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'd 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 made sounds like a guy throwing up. I 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 gradually 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. If I needed something, Roch—my friend—would help me out.

I’d met Roch at school, and we quickly became inseparable. We were both smokers, and he saved my life 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 must have cost him a couple of bucks a month, but he never said a thing.

The other thing that bonded us was that he was forever getting bounced from one place to another, just like me. My father was a diplomat and for me, that had meant changing countries and cities every couple of years. By the time I returned to Toronto at the age of sixteen, I had lived in half a dozen different countries, in places like Rome, Paris, Vienna, London, Stockholm—Stockholm actually was pretty shitty, even worse than Toronto.

You might assume it was great to have been to all those different places. 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 management and efficiency expert at a consultancy firm. It was a job that took him all over Canada and the States. He was 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 ass 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 very 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, an aunt who owned several houses in Montreal. She had been renting them out, and she left them all to Roch’s family.

Roch's old man appointed him manager of this real estate enterprise. Initially he'd wanted to sell all those houses, but thanks to the fucking 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.

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, repairing and renovating. He'd written me that he had a ton of work to do; 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, freebies issued to passengers who travelled first class. Diplomats always went first class together with their families.

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 even running yet—and so I stood and looked at the packed bag I'd put on my bed, and was hit by 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 sucked 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 hold-all I'd bought at an army surplus store: a long tube of rubberized fabric with a wide strap that could be put over the shoulder or across the chest. I’d bought that bag because it was big enough to contain my folded easel.

I began packing 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 it was heavy. I could use a sketchpad instead, I didn't really need an easel: that was the advantage of sticking to watercolour, pencil, or charcoal. Painting with oils wasn’t really possible without an easel. I didn’t paint in oils because it required literally gallons of paint thinner. I fucking hated the smell of paint thinner.

I was all ready to go at half past three in the morning. I really couldn't stand staying in that house for a moment longer. I picked up my bag and crept down the stairs like a fucking commando, all silence and stealth.

I forgot all about the third step up from the landing—it creaked loudly, it was almost like the groan of a dying man. It made me freeze and stay frozen for almost a full minute.

It took me nearly that long again to close the front door and when the lock snapped shut, it sounded like a fucking pistol shot. I glided down the driveway avoiding twigs and bits of gravel as if they were mines, and when I made it to the sidewalk I remained in creep mode for a hundred steps or so. I was wearing cowboy boots with leather soles, and I was sure I'd wake up the whole neighbourhood if I walked with a normal step.

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 Coke 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 would 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’s your problem? I live around here, and I'm not doing anything wrong."

That would have gotten me into trouble if I hadn't been identified earlier as the Ryman kid. Cops didn’t take lip, they took revenge on anyone who dared 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 chest with its fists and making growling noises. Cops didn’t have to beat up or arrest anyone to to give them a hard time. All they had to do was take them down to the police station to explain a few things.

I’d already gone through that routine a couple of times. I sat on a chair for hours and hours, waiting for someone to take down my statement. In the meantime, other cops were continuously bringing in various lowlifes, most drunk, some with vomit on their chests, and depositing them on seats next to mine.

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 slung my bag back onto my shoulder and resumed walking, no more creeping, I let my boots hit the pavement: whack-whack-whack. I glanced 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. Fuck that. I was still angry when the first train finally came, angry when I bought my ticket, angry when I boarded the bus to Montreal.

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' quickly, 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 back there, which ensured 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 to indulge in some pleasant fantasizing about what was going to happen once I arrived in Montreal.

I didn't fall asleep: I blacked out.

I slept almost all the way to Montreal. When I left the bus, still dazed by sleep, Roch was waiting for me at the bus station. He actually came out there to drive me to his place: I'd written him earlier to announce my arrival. I told him I loved him and we got home and it turned out he’d bought a ton of wine to celebrate my liberation from Toronto, as he’d put it. He told me there’d be a party later on, in the evening.

The wine Roch had bought tasted great and I drank a lot of it very fast.. Then he produced a hunk of hash and that was that.