The Homeless Millionaire

It was still dark when I woke up. My nose was blocked and my mouth completely dry and I hit my head on the sloping ceiling when getting up from my bed. I touched my face, and it felt hot. It seemed I was running a fever.

My watch showed half past five; I'd slept for over thirteen hours. The house had been empty when I returned with my shopping the previous day. I still hadn't seen or spoken to Birgit, my landlady. The whole house was asleep except for me.

I wondered if Birgit was aware that I'd moved in. I hadn't put anything in the fridge downstairs. I'd made a point of buying food that didn't need refrigerating: sliced bread, canned corned beef, teabags, instant coffee, sugar, and a five-pound bag of apples. I'd also had to buy a fresh carton of cigarettes, and rounded off my shopping spree by acquiring a small electric kettle, plastic plates and cutlery, and a tin ashtray big enough to accommodate a pack's worth of butts. I had no intention of leaving my room to face the world in the morning without any caffeine and nicotine in my system.

I tiptoed down to the bathroom to take a leak and fill my new kettle, and made a mental note to purchase something that came in a big plastic bottle. I needed that bottle for middle-of-the-night emergencies. There was no way I'd be stumbling on the stairs in the dark whenever my bladder woke me up.

I returned to my room and had a slug of Seagram straight from the bottle. It didn't invigorate me. It made me feel tired and sick, and I went back to bed. I was asleep right away.

I woke with my empty stomach tied into a tight little knot: my watch said it was nearing half past seven in the morning. I crawled out of bed and dug my metal traveling mug out of my bag, and made myself some instant coffee. It had no taste at all. I had a headache and felt painful all over, as if I'd rolled down a stony slope.

This wasn't a cold, it was full-blown flu: I'd fallen sick just when I had to go and find a job. I fought off an urge to drink all the booze I had, smoke a joint, and go back to bed. I put a slug of rye into my third coffee and forced myself to eat a couple of slices of bread. Then I fired up a cigarette and that was a mistake.

I thought I'd cough my lungs out. I threw myself on the bed and pressed my face into the pillow, but I still activated the kids in the bedroom directly below mine. They kept their voices low and it was a while before I identified them as two girls, six or seven or eight years old— kids under ten all sounded the same.

I got off the bed and tiptoed to the heating vent and lay down on the floor to put my ear next to it. I could hear the two girls as clear as day through the heating duct, at least until the thermostat turned the heat on. There was a metallic click and hot air blasted into my ear and I got up from the floor with a new understanding of why Birgit had been so happy when I told her I didn't have a radio.

I'd bought a newspaper the day before for the job ads, but hadn't looked at it yet. So I made myself some medicine: scotch and hot water, half and half. The first couple of sips improved things enough to let me smoke a cigarette without choking. Then I got the paper and sat down to look at the Help Wanted ads.

There was a handful of the usual shitty bar and restaurant jobs; just thinking about them made me cringe. I put the paper down and smoked and thought about the Bella Notte job, presently taken by a fellow with eye-catching nose hair. I couldn't really understand why they would need a receptionist at a place like that. Richard and Nancy's guesthouse was of similar size, and they managed just fine between the two of them. And it wasn't like either guesthouse was experiencing a rush of guests, nor could it expect one. Vancouver wasn't exactly a hot vacation spot in the winter.

There had to be a catch of some sort, I was sure. But speculating about that was a waste of time, so I picked up the paper again and had another go at the job ads.

This time around I didn't scan them, stopping to read just the ones that caught my attention. I read all of them, even the ones that asked for architects and qualified lathe operators. I was rewarded with this gem:

REAL ESTATE OFFICE requires clerk for reception and light administrative duties. Responsibilities include handling phone calls and mail, miscellaneous errands, and some typing. Good presence and impeccable spelling a must. Office hours 12–6 pm Monday through Friday, 9 am–3 pm Saturday.

It was basically a full-time job, thirty six hours a week: I wondered whether the Saturdays paid extra. I made up my mind to call them, hoping they wouldn't be located at the other end of the city.

By then the house was awake: everyone seemed to get up at the same time. There were footsteps, voices, coughs. I opened the window looking over the backyard and cold, wet air blasted my face. It was beginning to rain.

I forced myself to air my room out, and also to eat some bread and corned beef and an apple. Then I sat and smoked and listened to the family below get ready for work and school. I knew that their name was Noyce from the rental agreement, and it seemed as if that could be an omen.

My plan was to sit there quietly until everyone had fucked off, and treat myself to a long, hot shower. Then I'd call about that real estate office job. I hadn't asked Birgit whether I could use the phone, but this was a local call. It wouldn't even show up on their phone bill: no big deal.

They seemed to be taking forever to leave and at long last I heard the whine and clatter of a garage door being opened. A car engine began thrumming. I actually got up, all ready for my bathroom run, when I heard steps on the staircase leading to my floor.

It was Birgit. She knocked and I asked her to come in and she did. She was already dressed to leave, wearing a tan trench coat and a head scarf.

"Hello," she said, eyes flitting around the room before meeting mine.

"Good morning."

"So you've moved in," she said. "We weren't sure if you did. I came up and knocked on your door yesterday evening but there was no answer."

"I was asleep," I told her. "I think I've caught a cold."

"Oh. Okay. You want me to bring you anything on the way back from work?"

"No thanks, I'm fine. I've got aspirin somewhere. That should be good enough."

"Okay. Oh, one more thing. After you've used the bathroom, can you make sure to wipe everything down? It's the children. They are like little magnets for all sorts of germs."

"Of course, no problem," I said, conscious of a growing dislike for Birgit's children. It stopped me from asking Birgit whether I could use the phone. She'd have probably requested I wear a mask and protective gloves.

"See you later," she said, and left. It was my first full day in my new home, and already I was starting to regret moving in there.

I had a scotch straight up to improve my mood and sat sipping it and smoking until the Noyces were gone. Then I got the paper and went down to the ground floor. There was a phone there, midway between the front door and the entrance to the kitchen, and I used it to call the number in the job ad.

The phone was answered almost instantly by a guy whose accent I couldn't place: he was trying hard to sound American. He said:

"Robinson and Klein, good morning."

"Good morning," I said. "I'm calling about the position advertised in the paper. Is it still open?"

"Wide open," he said. "Can you work Saturdays, pal?"

"Yes."

"Good. Lemme see... Can you come in tomorrow? My partner will want to see you, and he's not around today."

"Sure."

He told me to come between eleven and noon, and gave me the address. He explained it was right on the corner of Willingdon Avenue and Albert Street, and when I returned to my room and checked my map I found I was in luck. It was maybe a ten minute walk from my home on Yale Street. Of course, I took it as a sign that the job was already mine.

I spent a few frustrating minutes looking for the bottle of aspirin in my bag. I found it hidden in the folds of the T-shirt wrapped around the Rembrandt.

I took out the painting and hesitated. I really wanted to look at it, and I couldn't. Looking at it meant removing the watercolour I had pasted on top, and removing all the dried glue that remained. It was a delicate process that could easily take a couple of hours.

I couldn't look at my Rembrandt. I had it, and I couldn't look at it. That painting was meant to be looked at, that was the reason behind its existence. I treasured that picture more than anything else and had it in my possession and I couldn't even fucking look at it. It was as bad or maybe worse than having a great car that wouldn't start, or a beautiful wife that wouldn't fuck. I came pretty close to crying when I was putting it back in the bag.

It was still too early to call Harry about corporal Evans. I forced myself to eat a little more food, and popped two aspirins and drank two mugs of tea without any booze. The tea was fucking awful; the teabags I'd bought were stale. Then I got back into bed, trying not to think about anything that was upsetting, and found that left nothing to think about.

I spent the rest of that day in bed, worrying about things. I didn't leave my room: I pissed into the now-empty scotch bottle. I hoped Johnnie Walker wouldn't feel offended, and would continue to assist me as and when necessary.

When Birgit and the rest of the gang returned home in the afternoon, I made sure not to make any noises that would encourage a visit. I stayed noiseless with such dedication that I fell asleep, much earlier than I'd planned.

I woke up at a quarter to midnight, ravenously hungry. I ate almost a whole loaf of bread and a can and a half of corned beef and three apples. I drank most of the rye that remained and a mug of that awful tea and promised myself to buy a standing lamp as soon as I could afford it. The ceiling light made everything look ugly.

My flu turned out to be a simple cold, and it was going away; with any luck, it would be gone by the morning. That was good, because I had a job interview coming up. I promised myself I would get that job, no matter what.. Then I went back to sleep.