Robert C. Waggoner
Copyright 2011 Robert C. Waggoner
“Been there, done that.” It should make a guy feel good. Rarely does it result in hitting bottom and not rising from the experience. For Ronald G. Filbert at forty one, hit bottom like a flat tire. Is this how it feels to be a no-body, he thought while sitting on a park bench around Green lake Park in Seattle.
It was early fall; a bright, clear and sunny day with a slight breeze that had a nip in it. The trees were still mostly green, but an occasional dead leaf lazily swirled to the ground to rest forever never rising like the person who watched it fall. His eyes roamed the area viewing throngs of people enjoying the three hundred acres of beautiful park. No one would sit with him on the bench once they took a gander at the bum sitting there with a much used back pack, resembling its owner, resting next to him. Literally everything he owned was in the pack and that’s not saying much. To an observer taking stock of the down and out looking man on the park bench, you would first see a medium built man with a well worn New York Yankees baseball hat stuck on a full head of hair that hung to his shoulders, but now tied in a pony tail. Eye color undistinguishable from the shadow of his hat across his weather beaten face, and many months worth of blond beard surrounded a strong Roman nose with a mouth that if cleaned up would be kissable. His clothes were typical of a man in his position, blue jeans the color black for lack of washing, a flannel shirt under a faded blue ski parka. Old worn out hiking boots with bare legs noting the man wore no socks.