My sister, a long time ago, when she lived in the communal, had a neighbor.
A bitter drunkard, but not a debilitating. A very quiet man, an electrician. Very friendly and unrestrained. But a drunk. In the community, the grandmother is mostly. He gives them everything, and helps, and repairs, and brings, whatever is dear, always. But the Bukharik. Very quiet and invisible.

And his grandmother had (and his grandmother had already had) Megera. Always so. It is in his tail and in his tail. Everyone regretted him. Yes is. It happens.

One day, he went home in the winter, and ticked a bottle of vodka in the stall at the entrance.
Not to get the enemy. Ticked and lost. I cannot find it in the morning. He was killed, he was killed. He will find, but not there. He said, maybe you don’t remember? Maybe there was a bottle? Or is it not Sugar? And he will only shake his shoulders sadly, and he will jump out once again. I am sure, that is. It will come, it will be even more sad than the previous one. and breathing. How not to breathe? Do you know what we have? By February of this year! Not a bottle, the gastronome can be lost.

My sister’s heart didn’t stand. She went, bought a bottle (or was with her, I don’t remember) and blinked quietly unnoticed into the shell from the edge straight, closer. The throat even squeezed a little. And – oh a miracle! The man found her immediately. Happiness has arrived! The joys of the community had no limits. They all left immediately. They did not know exactly what to do.

In the spring, six more bottles were removed. Or maybe more. Six are only officially registered, so to speak.

We have such people.