The Homeless Millionaire

When I got home around seven in the morning, Roch wasn't around. We had already started to develop a routine where we would have breakfast together. So I ate breakfast alone feeling let down by Roch, and then went upstairs to catch up on my sleep. I fell asleep pretty fast: my organism had already adjusted to the new schedule.

I was at the Montrose twenty minutes early, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after nearly nine hours of sleep and a plate of combination fried rice at the Chinese place. It was dirt cheap—a dollar for a big fucking heap—and I suspected it consisted of combined leftovers refried with a few spoonfuls of fresh rice. It contained a startling variety of meats and vegetables that actually tasted quite good.

My early arrival made Larry shine with gratitude. We shared a smoke and talked and I let slip that I was surprised we were working eight-hour shifts. We could have easily managed ten hours, maybe even twelve, and then Henry Houghton-Briggs wouldn't need to sully his aristocratic image with reception duties. Larry leered at me, and said:

"You're starting to like it here, huh? You'd like to work twelve–hour shifts? Well I wouldn't. I've got a family. Evenings, I got care of the kid, 'cause Susan works nights in a bar. We got nice neighbours and they look after the kid when we're both out, but I gotta collect him by ten thirty. That's why I ripped your head off when you were late. Don't look at me like that. You thought I was keeping a family on my pay alone? Eighty bucks a week, you gotta be fucking kidding."

"Eighty? You mean you make like, what, over thirty in tips?"

"Yeah. Actually, when I think about it, that's as low as it gets. Most weeks I make around ninety, sometimes a hundred. See, I know some of the people who come here on a regular basis. I know who they are, what they do, sometimes where they live. They come here for a fuck on the side, an indiscretion from me and they'd be in a shitload of trouble. So they keep me sweet. Why, just today I got tipped five bucks by a guy."

"What!?"

"Yeah. See, my wife works in this bar, like I told you earlier. One evening, when we'd unloaded the kid onto the grandparents—her folks—I walked her to work, and stuck around for a couple of freebies. A moment later a bunch of guys in suits come in. They're relaxing after a long day at the office, they've been relaxing for a while already, they're all halfway drunk. They didn't see me 'cause I was sort of half-hidden behind a pillar. You don't wanna advertise you're getting free drinks, right? I got a good look those guys. And guess what? Two of them rent a room here at least once a month. Couple of days later one of them came in and asked me for a room. When I told him nice to see you again, sir, and he turned a little pale and started tipping me at least a couple of bucks each visit. We smile at each other a lot, me and this guy. We're practically pals, and today he gave me five bucks. Hey, stop staring at me like that. You were born yesterday or something?"

"It's just envy," I said. "I wish I knew a couple of guests like that."

Larry waved his cigarette in a dismissive way, and said:

"Question of time, man. Work here for a while, and sooner or later you'll see a face you know from someplace else."

I didn't realize then how prophetic his words were.

I was half-expecting more trouble that night, after my event-filled previous shifts. But that night, everyone was nice and calm and peaceful, even though I handled more guests than I had on all three preceding nights. Almost all of them fell into the cheating spouses category. They tried to act cheerful, but I could sense other emotions lurking underneath: guilt, shame, anger, desperation, fear.

The one exception was a prostitute that chattered happily about the wonderful weather we were having and how sunshine made her happy. Her sunshine that night, an older guy with salt-and-pepper hair and moustache, was very glum. He was noticeably happier when they both checked out: that whore was good value. I got a fifty-cent tip out of that.

It wasn't my only tip, either: one couple actually tipped me twice. They gave me a quarter when checking out and left another in their room. They probably thought there was a maid. I wished there was, I had a lot of work that night getting rooms ready for the next batch of secret lovers. Luckily, overall they were a tidy lot: one couple even made the bed they'd used. Wasted effort, because I had to tear it apart anyway to put on fresh sheets.

Friday started as an almost exact replay of the previous day. But boy, did it ever end differently.

Once again, Roch wasn't around when I got home; it was beginning to get mystifying. I ate and slept and fucked around with pad and pencil for a couple of hours, thinking guiltily of all those classes I was missing. None of my drawings turned out well and I tore everything up and threw it out before leaving for a combination plate followed by another shift at the Montrose.

I reported to Larry at a quarter to ten: Larry was starting to like me a lot. He went so far as to pat my shoulder, but we didn't get to talk. It was Friday night, and things were hopping at the Montrose.

Larry left, and before long I was running around like a cat with a firecracker up its ass. It was messy, too; I actually had to get the kitchen gloves a couple of times. The tips weren't great, either: I collected maybe a buck fifty from the five parties I checked in and out in the first couple of hours.

It was nearing midnight when I saw Tracy.

She didn't see me right away. When I opened the front door she was looking at the guy she was with. He was much older than her, maybe a wasted fifty something, maybe a regular sixty or a healthy sixty five; wisps of white hair showed under his hat. He was wearing a grey borsalino that looked so soft you could use it for a handkerchief, and a white shirt and striped tie and a grey suit that whispered money instead of shouting it. The brown oxfords on his feet could have been used in an advertisement. He was looking down at them when I opened the door; maybe he was feeling a little ashamed of himself.

I invited them in in my best voice and Tracy finally turned to look at me and there was a flash of recognition in her eyes. But that was all, she didn't even give me a hint of a smile. I stood aside to let them in and shut the door after them and it wasn't until I was back behind my counter that I got the chance to get a good look at her.

She seemed much older, but maybe she was just tired. Her eyes were glazed with booze, and they looked right through me. She was wearing a shiny black mac and her hair was down, parted by the spiky ends of the upturned collar. She looked like a sexy whore and I finally had to admit to myself that this was exactly who she was. It was sad, because it meant that I was a romantic moron.

The old geezer she was with kept me busy for a while; he had been boozing, too. He dropped his wallet when trying to pay me and scrawled his entry across two lines in the register book. He had a sense of humor, though. He signed them in as a Mr. and Mrs. Spencer Tracy.

I gave them number four and led the way to their room being at my most professional and courteous. I acted as if I didn't know Tracy. She acted as if she didn't know me. There was some sort of honesty involved in that.

They checked out a little under two hours later.. They left the room fairly tidy, and I got a dollar tip.