Harold shuffled with bent head down the path. He was trudging home slowly, pushing all his belongings in a cart that he had made two years before, from a baby carriage. A police officer had run him out of a small town in eastern Canada for stealing a shopping buggy. The fact that the cart had actually come from another town had made no difference to the cop. Harold had spent the night in jail, without a meal. Early the next morning he had been driven from the inhospitable fiefdom. After having been ejected unceremoniously from the cruiser near the corporate boundary, the cop sped off with a warning never to come back. Today, home was under one of Burnaby’s many railway overpasses.
The weather had been dropping to near zero at night during the last week. It had also been typically lower mainland damp for the last two months. The lazy hot days of the summer drought had been long forgotten. This was close to what most people considered to be the warmest time of the year for the human spirit, the Yuletide, though. Harold had long ago forgotten the way that that warmth had felt, too.
There was nothing in his life, now, but cold fear. This was not the trivial
fear that had teased him when the procurement of enough daily alcohol had become a problem. Nor was it the somewhat more wrenching fear of being without someone who loved him, he was used to that. Neither was it the more real, ever present fear of being hurt in a violent confrontation with those who hated him and his kind, the homeless. Harold had become immune to pain long ago. No, this was the primal fear of the abyss.
Harold had begun to trudge the very edge of the chasm in a bold, flirting,
way. It came to Harold that if he didn’t prop up his flagging will to live
soon, he would be gone. The only trace that he had ever lived might be a
statistical blip in
Canada’s growing
Calcutta syndrome.
Low mental function had not contributed to Harold’s precarious predicament. Rather it may have been an overabundance of sensitivity and perception that accompanied Harold to his home tonight. He was a victim of emotional suicide, slain by an overdose of guilt.
Strictly speaking Harold was not really without a family, either. He had
three children and the same number of grandchildren somewhere across the country. Since his mother’s death, though, six years back, he had had no news of their whereabouts. Harold had wallowed through great warps of time, drowning in the guilt of every alcohol fuelled rage that had served to sever the ties with his children. He hadn’t even met any of his grandchildren and knew that he never would. Many years back the tears had dried up and had left Harold awash in a deep pool of regret. He had suffered the humiliation of knowing that his children had made a wise choice in denying him access to their lives.
The overpass that Harold was seeking loomed ahead. He needed to take a foot path, worn and packed by many homeless feet around the cold concrete approaches. The thought crossed his mind that he didn’t care if there would be violence tonight. He was tired, wet and very cold; colder than he had ever been before. Harold’s core temperature was dangerously low due to starvation.
It was so cold in his heart that paradoxically, it seemed like there was a
glowing ember fanning slowly into a comfortable warmth. He had heard it said that people who lie down to die in the snow have this feeling of a soothing heat pervading their entire body. Harold had read, a long time ago, that to freeze to death was a nice way to go. There was no pain. The fear of dying seemed to be numbed while the abyss glowed like a beckoning volcanic crater. Perhaps he would be lucky and it would happen tonight under the overpass. Harold wanted to smile at this prospect. He felt ready. If only it would be so.
The traffic rattled the bridge joints, sending loud booms and banging noises reverberating around Harold’s shelter. He was the first to settle down for the night here. There was the usual broken glass and garbage to feather his rough bed. Nothing but the blast of roaring traffic and exhaust fumes surrounded him. The noise and smells seemed to swirl through his empty soul. These were the sounds and tastes of the vortex opening. The Reaper’s wormhole into infinity had stabilized here tonight, among the bridge girders, waiting to swallow Harold up should he close his eyes.
Harold placed his damp, dirty bedding carefully, to make his longed for
passing as comfortable as he could. His face was a mask of calm resignation. Maybe things would be better in the next life, he thought. The kernel of warmth began to grow in the pit of Harold’s soul. Welcoming it, he smiled for the first time in a great while. Drawing the soiled stinking covers tight, he tried to contain and nourish it.
Harold’s spirit began to drift on a warm rising eddy, the prospect of
release sending his soul soaring. Through the bridge works, past the rain
soaked vegetation, up into the damp overcast he wafted up, like smoke. The stars appeared bright and coldly distant as Harold climbed from the
atmosphere. The planet receded as his consciousness floated up past low
orbit and he beheld the curvature of the earth. The countdown sequence for deep space insertion had begun. Vast energy fluctuations pulsed around him as the wormhole started to close. Harold had clung to his dirty blanket, bracing himself as the black-hole began to distort his quantum structure. It was going to be one heck of a ride. Butterflies of anticipation fanned the growing fire of fusion that would reorient the atoms of Harold’s soul to transform his mass and energy. Joy welled up then, in stellar proportions. Harold was more than ready for the transition, he was happy to be going in fact. A great smile stretched his dirty, haggard face from ear to ear.
Suddenly, to his dismay, there came an intrusion, a violation of Harold’s
personal space. What had felt like a hand, squirmed its way under the
closely held blanket. Harold began instinctively to clamp down on it. Self
preservation intruded even as he wondered why he was now willing to
struggle, when only a moment before he had abandoned all hope and been ready for trans universal insertion.
The reaching, intrusive, hand felt different and less threatening as quickly
as the shock had come. It was covered in fur and had a strange wiggle to it. Harold felt a wet nose at the same time that he heard a whine, which
dispelled an instant, fear laden, realization that it was an animal.
The mewling creature snuggling up to Harold was a dog. A young puppy had sought out the warmth of Harold’s last moments. In seconds its breathing had calmed into a rhythmic, peaceful sleep. The tiny pup had wormed itself through Harold’s chest into his heart. Feeling safe and secure, it had quickly dropped off into a deep sleep. Its hot, fresh, life force, radiated directly through to Harold’s core, driving out and replacing the false, calm of a cold death. Harold stayed in a protective state of wakefulness for quite a while, letting the puppy warm him with love.
The energy that the tiny creature had exuded was disproportionately huge,
compared to its size. When Harold finally drifted off, he was dreaming of
sunny beaches filled with the happy laughter of children playing. Harold was left wondering if this was heaven in a serene, pleasant, reverie. He was no longer afraid of the chasm. Harold slept then, drifting gently on happy memories that had been abandoned for a lifetime.
”Snowflake, come! Please come, Snowflake!”
Harold thought that he had dreamed it at first. Then the tiny, desperate
voice repeated the refrain a little closer. Reality found itself in Harold’s
gentle grip on the little pup. It had stirred awake in response to, what
Harold had thought. was an angel’s call.
The little girl, perhaps eight or nine, wearing a head scarf just like her
more distant mother’s, stood at the bottom of the overpass and called out
again. The wee pup responded and let out a little yip of recognition. A very young, brown skinned beauty of middle eastern descent looked directly at Harold at the sound. Her mother was fast approaching, not wishing to lose her human pup to a dangerous situation.
Harold became cognizant of the trouble he could be in. Things might quickly escalate out of control. This could be a very bad situation if he didn’t say anything, so he spoke up, “Is this your little dog? He came to visit with me last night and kept me warm. He is safe and unharmed. I didn’t take him, honest.”
”Nola, don’t go closer,” said the angel’s mum as she drew near. Stress
colored her voice adding to Harold’s fear.
At this point Harold let the pup go from his tender grip. It ran a few steps
towards its young master and then stopped, looking back. Snowflake plunked down on his fluffy belly at that point and refused to budge.
”Snowflake, come here, please,” begged the little angel named Nola.
Snowflake’s curly, Samoyed tail began to waggle and he did a play-bow, from the lying position, which turned into a sweet reach with the left paw.
Still, though, Snowflake remained where he had lightly fallen, looking back and smiling over his shoulder at Harold. It seemed the pup wasn’t inclined to leave the safety of Harold’s warm bed without returning the favor. The cute white fluff ball actually blinked with both eyes at Harold, sealing a promise. Snowflake appeared reluctant to part until Harold’s safety was assured.
This was the impasse that found Nola’s mother, Dr. Jasmine Hussein, taking confident charge. It had taken her only a short time to size up the
situation and declared it benign. With great respect she began to talk to
Harold.
”Thank you kind sir! Thank you very much for taking good care of Snowflake. Nola has been so worried about him that she could hardly sleep last night. Would you like to come to our house and have something to eat? Nola and I would like to have your company for breakfast. We have eggs, no bacon. I am a very good cook and would like to give a gentleman of your stature, a taste of our traditional cuisine. Will you please come with us, we don’t live far from here?”
At this point Snowflake got up and waggled his way to Nola. Playing with her in happy reunion, he ran toward Harold three times, urging him on. There was nothing for it but for Harold to pack his pram and join the joyful procession. Dr. Hussein and Harold brought up the rear, while Nola and Snowflake romped ahead, happy to be with each other once again.
Dr. Hussein, being the intelligent cancer researcher that she was, took the
situation firmly in hand and projected respect, hoping that it would
multiply upon its return. She voiced her heartfelt gratitude for Harold’s
good deed again, while extending her hospitality. In her culture a deed such as this was a chance to recapture, many times, the reward sent forth. This was a most valuable lesson for Nola, a priceless opportunity for growth. Dr. Hussein said,
“Do you have some clean clothes to wear, dear sir?”
When she saw that Harold was reluctant to answer, she continued quickly,
saying,
“My husband, thankfully, is your size. We will find you a few nice things. Perhaps you would have the time to use our bathroom and shower, while Nola and I find you some clean clothes? What is your name, sir?”
When Harold told her, she looked him in the eye and smiled the most genuine welcome at him that she could muster from the depths of her heart. They had reached the path which led to the wealthy neighbourhood where Snowflake resided. Nola and the little hobo had already vanished up it, into the trees. Dr. Hussein stayed behind to give Harold a hand with his belongings through the rough twists in the footpath. Harold and Jasmine both smiled as they saw glimpses of the youngsters, one a white pup, the other a little brown girl, through the brush. Harold had the distinctly strange feeling that he was returning home, like a prodigal son.
The lady and her daughter searched gleefully through Mr. Hussein’s well kept clothes closet while Harold took a long bath. Both girls didn’t let thoughts of hording intrude into their act of generosity. The mother took the time to explain the parable concerning giving and receiving that had been passed to her from her now dead mother.
This story was the equivalent of every such tale in most cultures. These are the lessons in human interaction which teach the value of selfless
generosity. They are necessary for the nurturing of compassion in the hearts of the young. Essentially, these foundations of social order attempt to separate humanity from the animal kingdom with the simple truism on which all of civilization operates, ‘What goes around, comes around.’
Dr. Hussein knew in her spirit that this was a win win opportunity and she
had had the confidence to act on it, dispelling her natural caution. She had
seen in Harold a soft core which needed her help, just as Snowflake had
received succor during the night. Jasmine had no unreasonable fears because she had been raised with love and strength. Her mother had taught her that the pleasures of sincere giving, receiving and loving are rewarding in themselves and require no concern past the immediate.
“Thank you so much for everything Jasmine, you have given me hope and food, the gifts of life. This I will treasure for ever. May your family be
rewarded,” said Harold, who was now a changed man. He was about to leave when first Jasmine, then Nola joined him in a family hug. As Harold finally turned to go he had resolved in his heart to find his grandchildren.
Click title and listen to the podcast.
Had one heck of a good day tripping up Kingsway handing out fliers and campaigning. I stopped around 3:30 at Trout Lake to allow the White Wolf to play, while I sat beside a young lady with a guitar leaning encased against the bench to her left. She liked my hat so I did a little bit of political chatting and handed her some paper. We shared a bit of our lives and then an old buddy came by with his Wolf. We all had a sprinkling of laughter about a variety of subjects.
Although he shuns contact initiated by those that would only wish to love and reach for him, the White Wolf is doing well.
Sorry about not putting up Jake sooner, R, but I couldn't find the download until now, being in some folder I wasn't aware of.
His warble is so surreal in our city setting.
He was a charmer, even when less than a year old.
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