The King and I

In the 1960’s we didn’t have street people in Toronto- we had good

old fashion bums, hobos and vagrants. The mental institutions like 999

Queen St. W. had yet to fling open their doors and herd droves of

temporarily medicated inmates into the streets. There were only a few real

loonies wandering around and for the most part, they were harmless and

added a little colour and interest to the downtown area.

There was one fellow who we called Lazarus: he looked like Rasputin

with the added touch of hugely distended nostrils that he kept stuffed with

great wads of newspaper. Summer and winter he used to cruise the streets,

clad in a dirty old overcoat and a pair of gym shorts, stopping at every fire

hydrant, kneeling and sneezing at it three times.

Once when I ask him why he constantly performed his ritual, he said

simply, “Purification.” I didn’t delve into the matter any further. One didn’t

hang around Lazarus too long. He always was enveloped in a cloud of pong

sufficient to gag a maggot.

Most of the vagrants I met were simply down and out alcoholics who

bummed money for booze during the day and slept their binges off during

their nights at the Sally Ann or one of the other shelters.

The only time that the police paid much attention to them was when

the city was going to host a special event or something like a royal visit.

Then we would be told that the city fathers would like the unsavoury

characters out of sight for a while.

It wouldn’t take long until the drunk tanks were full to bursting with

inebriants. Most of those arrested were feeling no pain and would hardly

know where they were until the booze wore off. There was very little

animosity between the police and the bums: the bums knew the cops were

just doing their job and the cops, many of whom were closet alcoholics

themselves, realized that ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I.’

When the vagrants were arrested they most often had large bottles of

cheap booze in their possession and these would have to be confiscated. It

was common practice for lots of caring cops to let the bums swallow most of

the remaining booze before putting them in the cells. “Just leave me about

half an inch in the bottom for evidence,” they would say and the bum was

more than happy to oblige.

As amicable as the bum/cop relationship could be, you still had to be

careful when dealing with guys you weren’t familiar with. Sometimes some

pretty tough dangerous guys used Skid Row as a convenient hiding place.

One afternoon I was on mounted patrol in centrally located Allen

Gardens, a favourite hangout for bums and transients. Usually it was just a

question of riding through and making your presence known: the regular

batch of boozers was usually well behaved and adept at keeping their bottles

of sight.

I was riding King, a big half Belgian gelding. He was a handsome

horse. He had a shiny chestnut coloured body with light mane and tail. He

was a bit nervous and flighty but I liked riding him.

As we entered the park it was immediately apparent that something

unusual was going on. A crowd had gathered in the centre court near the

water fountain and as we rode closer, I could see over their heads to where a

large bearded man was assaulting one of the old regulars and stealing his

wine bottle. King pushed his way through the crowd and when the big

scraggy man saw us approaching he threw the wine bottle in our direction.

It missed, smashing instead against the concrete base of the water fountain.

He turned to run away but the crowd slowed him down and seconds later

King was breathing on the back of his neck.

I thought he was about to give up but instead he spun around, grabbed

King’s bridle and started punching the horse repeatedly on his muzzle. I

tried to back the horse away but the man hung on to the bridle and continued

hitting him. King, in terror, reared and stood on his hind legs lifting the man,

who was still holding on to bridle, high off the ground. When King’s front

feet returned to the ground one of his heavy hooves was planted firmly in the

middle of his assailant’s chest, pinning him to the ground.

I dismounted and lifted the horse’s hoof off the man but he wasn’t

moving and worst of all he wasn’t breathing. “Oh my God!” I thought. “I

can’t just let him die.” Actually I could have but there were too many

witnesses around and it would require a lot of explaining.

So reluctantly, I let my St. John’s Ambulance training kick in. I gave

King’s reins to the closest pair of hands that I could see, knelt beside the

man and positioning his head prepared to give him mouth to mouth.

It took all my courage and resolve to place my mouth over that grizzly

toothless hole but somehow holding back the gags, I managed to do it. I

blew into him once but my breath just seemed to come back at me.

Obviously there was some kind of blockage. I took a deep breath and went

down on him again determined to give it every thing I had. This time I felt

something move but before I realized what was happening a torrent of sour

lumpy vomit projected into my mouth. I staggered to my feet spitting and

gagging and throwing up myself. That’s when Sergeant Weir made his

appearance. He had been watching the whole incident and had already

radioed for an ambulance and some backup. He held King while I went to

the nearby fountain and repeatedly rinsed my mouth-there wasn’t enough

water in the world! After the Sergeant confided in me that he would have let

the man die, he sent me home early that day so that I could stop at the drug

store and stock up on mouthwash and disinfectant. It was a long time before

I ever really felt clean again. Even as I write this story forty-five years later

I feel compelled to go and gargle and brush my teeth.

The King and I