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Stoker, along with McKay-Smith and Adam Wilson, helped Wayne secure some sense of independence. They'd help with the menial talks — laundry, garbage, etc. Stoker helped him buy a laptop and taught him how to use it.
"He didn't know what a spacebar was. It was crazy," he says.
But today, Wayne downloads all his own music. He subscribes to Internet radio. He streams movies online. The Internet is now officially the supplier to feed his addiction. He lives off the income from the postcard business, which gives him just enough money to live comfortably, but even still he's eager to sell it off.
"It's too much work for one person," he says. "I couldn't get anybody to help me out. Some of the people I know, they have their own life. We can't get just anybody. Nope. I can't trust anybody who's a stranger. It's too hard!"
And once it's sold, he'll be officially retired. There'll be nothing at all to distract him from the only passion he's ever had. I ask him if he plans on moving back down to Vancouver where he can have access to more frequent live music.
He shakes his head.
"I'm always going to be here," he says. He's sitting on his computer chair, clutching the end of the armrest with one hand and the vodka-water in the other. His shoulders are hunched forward as if he's caving in on himself and he's bathed in pale sunlight from his living room window. "I'm not going to go anywhere else. There's no place else to go. I'll just stay here."