C, a man in his late sixties with a head of thick white hair and a large, bright red nose, sits on a plastic chair under a small tree in front of my building every day from 6 a.m. to 6p.m., except Sunday. C is a parquero, whose job is to help people, both those who come to the hospital on one corner and to the police station on the other, find a place to park their cars. When C is finished for the day, he stores his plastic chair and wheels his bicycle out from the hospital garage, carrying with him a large plastic bag weighed down with coins and small bills to his home in a distant part of the city.

C is an alcoholic who moderates his drinking, except for one weekend every month when he lets himself indulge to the point of unconsciousness. It was due to his excessive drinking that he lost the support of his middle-class family and must fend for himself on the streets of the city. And it is due to his heavy drinking that he hasn’t been able to keep a steady job or even scrape together enough to pay his rent at the end of the month, for which he often has to borrow the money.

C is very social, and everyone from the neighborhood says hi or stops to chat when they pass by. C receives a visit from a big guy on a motorcycle almost every day. Without taking off his helmet, the man stops to chat with C for a few minutes under the shade of a tree. At the end of the conversation, C hands the man some cash in small bills, at which time the man pulls from his jacket pocket a small notebook and jots down the amount. On the days when C has blown all his money on drink and doesn’t have enough to pay his quota, the man on the motorcycle shoves him around a bit and then gets onto his motorcycle, revs the engine, and drives off.