The shine in his eyes.

They say the Soviets would have taken over the world if it wasn't for vodka stepping in on their way. At times I wonder how true the statement is. Have you met a Russian genius? These guys are everywhere. Medical journals, engineering books, rocket science, you name it. All the ingenuity washed down the drain with either cheap shortcuts or the endless stream of corruption.

Tsar Nicolas II tried banning vodka, Stalin used vodka sales to finance industrialization. The people were either addicted to booze or had to rely on it to survive the winters. All I know now is that it is a part of the culture. Harmful or not, I have to respect their choices.

Vodka season is around the corner. The season when you walk outside and the winter breeze feels like a slap on the face. Liquor sales go through the roof during these winters. Winter hasn't settled yet and I already hate going outside. Daytime is bearable, but the walk back home during the evenings is so painful.

And this is when he happened.

He sat there staring into the nothingness the world has to offer him. Old, frail, dirty, and beaten up. Crouched to the ground like a ball. Thin and grey. I knew I could just keep walking home. He had nothing for me and I didn't know him. I could simply keep walking home. Nothing in the world would change if I keep walking.

But I stopped.

He looked up and stared right at me. As if he knew I was looking at him. Expressionless and emotionless. A small wrinkly grey face peaked from in between his overgrown, dirty, white beard and a lousy wool cap. There was this strange shine in his eyes. An alluring one. A bright alluring, shine. It pulled me to him like a magnet.

"I could simply walk home. What am I doing? "

I walked straight up to him. He reeked of a wretched smell. His boots were so worn they could write an autobiography. He was so frail that at this point his coat was wearing him.

"You freezing?", I asked while trying to not faint from the smell.

"Yeah", a meek voice replied.

"You hungry?"

The shine in his eyes got a little brighter. His face turned a little red. Big improvement from the grey face he had a few seconds ago...
"Damn right, I am".

I couldn't imagine how long he had been sitting here on this construction site. A ball of black and dirty overworn jacket with a human inside it. Out in the city, this was the warmest place where no one would ask him anything. At best, he could find a job here...maybe.

"Want something hot?"

He didn't reply. He just looked at me and nodded.

I walked to the cafeteria near the construction site and ordered two coffees and a shawarma. One latte for myself, and one americano with no sugar no milk for the jacket with a human inside it.

The sugar would simply increase the chances of the guy getting frostbite and the milk wouldn't make it easier if he was lactose intolerant.

The moment I handed him his cup, he stood up. The guy was tall. Very tall. He towered me and I felt like I was looking at the skinnier, unluckier, hairier, and drunker version of Baron Harkonnen.

He grabbed the cup with his huge, ashy, dirty hands and fixed his posture.

"Ye know, I was in the war! "

"What war?" I stepped back to look at his face as he spoke.

"The war! Err"body knows the war! Ye know the war! Oh, those days were unreal. I was there. I was a sniper. Ye know what a sniper is?"

I nodded excitedly hoping to listen to an extremely unbelievable story. This guy was a soldier? What went wrong? I thought to myself.

"It was cold in the trenches. Ye know trenches? It's a hole in the ground. I spent lotta days in the holes. We fought many bastards...I killed them all. But I was best with my sniper. Do ye know the long gun with a scope? That's a sniper. I was a soldier...yeah! My wife died in the war...I loved her. I loved 'nother woman after. I married her...a second wife... a different woman. Ye hear me? What do people smoke nowadays? I like cigarettes. They smoke somethin' electronic. Curse these new things...ye hear? Some nights I woke up and tried to snipe my new wife."

I couldn't make heads or tails of what he said. Was he an actual sniper? Did he get a new wife during the war? What happened to his wife? Is this his polite way of asking for a cigarette or a vape? Is it him or the booze talking?

He kept clenching on the cup as if its the last time in a long time he'll feel the heat. He kept rambling and rambling with only short intervals to take a sip from his coffee.

I kept listening and listening. Do you like intellectual chats on a coffee break? Wait till you take a hobo with you to these coffee breaks. The caffeine will hit differently.

I handed him his shawarma and told him the only thing that came to my mind. "Hey man, go easy on the booze. If you need hot coffee come by this place. If I'm around you'll get a cup of hot coffee if you're not drunk."

He froze.

Obviously, the guy has been stripped from any kind of positive social interaction for a long time. Maybe small chitchat and positive reinforcement over coffee could do some help. However little it may seem. I took off to leave.

"Young man" he took another sip and sighed. "What's your name? "

"Nevermind" I replied and walked away as he uttered the last words I have heard from him since.

I still sometimes stop by the cafeteria to grab a quick sip. A freshly brewed hot coffee served in an eco-friendly cup. An establishment among many who wouldn't serve the hobo a warm spot for a minute.

I haven't seen the hobo since. I can't help but wonder if he really tried slowing down the booze or did he become one of the many geniuses that were let down by vodka.

But what still strikes me to this day, and it's been a few weeks already, are the last words he uttered as I walked away.

"Thanks for lookin' me in the eyes...and treatin' me like a human."

A contribution to Coffee Stories; A Creative Writing Community Initiative - Topic 1. Prompt: Story.