Blue Eyes

I saw him in the same spot of my favourite park since I was fifteen years old. He wasn’t the messy, frail old man you'd picture as an alcoholic. He was young: early to mid-thirties, average height and stocky build; the body of a construction worker.

I remember the first time I saw him. He was sitting at the corner of the gate that surrounded the dam, cradling a suspiciously wrapped brown paper bag. It turned out that the contents of the bag weren’t suspicious, but rather all too familiar.

He always smiled when I walked past him, his eyes wandering and never maintaining focus. I always found that to be a defining characteristic of alcoholics. I’ll always remember a pair of sad, faded blue eyes staring off into the distance.

I saw him at least once a week at the same spot and time. Whether I was on a bike ride or a walk, seeing him was like passing a marker in a triathlon.

My life was growing, changing; his was permanent, forever the same.

I wondered about his family. He must have a mother. Did he have siblings? Did they cut him out of their lives, or were they never there to begin with? I thought about how he passed his time. I assumed he had some sort of income to afford the drinks. What was his favourite food, his go-to drunk meal? I imagined the tone of his voice and the expression he made when he laughed. What was he like as a child?

The names I believed suited him best were Joe, Sam, and Daniel. He appeared to be Southern European, possibly Italian or Portuguese, but I could have been wrong. Maybe he was from Columbia or Venezuela.

Each day I added a new facet to my design of this man’s life. I thought that by imagining something beautiful for him, he would receive it. Above all, I wondered what he felt and who he loved. Did he have a soulmate?

On a day I felt significantly lonely and anxious, I left my phone at home and grabbed my bike. In an attempt to be spontaneous, I sat at the bench close to the man’s favourite spot. He was there, like always, holding his brown paper bag.

In the darkness of my worst thoughts, I was brought back to the simplicity of life by an occasional burp or click of a beer can opening. I saw him in his hunched posture.

What made him and I so different? Which unremarkable decision brought him to this bench? Was it something as simple as taking a new route to work, or something as complicated as picking up the brown paper bag? I’d never know.

Then an idea occurred to me—maybe I was wrong. Maybe, he wasn’t lonely or abandoned at all. Maybe he was just a tired, hard-working man enjoying his beers at the lake, a self-care tradition he honoured.

It would have been a lovely alternative , but I knew the truth all too well.

I looked over and he was gone. His jacket remained, guarding his drinks.

Assuming he had gone to relieve himself in the bushes, I took my cue to leave. The sun set as goosebumps rose on my arms.

Dear alcoholics, I’ve known you all my life. I’ve cared for you, I’ve heard your cries. I’ve fed and driven you. I’ve resented you.

I’ve forgiven you. I’ve believed in you. I’ve seen you make the right choice…then the wrong one…and then the right one again.

I live in the faith that one day you’ll all leave the brown paper bag behind.