Do Not Disturb the Living

By Danilo Alfaro

(As a new Link intern 19 years ago, Danilo Alfaro wrote about his encounter with a dead woman at Washington’s Dupont Circle.)

The woman had crumpled into a small pile that partially blocked the entrance to my neighborhood grocery store. She appeared to be in her 40s but could have been much younger. She wore purple polyester trousers and a yellow and white striped tank top. Beside her was an open can of beer. She did not stir. I stepped over her and into the store.

DuPont Circle becomes rather lively after 9 o’clock on a Saturday night, particularly during the summer. An interesting synergy takes place, with young professionals vying with panhandlers and other street people for the run of the neighborhood.

‘I TRIED TO SHAKE HER BUT...’

The storekeeper, round and bedraggled, was on the phone. I said hello and he nodded his reply. The store was owned by Lebanese and smelled of incense and tobacco.

Middle-Eastern music was barely audible from a radio behind the counter. “Yeah,” the round man said into the phone. “Yeah, she’s right in front of my business.” I walked toward the rear of the store.

A thin man with bemused expression walked past me carrying a load of flattened cardboard boxes. He looked inquiringly at his co-worker on his way out the door. His co-worker shrugged and continued his phone conversation. The thin man stepped over the woman as if she were a baby he did not want to disturb. I considered ice cream and debated between butter pecan and coffee.

“I tried to shake her but she didn’t move,” said the round man into the telephone. I pulled a six-pack of beer from the cooler and decided on a pint of butter pecan. “No,” said the round man. “No, I don’t think she’s breathing. I tried to shake her but she just lays there.” I glanced at the motionless woman. How many unconscious derelicts did I pass every day without checking for a pulse or other signs of life?

If she had sustained any injuries, they were not visible. She seemed more asleep than anything, curled somewhat natally. I wondered whether, weary and destitute, she might have simply laid down on that spot and died. I imagined her giving up her last breath with a sigh of resignation.

I tried to picture what she might have been like as a child, full of dreams, her hair combed and her eyes new and bright. I thought of her mother and the dreams she must have had for her child. I thought of any children the woman herself might have.

‘I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO TAKE IT AWAY’

The thin man reappeared in the doorway. He looked down at the woman briefly and then gazed up and down the street as if expecting someone to come claim her. He bent over, picked up the beer can and tossed it the into dumpster where it clattered emptily. She had finished it. “Six-nineteen,” the round man said to me when he had rung up my items. Into the phone he continued, “Yeah, right in front of my store. I just want someone to come take it away.”

I handed him a $10 bill and he made my change.

I struggled to place the woman into a life, to picture those that she had touched during her days. Would they ever know what happened? Would they care? I thought of her existence being summed up with one phone call, “I just want someone to come take it away.”

Someday could I end my existence that way, nameless, with strangers stepping over me like a crack in the pavement?

I wanted to scream or cry, and I hated myself for not being able to. Flushed, I grabbed my bag and left the store, stepping over the woman without breaking my stride. I didn’t look down. I felt ashamed. On the sidewalk the crowd pulsated and moved along.

I turned the corner and climbed the steps into my apartment. I collapsed onto the couch. Soon I heard the wail of the ambulance stop. I knew, of course, that for the lady blocking the store’s doorway, help had arrived too late.

(Danilo Alfaro was the first Salvadoran selected for a full-year Gannett Foundation internship with Hispanic Link.)

For more, visit www.hispaniclink.org.

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SIN PELOS

DANILO’S TRAVELS: I first heard about Danilo Alfaro from his father, who was a serious player in El Salvador’s revolution at the time, reportedly with a price on his head.

In the course of our conversation about the tragic turmoil in his homeland, I had mentioned to the man that Hispanic Link was offering a one-year internship in Washington, D.C., for a Latino or Latina with aspirations to be a journalist.

“I have a son who likes to write,” Danilo’s father told me. The boy was living in the United States. The father asked for an internship application, which I gave him, figuring that would be the last of it.

To my surprise, it came back, filled out, with the required essay attached. Danilo was among three dozen applicants and six finalists, most of them college graduates, including one, I remember, with a master’s degree from a top Ivy League university.
On that score, Danilo didn’t exactly match up. He dropped out of school in Los Angeles in the 10th grade. He found his way to Portland, Oregon, where his brief work history revealed that he lost a $5-an-hour position as a “cook” in a pizza place because of “creative differences.” He listed his current employment at another pizza joint, at $4.50 an hour, as a “Hispanic dishwasher.”

His essay revealed much more: he wrote beautifully and thoughtfully, demonstrating his depth. He devoured books, which helped him develop more than his wry sense of humor.

He was our interview panel’s choice, and his year with us verified its judgment. He demonstrated all the requisite skills of a fine journalist in the making. After he pinned down in his still-maturing voice the evasive managing editor of a major Chicago daily on a particularly sensitive story, the editor called our publisher to complain about Danilo’s aggressiveness and “impudence.” After the conversation ended, the editor agreed that Danilo was just the kind of reporter his paper needed more of.

On another story, Danilo interviewed a recruiter at Goddard, a small New England college. The recruiter ended up, unsolicited, offering him a full scholarship, which Danilo accepted. He became editor of his school paper and went on to pick up a degree at Sarah Lawrence in New York.

Next stop, Merrill Lynch in the city. After two years came a transfer to Sydney, Australia, where he headed ML’s communications division for that region, which included New Zealand.

Danilo was promoted to Merrill Lynch in New York, leaving later to go into business in Los Angeles. Ironically, his replacement was killed days later on 9/11 at the World Trade Center.

That, for now, is where his trail ends. I hope he’s using his news-writing skills. Maybe he’ll read this and we’ll get back in touch.