One day I woke up full of misery, sadness and depressed. Lost in the faith in humanity. Everyone lies and cheats and will kill for a feed over one’s need. Fuck you the old man said. I served my duties in the Arabic desert and I fought for my piece of shit country, The United States of Assholes. I killed civilians for my government’s wealth and greed. Motherfucker’s toyed me like a G.I.Joe doll. Freedom my ass. Even slurring his words I could detect a hint of southern twang. He lifts his left hand, holding the fifth of Jack. Takes a good mouthful. A sense of satisfaction to the numbness of the emotional pain. He turned his head to the right and stared at the open space. Depression must be a common state of mind for him. Takes another hit of the fifth. I gave them my fucking right arm for those bastards and I now on da streets. You can feel the gutted grind and the betrayal-pain he must feel during the 365 days of the year. He rose up from the green park bench. He lost his balance but found his feet quickly and remembered where he was. Screwed the lid onto the bottle. Straighten the paper bag and slid it in the inside pocket of his big woolly brown dirty coat. New York City. The Big Apple. A place full of Assholes. Corporate criminals. This bench don’t do the job. He said. I feel the pity and sadness for him. You ask yourself, how you would be able to cope with yourself if you were in his situation and living the everyday drunken hash life and feeling a big empty space in your soul. Slowly he walked to the opposite side of the footpath. Sat down on the identical green bench and took out the fifth again. Drank a good mouthful. It only looks more depressing from this view and see all those assholes in their luxury condo’s overlooking the greens in Hyde Park. Everything looks good from far (He said out loud, directly looking at me). Especially when it comes to women. Then, when it’s right there in front of your eyes and in the palm of your hand, you then realise it’s nothing but another problem with extra baggage to keep searching for happiness. People walked passed overhearing him and looked at both sides and they certainly had question themselves to wonder what was fuss between me and the dirty homeless man. The lady on the bench, about two feet away from the drunk, had quickly packed up whatever she had been eating and reading. Clearly, she had very much disapproved his existence and stuck up her middle finger up high in front of his face as she turned and walked away. He laughed and felt he had proved a point to his statement. He smiled and took a another hit of the fifth but only this time he seemed a lot happier to drink for a reason worth drinking. A reward just like an everyday sucker who works at their dead-end job for a lousy pay check, which will never be enough to live by. The right sleeve of his jacket hangs loose and moving up and down within time as the wind comes passing through, pushing the sleeve as it would have been pushing the leaves to fly in the mid-air. He placed his bottle between the knees. He grabs a hold of the right sleeve (after two attempts). He tucks it into the right side pocket. He then pulls a small bag of change from his left pocket and puts the little bag into the right pocket to lay some weight to prevent the sleeve from escaping again. He sits comfortably and pulls the bottle between his thighs and takes a hit of the Jack. After he removes the brown paper bag and came to his realisation, that his juice is about to finish. It’s runnin low man. I am gonna have to go to work now and sit close by The Square with my cup 'n' sign. Maybe this will be a good night. Pocketing 50 last night was a good run He finished the remains of what was left from the bottle of whiskey. He got up, lost his balance again, but found his feet a few moments later. He walked back to the other side of the path. He had put the empty Jack in a big black garbage bag along with the other 20 empty cans inside and a few bottles in his shopping cart mixed between the layers of clothes piled in the cage. Gently, he placed his palms on the bar of the trolley and began to make his way towards the exit of the famous park and headed down towards 5th Avenue, slowly making his way to work. Later that night. I saw him near a Belgian Café on 5th Ave and 26th St. He wasn’t doing much. I walked up to him, took out a single five dollar note and two $1 bills and placed it in the red ripped plastic cup with a white rim. Didn't pay any attention to his message on the brown cardboard. He looked at me as if he had seen me for the first time. There was silence between us for a few seconds. Thank you, sir. He said. I smiled and walked off and never saw him again.