Fiction

The Horse Whispers
by William I. Lengeman

The horse walks into Kelly’s at 11:30 on a Thursday morning and sidles up to the bar. Some might be inclined to embellish and call Kelly’s an intimate sort of drinkery, but in truth it is small, dark and dingy, a hole in the wall favored by numb working stiffs and down on their luck types with nothing in their future but gleaming rows of beer mugs and shot glasses stretching into oblivion.

Kelly looks like a Kelly. He stands behind the bar, polishing a glass. One could be forgiven for thinking that Kelly does nothing but polish glasses—when he is not filling them, that is. Kelly is doing more polishing than pouring today. Business is slow, even for 11:30 on a Thursday morning.

Kelly eyes the horse. He flips the glass over and sets it with the others. He is not the least bit dismayed when the horse speaks—albeit in a low whisper. Kelly leans in, cocks his head to the side. He reaches for a bottle of whisky, pours a good stiff one into a bowl and slides it over.

The horse drinks eagerly and pushes it back. Kelly pours. The horse taps its hoof on the counter—twice. Kelly raises an eyebrow and pours some more. The horse laps it up, noticing a wizened old man eyeing him from the gloom at the end of the bar. He sits with a bleached and heavily painted woman, much younger than he, but still well past her prime.

“What the hell you lookin’ at?”

The horse whispers, too faintly for the old man to hear.

“How’s that?”

The horse whispers again. The old bird still doesn’t catch it. He stands and approaches, wavering slightly. He gets up in the horse’s face, stifling him with noxious fumes.

“You eyeballin’ my gal, big fella? Cause we can take this outside right now.”
The horse considers this. With no warning, he turns—in one quick, fluid motion—and kicks the old fart in the chest. He flies a good way and crumples in a heap by an empty table. The horse turns back to the bar. Kelly watches impassively as the floozy rushes over to tend to the old coot.

It should be noted that the horse is incurably shy – has always been. He cannot raise his voice above a whisper in the company of others, though he speaks normally at home. He can often be heard reciting long passages from “the Scottish play”—a favorite—in stentorian tones until the neighbor above bangs the floor with a broomstick.

Kelly pours another and switches the TV to Mr. Ed. They watch silently until Wilbur cuts a zany caper and the horse lets out a great…horselaugh. Kelly looks up from his polishing. The horse looks embarrassed. He has one for the road and whispers.

“I’ll take it anyway I can get it.” Kelly quips. He picks up another glass and continues his ceaseless toil.