Uncle Ziggy of Boulder Bridge shares his story

On September 11 of 2008, a motorcyclist plowed into Mike Zakowski at 2 A.M., rendering him handicapped. Sitting with him in Acacia Park, his weathered skin is flush from alcohol, a full beard of brown hair covers his face. Matted hair escapes his black stocking hat. 

Squinting into the sun, he tells his story, swigging Kentucky Deluxe and rolling cigarettes throughout the conversation. Specific dates and years seem foggy to him but the greater details of his life remain clear. From playing ball in Villa Park, California to working in Salt Lake City, to finally ending up on the streets of Colorado Springs—where he’s spent the last eight years living out of a backpack. 

“People don’t realize how hard it is being out here in the streets. It’s not that a lot of us are lazy,” he said. A couple of weeks ago, a man hassled him outside of a downtown bar. “Get a job,” the man said to Uncle Ziggy (Mike’s street name). “Take a look at this leg,” Ziggy said pointing to his right leg, wrapped in a brace from his ankle to mid-hip. “Think I can work. Who’s gonna put me on. Fuck you, you mother-fucker.” 

But it isn’t that simple. Without identification he has to work “under the table jobs” at various establishments in the Springs. He panhandles at night before returning to camp, under a bridge, across from Palmer High School off Boulder Street.

“Twice within a year I got hit,” Ziggy said. “First time was 2 A.M. on 9/11. I spent three weeks in the critical care unit at Memo (Memorial Hospital). I injured both legs, left arm, had six cracked ribs, a bruised lung, severe concussion and bleeding on the brain. CICP [Colorado Indigent Care Program] paid the doctor’s bill. But I got a lawsuit going. They want to give me $12,500. I said tell them I want a quarter million now. I’m hoping it’ll get settled in court for fifty to eighty thousand. That would get me off the street.”

A fellow homeless friend was walking home with him that night. Ziggy explained the other end of the incident, “My friend that got hit, he lost his right leg in the accident. They found him dead about a month ago. I found out from a fire fighter outside a bar downtown. He fell out of his wheelchair below a bridge and froze to death. He settled for $12,500. But I won’t settle for that. I want more.”

Ziggy keeps to himself, avoiding the drama and arguments between transients at the park. He prefers solitude to keep him out of trouble with the cops. He’s been living in the streets on and off for about eight years. 

“Before this,” he said, “I was in Salt Lake City. I managed a room and board facility. But I started drinking again after five and half years of sobriety. I was getting stressed out. Then I got a DUI and wrecked my car. I hit a parked car, pushed it through a fence and still managed to get home.”

After blowing a .36—the legal limit in Utah is .08—Ziggy knew it was time to move on. He started working as a carnie, making $300 a week, and ended up in Calhan, Colorado. “Around then I figured I was getting to old for that shit, quit and hitched down to Springs,” he said.

Sitting on the bench he continued to share his story with me. “I try to stay off the hard drugs. Just drinking primarily. Sometimes I’ll smoke a little weed but that’s about as hard as I go. The drinking is bad enough for me. Shit, I’ll go through a handle in a day if got the money.” 

Today Ziggy worked through two pints as I talked to him. “I had some money in my pocket earlier this morning. Went and got something to eat at McDonalds. Bought a friend of mine a pint. Bought two pints for myself. He stumbled off somewhere. Don’t know where.”

Friends like these are his only company in the Springs. His parents are still alive, living near his siblings in Orange County, California. “I just do whatever I want. I’m the black-sheep of the family,” he said. “Haven’t really talked to my siblings. I went to my sister’s wedding in ’93. That was the last time I saw them.” 

His son and former love are also of a time past—when he lived in Orange County. “Last time I talked to my son,” he said, “is when I went to court against his mother in ’89. He goes, ‘I don’t want to talk to you no more. Aren’t you upset?’ I said no. I said if you want to talk to me again it’s up to. He’s thirty-two now. Born just after his mom and I graduated from high school in ’77. Villa Grove High School. I think he’s in the army. I don’t know if he’s in Afghanistan or Iraq. But he won’t talk to me because his mom is doing twenty-five to life.”

After being charged with four felonies, all of which Ziggy was involved in, she ended up in Chino, he recalled. However, Chino is a prison for men. “I’ve been in Chino” to visit her, he said. “That was back when I was sober and in A.A in the ‘90s. The earliest she’ll get out in 2013.”

While working in southern California during the spring, summer and fall Ziggy was on the fire lines—California Department of Forestry. Making $14 an hour for six years in the late ‘70s and early 80’s. During the fires’ off-season he worked at Sutherland Lumber making salary plus over-time as a senior yard-man in Anaheim.

With his injury and without identification Ziggy continues to live on the streets. He works various jobs, one at an antique store downtown—when there’s work to be done. Between jobs, he sits in Acacia Park drinking Kentucky Deluxe and Pit-Bull malt liquor. 

“August 20th I get loaded,” he said. “That’s my birthday. Just turned 51. I’m a Leo.” I asked if he’s happy. He said “I’m pretty much content. The weather doesn’t bother me much. I got a blanket, two sleeping bags and a coat that keeps me dry.”