The Homeless Millionaire

It was really good Harry showed up when he did, because it was beginning to rain. I got inside the car wagging my tail and came pretty close to licking his face. But when I looked at him I saw he was in a sombre mood: there were bad news in the pipeline.

Harry let me have them right away. He said:

"Listen, Mike. I'm sorry to say Mom's not too well, in the psychological sense. So I've gotta go back and spend the night at her place, maybe even stay on there for a day or two, I don't know. You got enough money on you to rent a room somewhere for the night?"

"I could just go back to the cottage," I said reflexively.

"You feel you can handle the boat at night? It will be raining up there as well. Shit visibility. You sure you're up to that?"

I was reminded of that trip when I couldn't start the engine, stripped the skin off my palms paddling, and subsequently came close to running the boat onto a rock. I said:

"No, you're right. It's a stupid idea. Yeah, I've got money with me."

"Good." He switched the courtesy light on and scribbled something on the back of a leaflet that had been lying on top of the dashboard. He handed it to me, saying:

"That's the number at my Mom's. Call me tomorrow around ten and I'll let you know what's going down. Now, I'm going to drive you to a guesthouse I know. I know the people who run it. They won't ask you for ID if I bring you in. It's five bucks per night, but that includes breakfast, and breakfasts are pretty good over there. It's in Burnaby, nice quiet area, next to a park, and there's a place you can eat and have a drink nearby. But it's a longish drive. You sure you've got enough money?"

"I've got seventy two bucks with me," I said. What I didn't say was that this was my entire fortune.

"Great."

We drove down to the guesthouse and indeed it was a long drive south, we actually got on the highway and went over a big bridge spanning an offshoot of the bay. We had to go way past that bridge before there was an exit ramp, and then turned around to drive up a broad residential street. It ended at what looked like a park and we turned west, with Harry pointing out the bar on the corner to me. Soon, we stopped in front of a sprawling house. That was the advertised guesthouse, and it was called the Montrose Bed & Breakfast.

I lit a cigarette the moment I got out of the car to hide my face from Harry. When he came round the car and joined me on the pavement, I pointed down the street and said:

"That sign there, I can't quite make it out. Is it another guesthouse?"

"Yeah. Why, you don't like this place?"

"Its name has unpleasant associations."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"All right then, let's go inside and see what's what and if you really don't like it, you can go to the other place. But they'll ask you for your ID there. You okay with showing it around?"

"I'd rather not."

"Then let's go."

So we went inside, and it was all very nice and homey in there. The place was run by a young married couple, long-haired and relaxed about pretty much everything: they served breakfast right up until noon. They were called Richard and Nancy and seemed very happy to see Harry.

Almost instantly, Richard pulled Harry off to the side for a soft-voiced conversation that, I suspected, involved the possibility of purchasing some drugs. In the meantime Nancy took me to a big chest of drawers down the hall, unlocked the top drawer, got out a fucking big register book and asked me for my name.

I hesitated, and she smiled and asked what name I wanted to give. She said any name would do. I asked her whether a false name wouldn't get her in trouble and she shrugged and said she wouldn't know it was false, would she. After a while I shrugged too, and gave her my real name and forked out five bucks.

Harry split right afterwards: he was in a hurry. But before he left, he told me some good news: he'd be dropping by the guesthouse in the early afternoon. He winked at me when he said that and I knew that he would be bringing some pot for the guesthouse owners and maybe even for selected guests, too.

"You can hang around until Harry shows up," Nancy told me right away. "Unless of course we get a busload of people looking for a place to stay. Then I'm kicking you out at one o'clock."

"How likely is that to happen?" I asked.

"Extremely unlikely. Richard, can you show him his room?"

"Sure. Sure, just let me get the key."

The room was tucked away into the corner of the house, at the very end of a long hallway which ended with a French window leading directly outside. It was locked solid, and Richard told me that all of the guests had to use the front entrance only. I must have looked puzzled, because he added:

"We used to keep that French window open. You know, convenient instead of having to walk all the way down the hallway to the front door. But couple of guests claimed their rooms had been robbed. It would have been someone from the outside, because, you know, we take a good long look at people before we let them stay. So now it stays locked."

The room was small, but nice. It featured a sofa bed and a night table and a small dresser under the window across from the sofa bed. There was a single chair set against the wall and a picture of a sailing ship on the wall over the sofa. I was struck by how clean it smelled in there, and by the time Richard finished showing me how to unfold and fold up the sofa bed, I already felt comfortable.

I thanked him and got my key, and instantly went out to get something to eat at that corner bar Harry had pointed out earlier. It was called The Park Pub and it was done English style, with dark wood and the usual horrible wall-to-wall carpeting imparting an aroma of spilled beer and ancient cigarette butts and ash.

I ordered a pint of Toby ale, and bangers and mash. Both the beer and the food were really good. I had been very thirsty and extremely hungry so I ordered another pint and a burger with fries, hoping to get that sucking hole inside me properly filled this time around.

It did the trick, and I got myself a third pint and lit a cigarette and finally relaxed a little. I was feeling content by the time I lit my second cigarette, and downright happy by the time I'd finished it along with the beer. It was a slow night in the pub: there were a couple of small groups of people who looked to be regulars, but that was all. There definitely weren't any private dicks sniffing around.

In fact, I wasn't even feeling bothered about the cops looking for me. Ontario and Quebec were a long way away, practically across the fucking continent. I had a full stomach and a good, strong buzz from the booze, just a step short of being slightly drunk. I wished I had a joint and then I remembered that I actually had two. I'd rolled them back on the island and hid them in a small zippered pocket inside my magic Canadian Tire jacket. I had forgotten all about them, what with all the excitement I'd had in the meantime.

I instantly started thinking about where to smoke a joint. Back in my room, next to the open window seemed like the best bet. I got up and took my mug to the Empties window and then went up to the barman and asked if I could buy a beer to take home.

It turned out I could, so I bought two bottles of the excellent Toby ale. I also got a small pack of chips, and ended paying nearly twelve bucks for my pub spree. This deflated me slightly and the bar guy noticed the change on my face, so I threw a little smokescreen and asked:

"What's the name of that park across the road?"

"Which one?"

"Which road?"

"No, which park. There are two. When you step out of here you have the Bates Park on your left, and Montrose Park to the right."

He'd managed to stun me twice in about five seconds, and he saw that. He grinned and added:

"It's just one big park, of course. But it changes names right around here."

"Confusing," I said, to explain why I looked as if someone had just socked me on the jaw. I had been socked twice, in fact. First by The Montrose Bed & Breakfast, and then by Montrose Park.

He shrugged.

"Well, now you know," he said.

"I definitely do," I said. I thanked him and left.

I walked back to my room worrying about Montrose making such a strong reappearance in my life. I knew perfectly well it was just a coincidence. There was a Montrose Park, so it was natural that the guesthouse would take that name. And one of the problems with Canada and maybe both North and South America was that the same fucking names kept popping up everywhere all the time.

I worried a little about it, anyway.

When I was about to turn into the front drive of my new home, my eye caught the sign of the other guesthouse, the one down the street. It was at most a hundred steps away, and I decided I'd have a quick look. I was really curious whether it had 'Montrose' worked into its name, one way or another.

It didn't. It was called the Bella Notte. It was the place that had been advertising for a night-time receptionist, light housekeeping duties. I remembered that the ad had said it was next to Montrose Park.

My paranoid pal loved that. It was lucky that he was tired and sleepy: we'd both had a very active, long day.

I returned to my guesthouse planning to pay the Bella Notte a visit in the morning. Richard was on guard. When he heard me come in, he poked his head out of the kitchen and gave me the happy smile and the glazed eye of someone who has been enjoying a joint.

"Hi there," he said.

"Hi there," I answered. I wished him good night and he wished me one too, and I courteously told him I was sure I'd have one.

I heard him giggle softly behind my back as I walked away.