The Homeless Millionaire

I was still thinking about it the next morning. It was the last day on which I could call Tony to tell him I wouldn't be taking the flat after all, and get back some of the money I'd already paid him. He seemed to be a really nice guy and I was fairly sure he'd refund the deposit. He was perfectly entitled to hold on to the first month's rent: he'd be losing money otherwise. But who knew, maybe he'd offer to return first month's rent as well. If that happened, I would propose he at least keep half of that—I was the one reneging on the deal, and he deserved compensation.

But the thing was, I didn't want to renege on that deal. I loved that flat. A supermarket open until midnight and a liquor store within easy walking distance added to its charm. There was no park across the street, but less than a mile north of Fulton Avenue the city ended, and the forest began. Real forest, not a toy-sized park.

Tony had warned me getting downtown might be a chore without a car, but I didn't really give a fuck about that. I would be working a lot the first three months of the new year to get enough good stuff for my show, and later hopefully I'd be working a lot too, in preparation for another show. I didn't have any plans beyond those first three months, really. I wasn't going to make any long-range plans, either.

Exactly a year earlier, in 1971, I had a very firm long-range plan. I was going to work hard and save money and study at the Ecole des beaux-arts in Montreal, and all that was going to take at least four years to complete. Yes, I had my future all planned out for the next four years, and it all blew up in my face in the space of maybe fifteen minutes on the day I went to attend my first class at the Ecole.

Long-range plans were one thing; making my mind up about my next move was another. I spent most of that morning, the last morning of 1972, trying to decide whether to move into the flat on Fulton Avenue. I knew that if I did, I'd be paranoid about the Salmon Arm guy. I'd be constantly wondering if he'd gone to the police to report that he'd seen me. But then, Harry had told me the Vancouver cops were getting a couple of reports like that practically every day. It really made no difference.

It struck me that I'd assumed he'd moved to Vancouver just because he was looking at a place for rent. But maybe he wasn't moving to Vancouver, or the move didn't work out for him. Maybe he was back in Salmon Arms, patrolling a supermarket.

By one o'clock in the afternoon I decided to make the Fulton move. The hell with it! I couldn't let killing Schmidt affect the rest of my life. I had to go on as if it hadn't happened. I couldn't let it change my plans.

I was going to move to Tony's flat as arranged and live a normal, productive life. I'd produce picture after picture and go for long walks in the forest and maybe limit getting drunk to once a week. It was going to be very hard to stay sober while churning out pictures, but life was hard for everyone. I would be living a regular, normal life.

I got so carried away with the idea of living a regular life that it crossed my mind it would be nice to acquire a girlfriend, and begin getting laid on a regular basis. Finding a girlfriend could be difficult while semi-exiled on the northern fringes of Vancouver.

However, finding a girlfriend wasn't a burning priority. My sexual drive had been pretty close to dead for many months. And I had to be really interested in a girl, much more than just in a sexual sense, before I'd want her as my girlfriend. A relationship always involved more talking than fucking, even when fucking several times a day.

I'd had two steady girlfriends after my family's return to Toronto, Canada. I picked up the first one at school: she was a year older than me. She was recovering after her first real relationship when I met her and spent a lot of time telling me about that guy, the first guy she'd ever gone to bed with. She even told me about the faces he'd make while having an orgasm. It was all very interesting but became more and more off-putting and after a while I just lost all desire to fuck her. I'd be wondering what she'd be saying about me to the guy that would come next.

And there would be another guy after me for sure, because I had no intention of making it permanent. I didn't love her, and I was relieved when she graduated and left to study social sciences at the Carleton university in Ottawa. She'd applied to study at the University of Toronto but so did a lot of other people, and her grades weren't good enough to secure her a spot. She found a new boyfriend pretty quickly, Carleton was the first university in all of fucking North America with co-educational housing for the students.

My next girlfriend attended a different school from mine: I made sure of that. I'd found that having a girlfriend at school made both school and the girlfriend tiresome in the long run. It was nice at first, being able to chat during the break and so on, and maybe receive a discreet handjob once in a while. But it became a chore. She insisted on seeing me practically every break. She revelled in the envy of her boyfriend-less girl friends, and loved showing me off. I hated that.

My next girlfriend worked part-time as a waitress in a bar while studying biology in Toronto. She was nearly three years older than me and was fond of making stupid remarks about corrupting minors. She was really good-looking and intelligent and nice to talk to, and in the beginning I thought she might be The One.

The problem was that she was a terrible lay. She'd just lie back and moan and when she gave me a handjob she pulled on my dick as if it was a curtain cord. I tried to explain to her that the 'jerk' in 'jerking off' shouldn't be taken literally, but it was no good. When one of the regulars at the bar she worked started to get sweet with her, I took that opportunity to make a graceful exit.

Maybe I'd meet someone interesting at Fiona's party? Fiona had told me Jane of the leaking sailboat would be there. I'd liked Jane a lot the moment I met her but subsequently, that feeling just sort of faded away. Was it because she, perforce, shared a lot of genes with her brother Dicky, a Grade-A asshole who seemed like he could compete with Josh for the title?

Fiona was out of bounds, of course. Fiona wore a big DO NOT TOUCH notice around her neck. And anyway, she probably had at least half a dozen guys competing for her.

With a start, I realized I actually wasn't sure she had a boyfriend. I had assumed so: it was natural to assume there was one lurking in the background. But she hadn't really mentioned anyone serving in that capacity.

Jane, on the other hand, had definitely mentioned a hazel-eyed Darcy with cute curly hair. I decided I'd keep an eye out for Darcy at Fiona's party and spill a drink on him if possible, preferably on his crotch.

Around two in the afternoon, I got dressed and went to the Park Pub for lunch. If was far from full, but it was rowdy: most of the people inside were getting a start on the New Year celebrations. There was no shepherd's pie left and I had bangers and mash with a pint. Then I went to the payphone and called Roch at his house and got no answer. I left the pub and stopped almost instantly and cursed for a while and went back in and called my parents.

"I'm calling to wish everyone a happy new year," I told my mother when she answered. She was really pissed off at me. She did wish me a happy new year too and all that crap, but it was obvious that I had committed a major crime by being absent at Christmas. My father wasn't in and I didn't ask about Josh and ended up spending a single dollar for the call.

I needed a pint after that and halfway through I started feeling peckish and got a burger and fries. I was really full when I finally went home, but that was all right: there were still many hours to go before I'd eat anything at the party.

I made myself a triple-strength mug of tea and picked up 'The Bucharest Transfer and resumed reading about the adventures of Stewart Grange, or Stew to friends. Following his meeting with Ana, Stew spent the night creeping around the city and trying to avoid the numerous police patrols mandatory in a Communist country. He was supposed to meet her at a corner next to the apartment block she lived in. He went there early just in case, and took up a good observation point. It allowed him to see clearly a car containing plainclothes cops arrive at Ana's address.

They went in, and re-emerged shortly with Ana in their clutches. It was obvious Ana was headed for the chop. The cops were also carrying a case that shouted SECRET DOCUMENTS practically across the street, and Stew sprang into action like a fucking panther. Within a single minute, the two plainclothes were lying senseless on the pavement and Stew was driving away in their car with Ana in the rear seat, and the document case by his side. The car's appearance meant no one tried to stop them, in fact people looked away. It was very bad manners to stare at a secret police car in Communist Romania.

When Stew and Ana got to the airport it transpired that the alarm had been raised in the meantime: the place was crawling with cops and soldiers checking everyone and everything. So they decided to drive out of Bucharest and get as close to to the Yugoslavian border as they could before crossing it on foot—judging by the book cover, climbing a mountain would be involved. Yugoslavia, while Communist, was a non–aligned country with relatively relaxed rules and Stew had a good contact in Belgrade who would provide help.

It had been dark for a while by the time I got to that point, and I put the book away and started to get ready for Fiona's party. I didn't have much choice were clothes were concerned: I would wear a white shirt and my black knit tie and a jacket and dark grey flannels.

I went down to the bathroom for a detailed examination and any adjustments I found necessary. When I looked in the mirror, I saw that a thin red line was still running right across my cheekbone: the razor cut hadn't really healed. I also needed a light shave: just a scrape here and there, no need to fuck around with soap.

I had the feeling that I was being watched, that someone was looking at my reflection in the mirror together with me. I looked inward and sure enough, my good old pal was there. His face was full of anticipation.

"You better get your notebook ready," I told him, and reached for the razor.