The Homeless Millionaire

I awoke the next morning to familiar sounds: downstairs, Roch's old man was shouting at him. I got up and waited until the shouting ended and the front door slammed; then I cautiously made my way downstairs.

Roch was in the kitchen, standing by the counter and hurriedly drinking a coffee. He explained that he'd forgotten about an appointment: he was supposed to meet an electrician at one of the other houses early that morning. He left without telling me when he'd be back.

I went through the morning routine—wash, dress, eat—then stood at the kitchen window and smoked a cigarette. I was acutely aware of the fact that in just an hour's time, at ten o'clock, an integration event for first-year students was taking place. It felt as if it was taking place on a different planet.

Michel had told me I could safely cut all September classes. I wasn't sure if I'd go that far, but I thought cutting a week wouldn't do much harm. I'd had my fill of new experiences for a while, and it had been stressful. I was also starting at the Montrose in the middle of the month. I could use a week to relax, I needed a week to fully transform from an armed robber into an arts student.

I found myself regretting what I'd done, and tried to look on the bright side: there was a painting worth one million dollars in my room upstairs. Technically, that made me a millionaire. But being a millionaire wasn't that much fun, because being a millionaire meant a million extra worries. What was fun was living like a millionaire. This was why people got into debt up to their eyebrows: because they wanted to live like millionaires. Being a millionaire and living like a poor arts student wasn't fun. It was even less fun with all those cops eager to find me, and put me in jail.

I had just over sixty bucks in hard cash, and that wasn't nearly enough to live like a millionaire for a even a single day. I was supposed to start work at the Montrose on the 18th, and I was to be paid weekly: that made it three weeks until payday. I was a millionaire that had to live on two and a half dollars a day, less than a guy on welfare.

I lit another cigarette and had the depressing thought that I should limit myself to five smokes a day, to save money. By the time I finished that second cigarette I was in a black funk, angry at everyone and everything. Michel was due to drop by the next evening, after another visit to the fence. But he'd warned us that he might not be bringing any money.

"The thing to do, mes amis," he'd told us with a superior smile, "Is to live normally. Exactly as we've all been living until now. No big spending. Anyway, if I go to my guy with my hand outstretched, he's going to take advantage and knock the price down."

"How long to we have to wait to see any money?" I asked.

"You just got some money, non? Fifty bucks."

"Okay. How long until we get any more money?"

Michel pursed his lips, as if displeased by my greed. Eventually he said:

"At least a couple of weeks. Maybe a month. Don't get impatient. It's best that we play it safe."

"Play it safe? You're going to keep all that stuff under your bed for a month and you're talking about playing it safe?"

"No, no. It's not going to stay under my bed. I've got a good hiding place, a professional hiding place. I'll move everything there in the next couple of days. Don't worry about it, I'll take good care of all that."

"Michel is right," Roch said suddenly. "We just go about our business as if nothing has happened. Easy does it. If you're broke, you can pay the rent next month, when we get some more cash. I'll cover for you."

There was nothing I could say after that. And now I was stuck with sixty bucks and three weeks until payday. I told myself that I had a place to stay, wasn't in danger of starving and so on. But I also owed Roch that money I'd borrowed earlier on top of September's rent. It all came to seventy five dollars: I owed more money than I had, I was fifteen in the red. But I had a fucking Rembrandt.

I went upstairs and got the Rembrandt out and looked at it for a while. But instead of making me feel better, it made me depressed. There was no way, absolutely no fucking way I would ever be half as good as Rembrandt was. I was beginning to get into one of those psychological tailspins that end in a pile of shit. I decided to go out for a walk; it was another fine day outside.

I put the Rembrandt back under my pillow; my hiding place was even more stupid than Michel's. I got dressed to leave and was on my way down when I heard the mail slot flap clink, and the rustle of mail hitting the floor.

The mail consisted of an elegant white envelope, and it was addressed to me in my father's hand. I really didn't feel like reading the contents. I knew they would make me feel bad, one way or another. But of course I went to the kitchen and opened my father's letter with the biggest knife in the drawer: it felt right for the task. Then I sat down, and read:

Dear Son,

It has taken me a while to write you back, because I'm writing this also on the behalf of your mother. She was very hurt that you didn't call after arriving in Montreal, and that you've decided to stay there until the start of the academic year. I admire your finding work so quickly; from what I've heard, it's not easy in Montreal, especially so if you're not a francophone. I also understand that money may be short, but you could have called us collect. I am enclosing a cheque, and I hope you will let me know if you need more.

Josh is back home after his training camp, I must admit he looks fitter and healthier than ever. He has been made deputy captain on his team, and apparently talent scouts are already starting to take an interest in him. I am not sure I would be happy to see him follow a sports career, though. Choosing a career in sports means early retirement, with most of life's rewards coming when one is still young. I have known many people whose biggest success came early in their lives, and most of them were bitter men. It is not easy to live with the knowledge that the best has come and gone.

You know very well that both me and your mother aren't happy with your choice of career, either. From what we know, committing to an artist's career means committing to life of deprivation and pain. There are some famous exceptions of course, but they only confirm the rule.

I don't think I need to say we both wish you a happy and prosperous life. You are an intelligent and talented young man, and you could easily have a life like that if you chose to. You could still paint and draw in your spare time. I may be wrong, but I suspect that is what you'll end up doing anyway. Except that you'll have to take all sorts of menial jobs in order to feed yourself and pay the rent. Supporting a family will be very difficult if not impossible. And every man needs a family of his own, it's his anchor to the world.

Of course you could always marry someone wealthy. It's been known to happen. But I don't think you would enjoy the subservient role you'd have thrust upon you. Make no mistake, the world is arranged according to power, and money translates into personal power. People with less personal power have less of everything.

That said, your mother and I continue to wish you every success. You have been accepted by a prestigious school, which fills us with hope. It might surprise you to know Josh is impressed. I know you don't have a very warm relationship, but that is quite often the case between brothers. Men are born to compete and to win, and this competition can become really fierce when those involved are close to each other. I know you're clever enough to understand that, and to draw upon your forgiveness when appropriate.

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that everything is going well. Please call us collect, your mother particularly would be happy to hear from you.

Dad

There was a personal cheque for a hundred dollars in the envelope. I looked at it for a while, specifically at my father's name printed in the top corner. I took out and lit a cigarette, then lit the cheque and dropped it into the ashtray and watched it burn. He'd mentioned hope at least half a dozen times in that letter; maybe because it was his job to hope, he was a professional diplomat. Well, so much for his hopes. He'd know about that when his next bank statement arrived, and he saw that the cheque hadn't been cashed.

He wouldn't understand why, and would feel hurt. But he didn't understand a lot of things, in spite of being older and a professional diplomat to boot. He didn't understand that I couldn't paint and draw just in my spare time. I could work for money in my spare time, if necessary. It was the other way around, and he just couldn't get his head around that. He also couldn't get his head around the fact that I did not want a family of my own, ever. Being part of one family already was bad enough.

I felt like shit after reading that letter and burning the cheque. I was still sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and fuming, when Roch showed up.

"Hey," he said. "What's wrong?"

I told him what was wrong. I didn't tell him about the cheque. He said:

"Sounds like some activity will do you good. How about painting a room? You're a painter, aren't you? It's worth twenty bucks, it will take care of this month's rent."

I didn't really have any choice but to agree. After Roch had his lunch, we went to the house he was currently working on; it was just a few blocks away. On the way there we talked about everything but the robbery. It was like a taboo subject.

Roch was right: painting a room was therapeutic. It was actually the first time in my life that I used a paint roller, which—Roch informed me—was a Canadian invention, quite possibly the only Canadian invention of any use to anybody. I knew about a few painters that had used a paint roller to create stuff, but I had never considered doing that myself: it was such a crude tool, and I didn't like the work of those guys much anyway.

As it turned out, using a paint roller well was an art of sorts. First, I had make sure it was evenly soaked, but not too wet to avoid drips. The first stroke had to be done upwards, with little pressure; after going up and down a few times, several strokes sideways, right-left-right-left, then everything all over again while applying more pressure. After I got the hang of it, I started to enjoy it. However, I'd made a mistake by not doing the ceiling first; when it was done, I had to go all around the room once more to iron out the paint drips on the walls.

It was late evening by the time I was done: the bulb in the ceiling light was weak, and I was sure there would be corrections to make the next day. But Roch was more than happy. He said I'd turned that room into a work of art, and asked me whether I would like to do some more paid painting. There were two more rooms to do plus the kitchen, which was a horror story. All that would pay my next month's rent, and cancel my debt to Roch.

Once again I didn't really have a choice but to agree, however I did so on the condition that Roch would prep the kitchen himself: the smell of the chemical cleaner made me sick. We made a deal, and celebrated that evening by going through a six-pack and a couple of joints. Roch had purchased a quarter of bush weed that tasted and smelled like old socks burning, but worked well. We went to bed giggling like two retards.

We resumed working on that house the next day after a late breakfast. I had another room done by the late afternoon, and joined Roch for a final disgusting hour of getting the grime off the kitchen ceiling and walls. There was a working phone in that house, and it rang just as we were wrapping up.

It was Michel. He had news and wanted to meet at Roch's place later that evening. We went back home and ate the Chinese takeaway we'd picked up on the way and were just about to smoke a post-dinner joint when Michel showed up.

The news he'd brought put us off smoking any pot that night. He said:

"Bad news, guys. Our buyer is in hospital. He had a stroke last night. From what I heard, he's going to stay there for a while."