No Fries for Dany Boy

Danny Boy Doesn’t Like the Fries

I had walked passed him many times, generally giving a polite nod but trying to to slow down too much. His name was Danny, but I of course didn't used to know that. He would often hang out in front of the post office, occasionally bumming money but more often rummaging through the trash for food. I remember one time seeing him pull a half head of lettuce out of the can and thinking to myself, "thats not a bad find, I would eat that." Truth is though, I wouldn't. The streets weren't kind to him. He had straggly, dirty hair, and no upper teeth. The teeth that he had left on the bottom were half rotted and would soon also be gone.

As I was leaving the Post Office he whispered to me that he was hungry so we took my car to Wendie's for a burger and soda. No fries though, as it turns out he doesn't care for Wendie's fries. There's just something different about them, those and Frishes fries. Maybe its the grease. He shared with me that he had ruined his liver from all of the drinking that he used to do and he had just had a heart attack a week or two ago. Danny was in bad shape. He told me that he was wearing his only set of clothes and that the drop in shelter wouldn't let him use the shower. He said that sometimes he could make decent money at the Bengals games but there was often too many people holding the same signs. He wasn't a sports fan. I dropped him back off up the street from where we had met and continued home. The whole experience had cost me a grand total of $3 and 10 minutes of tv watching time. There are a lot of Dannys in the world. You can make a difference, small differences, one Danny at a time.