HARRY WALKED OUT of the Tim Hortons, his blood fortified with substantial amounts of caffeine as well as dangerous amounts of sugar and starches. Over the years he had developed a good relationship with the rotating staff of the franchise. They tolerated him, frequently letting him hide in a back booth during the particularly cold periods of the season, during Toronto’s infamous Extreme Cold Weather Alerts. Due to his unique talent, he could tell which staff were more tolerant of his existence and which had souls that were less developed. Sandi, the assistant manager, was such a good person, occasionally slipping him something day-old on days when the public were less inclined to redistribute some of their wealth. Poor Sandi was prone to deep periods of depression, he could tell, frequently relying on prescribed pharmaceuticals to keep her making lattes and smiling. Her aura kept changing colours. It wasn’t fixed. Everybody should have a fixed aura.
It was later, almost lunchtime, when he emerged, as this was an excellent time to exercise his profession. Taking up position beside his grate, Harry got out his sign — ALMS OR THE POOR/LOONIES FOR THE SOCIALLY DISINCLINED. He actually didn’t know what the sign meant, but a buddy he had met a long time ago in a shelter had made it for him. It seemed to make people laugh — and that was good in his vocation. Such amusement frequently equalled the juice from a bean grown an ocean away. Modern commerce commonly confused Harry.
Across the road, he saw the police officer, still standing there. That was why he’d gone into the donut place. This man, looking at the Horse, had made Harry uncomfortable. The man hadn’t left. He was now taking a picture of the painting. Conflicted, Harry leaned back against a brick wall. Everything in his sixty-four years of existence — if that was indeed how old he was; he just remembered from long ago a song about being sixty-four — had taught him to stay away from the Horse. Most silly people thought it was just a picture on a deserted building. Not everybody was as smart as Harry, but this guy …. There was something different. It wasn’t just idle curiosity. Even from across the busy street, Harry thought he could see a look of recognition. From both the man and the Horse.
Constable Ralph Thomas took two more pictures. This was weird. It couldn’t be the Horse, but there was no doubt, it was indeed the Horse, right down to the handprint. Both Shelley and William weren’t answering their phones. For personal and professional reasons, Ralph would frequently use the camera app on his phone for just for such emergencies. He would email these to the couple when he got the chance. Maybe they would have a reasonable explanation for what he was looking at.
“Hey, you! Police boy! I need to talk to you.”
Surprised, Ralph turned around. Across the road he saw a short man, bushy and faded. The sitting man was gesturing at him, urging him to cross to his side of the street. More oddly, the person, obviously street familiar, kept looking over Ralph’s shoulder at the Horse, somewhat fearfully.
“What?” Ralph yelled back.
Yelling, but whispering at the same time, Harry put his hands around his mouth. “No, over here. I can’t go over there. Come here!” Once again, he gestured for Ralph to cross the street. “It’s about your friend.” Harry pointed at the Horse. For a second, the constable wasn’t sure if the old man was referring to the Horse or possibly to the person who had drawn it. Logic told him there was only one way to find out.
Crossing the street, Constable Thomas was well aware that he was jaywalking. The irony was not lost on him. Situations like this required unorthodox responses. Four lanes and a few seconds later, Ralph stood over the sitting man.
“You’re awfully pushy for someone looking for loose change.”
Harry almost laughed. “I don’t want your money, but I thought I should warn you. You should be careful over there. The Horse … he likes you. He doesn’t like a lot of people, but still, he’s got a temper. Best to stay away.”
The world stopped spinning. Ralph turned his full attention to the worn but oddly happy old man. Harry shifted the cardboard mat beneath him in order to let more heat rise from the vents below the grate. Ralph paused, barely able to get the words out.
“You know the Horse? You’ve met her? I mean the person who drew … that?”
“Him, you mean. I know he looks like a her, but the Horse is a him. A dark him. You should count yourself lucky.”
Kneeling down, Ralph locked eyes with the unusual fellow. “Do you know something about that Horse? Do you know who painted it?” Ralph asked, in full cop mode. His words sounded inadequate to his own ears, his voice weak. He didn’t sound like he was in control of the situation.
Harry could see the policeman better. He was just a boy. Indian … he could tell the boy was Indian, both by sight and glow. He knew that term was out of time, but that was what he had grown up hearing and that was what was burned into his memory. Political correctness was low on the priority list for those living on the streets. This boy standing in front of him was an Indian cop. Harry didn’t see a lot of this type patrolling the streets. The times were changing. Moving beyond that, everything Harry could see at the police boy’s centre told him this man was good. A bit lazy. Once had focus but now was more or less treading conviction water. Had family he cared about. But now was worried about something. It took a second, but Harry quickly deduced the situation. “You weren’t expecting to see the Horse. That’s why you’re looking so shaken, huh? He reached out and grabbed you. Scary, huh?”
Ralph stepped back, startled. He was taller than the old man sitting in front of him, a good thirty pounds heavier, some thirty-five years younger, and substantially better trained and armed, if it came to that. Still, it was prudent to be wary of those possessing the kind of knowledge they, under normal circumstances, should not possess. Crawling to his knees and then standing on his feet, groaning noticeably, Harry stood eye-to-chin with Ralph. “I can’t go over there. He won’t let me. But I can tell, he knows you. He’ll allow it.”
Unable to control his actions, Ralph once more looked over at the Horse on the wall. It had not changed. It was still there, unmoved, but managing to stare at the two of them. The old man talked like the image was alive. And had a gender. Ralph felt a chill unrelated to the climate. Was he, Constable Ralph Thomas of the Otter Lake First Nation and long-ago viewer of the Horse, afraid of it? No, that was ridiculous. It was, after all, a spray-painted image. Even so, whatever it represented — then and now — was no threat to him. How could it be? He was simply shocked by seeing it again, after all these decades. That’s what scared him. As for this transient in front of him …
“Sir, who are you?”
“I’m Harry.”
“Harry what?”
Once more, Harry smiled. “Out here, you only need one name.”
“Why won’t the Horse let you cross the street?”
“I think the more interesting question is, how does he know you?” For a few seconds, Ralph wondered how to answer a question like that. But luckily, Harry asked a question easier to answer.
“Do you like chili?”
Much like his earlier comment about the Horse, Harry’s question took the constable by surprise. “Uh, yeah.”
Harry grabbed the police boy’s arm, gently leading him down the block, back to the Tim Hortons. “Good. On cold days like today, donuts just aren’t enough. A day like today calls for something more substantial. Like chili. Any man with matching socks can obviously afford to treat me.”
This guy smiles a lot, thought Ralph, disappearing through the doors with his new buddy. The good thing was, Ralph really did like chili. The bad news was just not at this very moment.
A short time later, Harry and Ralph were sitting by a window. Harry was turning out to be an expensive date. The world was walking by, but Ralph only had eyes and ears for the odd man devouring his second bowl of chili, as well as the bread and coffee he’d ordered with it. Meanwhile, Ralph was patiently waiting, warming his hands on a large black coffee, dark roasted. He had patiently waited for the strange street dweller to quell his appetite, but now he wanted a return on the investment of his time.
“So, tell me about the Horse.”
“He likes you, you know. I can tell. He doesn’t like a lot of people. That’s why I think he knows you. You know him from a before time, don’t you?” Harry’s spoon made scraping noises on the cardboard container, getting the last of the kidney beans into his grateful stomach. Ralph would have been surprised to know Harry hadn’t drunk in years. Over the years of self-abuse, the man had reached a point where the alcohol opened more portals in his mind than it had once closed, or was supposed to. Most people drank to forget. Unfortunately for Harry, his drinking proved to reveal too much of the world to him.
“You sound like it’s alive or something.” Ralph tried to figure out this bottomless pit sitting across from him. In many ways, Harry fit the profile of a homeless man, but in other ways, he differed. Substantially.
Once more, Harry smiled at Ralph’s comment. “No. That would be crazy. Alive, no. There’s no blood or pulse there. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be watching us. Existing. That’s different. You don’t have to be alive to be dangerous. Don’t they teach you guys anything?”
“And how is that … Horse … dangerous?”
Harry put his empty container down and burped. “You know.”
Ralph tried another tack. “I don’t. The artist who drew that picture. Did you see her?”
The smile slowly evaporated. “Her? How do you know it’s a her?”
“Are you saying it isn’t? That a girl … a woman didn’t draw that Horse?” Ralph leaned forward, anxiously awaiting an answer.
“Once maybe. Maybe once.” Harry looked out the window, across the street to where he could see just the head of the animal looking around the corner of a roti shop. No normal woman, or man for that matter, could have drawn an image like that. This police boy should know that. It was time to have a talk about the facts of life with this young man.
“Police boy,” Harry said, turning his attention to the man nursing his coffee like an amateur. “Why did you become a cop?”