Danilo

Danilo sat outside the supermarket the other day, despite all the rain. He was squatting against the wall, hood up, one hand around 66cl of warm beer and the other buried in his pocket. It was 9 in the morning.
He seemed forlorn as I passed him by, avoiding everyone's gaze and content
just to stare down at his shoes. I briefly wondered if the weather were getting to him as well. We have had endless rain.
I tried not to splash him from the nearby puddles as I skipped past, clutching my umbrella madly while attempting to maneuver
around the older folk on the sidewalk. Naturally, they were in no particular hurry to get anywhere while I, as usual, had a bus to catch.
Few days pass that I don't see Danilo at his place near the market doors. His disposition is generally sunny, and he loves to chat with the passers-by that deign to greet him. The security guards know him well and spend their smoke breaks keeping him company.
As many times as I pass in front of the shop, from morning until evening, chances are
Danilo will be there, drinking. One morning he was well through his first 66er and it was only 8:10am. I look at him like that, sometimes perched against the wall, other times seated on the curb, and I ask myself how quickly rock bottom can hit you. I have a taste for the drink myself, so I have often wondered where the line between pleasure and disease begins and ends, and when does one stop caring that there may be a "problem."
Danilo, always the same. Ropy, oily, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail above a ruddy, tired face. He often smiles, but his burnt chestnut eyes are half-closed, distant, and look
through you, as if he were looking at the portrait of a life he once had and now barely recognizes.
He leaves me perplexed, and saddened. This can't be the way he imagined it would go.
I'm certain he didn't want to lose his family, his job, and have to depend on the kindness of
others. They tell me it's only been a couple years. But I wonder when it really started. What was the first real disappointment that tore at his heart and began turning one vodka into a double? One beer into a liter? An evening drink into a lunch beer into a morning coffee spike?
One day I'll ask him. Instead of just saying hello and going on my way, one day I'll
stop and listen to this man's story. Because I'm certain few ever have.
To some, he's just funny Danilo...but to most, he's the drunk, the bum,
the lazy no-good beggar.