, my boy. Sadly, this means I have to give you notice."

I was completely stunned. I was out of a job!

"I'm really sorry," Robinson said. "I'll need you for a couple of hours tomorrow—you know, Saturday—but otherwise, your time's your own. I'll pay you in advance until to the end of the month. We can settle this tomorrow. I realize it's not going to be easy to find a new job, this time of the year. But January is usually very good, and I'm sure someone like you won't find it hard to land something. Of course, you can count on excellent references. Will give you a letter to that effect, as a matter of fact. We'll draft it together tomorrow."

I really felt like crying. It was like being thrown out of home. I had no idea how much I'd grown to like that place until I heard I'd lose it. But that was the way it was: a loss always hurt more than a gain could please.

For the next few minutes, Robinson and I told each other how sorry we were at the way things turned out. He grasped my shoulder when shaking my hand on goodbye, and asked me to come in around one o'clock in the afternoon the next day. And that was it.

I did some shopping, and discovered I had less money than I thought: it was time to cash a cheque. Then I went home, consoling myself by thinking about the Noyces' little party, and about Jane of the mobile lips.

The house was quiet when I got home; the only light downstairs was in the kitchen. I knew Mr. Chance had rolled me another turd even before Birgit intercepted me on the stairs. Holding a hand over her mouth, she said:

"I'm sorry, Michael. We've called everything off. The doctor was in this afternoon and it's flu, a really bad strain. That's why I'm talking to you like this, I don't want you to get infected and God knows, I might have it already, too. Why don't you call Jane? You've both got time on your hands tonight and there's no reason why you shouldn't enjoy yourselves."

The way she put it sounded as if Jane had confessed she wanted to fuck me. It was a real pity I already felt completely fucked, courtesy of Mr. Chance.

"I'm not sure if it's a good idea," I said. "I didn't want to worry you, but I actually don't feel too well myself. I think I'll just go up and lie down and take it easy."

"Oh."

She looked at me and I looked back at her and nodded and moved my mouth soundlessly and went up to my room.

I'd bought plenty of food, including a curry that only needed boiling water to make ready. So I smoked a joint and boiled some water and succeeded in turning my dinner into a sick-looking yellow mush.

I ate it anyway. Then I had to eat two apples and a couple of slices of bread to kill the taste.

I smoked another joint and lazily drew Jane number two, as well as I remembered her. She turned out quite nicely, although I made her breasts and lips too big. So I made them bigger still, and her drawing became a caricature.

Well, that was true too. That was how things went. You had too much of a good thing, it always turned bad.

My paranoid pal came to life and informed me that he'd pointed out this fact numerous times, with no effect at all.

"Fuck off," I told him.