By nine o'clock that night the temperature on Yonge street had dropped to 40 below. The wind kept reaching icicled fingers into the doorway where I huddled under a putrid blanket, no longer expecting any pity; no longer expecting any generosity from passers-by on the now empty streets; no longer expecting to be around to care the next day.
Few would notice my passing, none would mourn. I would be lucky to become a statistic. One more street person too screwed up by life to come in out of the cold. But I could care less about that. I cared that my skinny ass ached from sitting too long in one position. I cared that any shuffling for comfort would bring me in contact with pavement not warmed by the little body heat I had left. I didn't care about tomorrow.
The rapid little beat of heeled boots against hard pavement played a counter-point to the empty howl of the wind. The irony amused me. I'm a derelict. I have no family, no friends. I'm of no use to anyone. I couldn't tell you what I did an hour ago. I've tried to drink, sniff and shoot every awareness of every thought out of existence. But still the little dying voice in the back of my head uses words like "counter-point" and is aware of the beat.
The footsteps passed me by and kept on going. I expected nothing less. Maybe I dozed because I never heard her come back. I guess her body changed the pattern of the wind as it tugged at my blanket. Or it altered the sound.
"Got any change?" I asked.
"Let me see your face," she said, unexpectedly, her soft voice floating on the wind.
Who needs it I thought, slipping away from her deep inside my mind.
She ripped the blanket off my shoulders and the wind and cold clawed at my face, tore through the rips in my coat, fed on the last drops of heat I had left. I fell back against the door, surprised and frightened.
"Let me see your face!" she demanded again.
The blanket flapped in the wind just beyond my grasp. I reached a hesitant, shaking hand out for it.
"First I see your face, then you get the blanket." Her voice was hard, insistent. The snow cut at my eyes as I looked up at her. She was every inch the upwardly mobile executive, untouched by life's grimmer realities. She looked so confident I was suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow. She had no idea what savage tricks life could play.
"You'll do." She nodded her head in satisfaction. "Mr. Tramp, this is your lucky day." She dropped a small plastic rectangle into the cardboard box beside me. It lay there on top of the two quarters and three dimes that were my evenings take. "Do you know what that is?"
I knew alright. I'd spent too many nights in too many hotels not to recognise a hotel pass key when I saw one.
"Well I've got no more use for it. Lets just say I'm parting company with my organization. The room's paid for for another night. It's yours if you want it. There's a signed company credit card receipt already at the desk. Feel free to charge whatever you want to the room. They can afford it. They deserve to be shafted. I'm catching the next flight out to New York where I've got better offers waiting for me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
I took back my blanket and huddled into my doorway. I understood.
"Hilton Hotel, by the lake. Suite 2025. It's warm there. King sized bed. Room service. One night only. Understand?"
"Thanks," I said.
Satisfied, she nodded. "Two rules: no booze and you go alone. Okay? You hear me?"
"I hear you."
Suddenly uncertain, she hesitated. I waited for her to take back the passkey and vanish back into the night. "Okay then," she whispered. "Have a good night, Mr. Tramp." The wind whipped around the corner of the building and pushed her back a few steps. Then pushed her back again. I picked up the pass key from the cardboard box, and when I looked up I was alone. I started to cry and the tears froze against my cheeks.
Trembling, I sank deeper into the foaming waters of the pink jaccuzi. The roaring jets punched the hot water against my skin, but the cold was deep within me and I shivered.
Part of it was fear. The four-room suite was luxurious beyond belief, and I knew I didn't belong there. At any minute the door would open and I would be back out on the street.
Gradually the shivering stopped and the headache began. It drove its vicious iron spike deep into my frontal lobes, then twisted. Reflexively I tightened up into the fetal position while ozone from the jaccuzi wafted around me like a warm and gentle woman slowly enveloping me in compassion. Then the shakes began again, but the warmth had begun to penetrate and I began to relax.
I believe I drifted off to sleep after that, a dangerous thing to do in a jaccuzi. But to die in a thousand-dollar-a-night suite after what I'd been through would have been irony too sublime to waste on the likes of me.
When I awoke, I dried off and found a robe behind the door. I dialled room service and ordered steak. While I waited for the meal to arrive I surveyed the suite's fully stocked bar, cataloguing its contents with the loving care of a mother inspecting her baby for the first time. Did it have all its fingers and toes? Yes, and then some.
Although the steak dinner, when it came, tasted fine, I ended up leaving most of it on the plate. However, by two in the morning I'd made good headway through the contents of the bar. Strangely, I did feel some guilt for betraying the woman's trust in me. But in a short while, of course, I didn't care.
A quiet rift torn from an unplugged guitar woke me just before dawn. Sleet pecked determinedly at the plate glass window beside the bed. I knew instantly where I was. I wasn't in the least confused. I was myself again. Hotels, in all their indistinguishable variety, had been my home for over fifteen years. They were my world and I was back.
"Like old times, eh Phil?" said a familiar voice.
I could make out his shape in the chair across the room, the ever present guitar astride his lap. His face was in shadow, but I could feel the sneer. Indeed it felt very much like home.
"Never thought I'd see you again Badger," I told him, my chest so tight I could hardly breathe.
"You been a bad boy Phil." Badger's fingers moved restlessly across the guitar strings and odd unamplified cords danced surgically across my wounded nerve endings. "You made a real mess of that bar. You were told not to drink."
"I didn't know that was from you Badger."
"Oh, that was from me alright, Phil. You think you ended up here by sheer dumb luck? You think the angel that watches over street people decided to take pity on you?"
I sat up and the room rocked on its axis for a giddy moment. About a 5.5 on the Richter scale. Then reality put the brakes on and my stomach lurched.
"My guess is you didn't do any thinking, did you Phil? Never look a gift horse in the mouth, eh?" The music stopped as Badger put the guitar down and stood up. He walked over to the window and pulled aside the curtain. His familiar face looked haunted in its reflection on the plate glass window. I could also see my own reflection slumped on the bed amid the rich furnishings of the room. Through all of us I could see the storm outside clawing at the window trying to get in. Only the storm had substance.
"Nasty night," said Badger. "But we seen worse nights than this when we were on the road, haven't we Phil? You working the big sound board while I soaked in the glory up on stage. Too bad I had to fire you."
He turned to look at me. "I hold myself responsible for that, do you know? Not guilty, mind you. I'm not the kind can ever feel guilt. But I am responsible. It was through your association with me you got so casual with drugs. Where Nailed Badger went, the drugs were sure to follow."
He laughed. "I was a drugged out vicious petty brat, wasn't I? Mindless and cruel beyond belief. And we were on the wildest ride in the universe and making more money than the universe ever saw. You know, Phil, that ride destroyed more people than your average paranoid sociopath in his wildest dreams." He laughed again and turned to face me. "A sweet, sweet time. I'll miss it."
The old, familiar fear began niggling away at my stomach. With Badger you never knew where you were going. Just that it would end up hurting someone. But never Badger.
He went back to the chair and picked up the guitar again and we sat in silence for a while. Outside the storm tapped politely its request to enter.
"I don't understand any of this, Badger," I told him. "Why are you doing this?"
"You might say I've discovered religion, Phil. Found my Higher Power, so to speak. Between drugs and booze I almost killed myself. Pretty much blew my liver. A Twelve Step program saved what was left of me. You know about Twelve Step programs Phil? For the eighth step they have you list all the people you've harmed. Mine was a long list, Phil. And then you have to make restitution, as best you can. Guess whose name came up on that list? Mmmm?"
I looked at him. There was a game going on here, but as usual I couldn't figure out the rules. And wouldn't until I was "it".
"This was the start of my restitution for you Phil. Pluck you out of the frigid night. Put every luxury in your path. I was going to mold a better man of you. Pull a few strings for you in the background. Help me with my recovery at the same time. But you're not playing by the rules, Phil. How can I be expected to help a man who won't play by the rules? Who doesn't keep his word?" Badger came and sat beside me on the bed. "You're blocking my recovery here, Phil. And we can't have that, buddy. You know?"
"I didn't know you were behind this Badger. I didn't know."
Badger's ugly, wasted face curled into a familiar sneer and he patted me on the back. "I know, Phil. I know."
Behind him, the bedroom door silently opened and the woman from the street entered. No longer the upwardly mobile executive, she was dressed in black leather, the colour of her lips and nails.
"Is the Retinue getting impatient?" Badger asked.
"They live to serve, Badger," she replied. "How are things going with Mr. Tramp?"
I waited.
"I think Phil here senses the approach of End game, darlin'." Badger uncoiled from the bed. "So let's not disappoint him. I'm afraid it's back to the streets for you, Phil. You can't rescue a man don't want to be rescued. And I've got a long list of rescuing to do before my eighth step is done. You could have had the high and fast road, buddy. I got enough money to be really generous. But I can't let your problems block my recovery, now can I?"
He nodded to the woman, "Send in the Retinue, darlin'."
The woman smirked in my general direction and went to the door. Three of Badger's ever-present bodyguards entered.
"Escort this worthless soul back to his abode gentlemen, will you please." Badger dramatically hung his head, the way he signalled the end of every concert.
I gave no resistance. The three waited until I had dressed and surrounded me as we walked the corridor, descended to the lobby and walked out into the storm. When we reached the sidewalk, the thug behind me gave me a kick out into the road. As I skidded and sprawled into the icy gutter, they didn't even bother to laugh. Just quickly and silently retreated back inside.
Hobbling back up the street, I huddled out of the wind in a recessed doorway and waited. If anything the storm increased in intensity. The wind and snow now shrieked past me, occasionally blocking out my view of the huge hotel across the street. About an hour later, a white limo the colour of the storm crawled up to the front entrance. A tall doorman, warmly dressed in a military style greatcoat, braced against the wind as he hurried to open the limo's rear door. Then, Badger, his lady and his Retinue hurried into the warmth of their vehicle. As the car drifted away it was as if the wind gave it a push into the curtain of snow, and they were gone. Swallowed by the storm.
The wind gave one final shriek and slowly abated. The intensity of the snow began to lessen and the day grew silent in the early dawn. I waited a reasonable amount of time before cautiously making my way around to the back of the Hilton. Across the back alley and around the corner from the hotel was the metal garbage can I had emptied earlier in the night. My hand trembled as I reached for the lid.
The metal groaned as I lifted the handle--and there it was, safely inside. The majority of the contents of the bar. It had taken five trips to bring the bottles down. About a thousand dollars worth of booze. Six hundred cash to a bar owner I knew.
A stake. A tiny stake, but the start of my own way back. A second chance for me. One I had already decided not to blow. Even before Badger's appearance I'd come to a decision and had a plan for my future. A two part plan. First, I was going to find a way to make enough money to live well, because that is the best revenge. Second, I was going to find a way to stick it to Badger, as hard and as soon as I could.
Hurting him wouldn't be the best revenge; but it sure would be the sweetest.
(C) B.E. Fraser, 1994 No copying of this material without the expressed permission of the author is permitted.
