THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, May 19, 1996 TAG: 9605150034
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K3 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: REAL MOMENTS
SOURCE: BY MIKE KERNELS, SPECIAL TO REAL LIFE
LENGTH: Medium: 76 lines
IT'S 9:38 A.M. Friday. A sidewalk on Main Street in Suffolk.
Her name is Patsy. She's a street person.
It's all I know about her.
Well, that and she walks a lot. Destination: everywhere. And nowhere.
It doesn't matter what part of the city I'm in or at what time. There's Patsy.
There's Patsy sitting at the counter in Nansemond Drug sipping coffee from styrofoam at lunchtime. There's Patsy in that booth at the Hardee's on the corner of Constance and West Washington at 4:36 p.m. There's Patsy walking down East Washington at 1:23 a.m.
Every time I see her it's like slowly fast-forwarding a video about her life.
The eyes become deeper, more distraught. Eyes like wells.
The hands become coarser, drier, the fingernails filled with more dirt.
The shoulder-length brown hair oilier.
Every part of Patsy tells a sad story. One that you don't want to remember. One you should never forget.
I've always wondered where she sleeps.
I've always wondered where she's going.
I've always wondered what she's carrying in that shoulder bag of hers.
I've always wondered why she's out on the streets.
I've been told that she's there by choice.
I've always wondered how a person could end up like this. I've heard that she used to have a husband and a nice house in affluent Riverview.
A life.
Then her husband died, and I guess a part of Patsy did, too.
But mostly, I've always wondered why I haven't stopped and said hi or tried to help her instead of looking away. Maybe give her some money, a sandwich or a blanket.
But I don't want that answer.
Small towns like Suffolk are defined by people like Patsy.
She's no stranger to the people who give her spare change every now and then, a free cup of coffee; who wash her clothes; who hear her almost unintelligible yelling on the streets; who have slammed on their brakes to avoid hitting her (she doesn't look when crossing the street); or who take her to nearby Obici Hospital when she has one of her spells.
She's no stranger, either, to the people who beat and rob her monthly after her check from the state arrives.
She's an institution as much as Planters or Lipton Tea or the Ruritan Club.
It's almost destiny that people like her end up here and in other insignificant towns.
But they're more than people. They're characters. They're life.
They remind us that there are real people out there in real need.
They remind us that that could be any of us.
Me.
You don't see a Patsy wandering aimlessly in Norfolk. Virginia Beach. Des Moines. Seattle. New York.
Oh, they're there.
But in a city of thousands, sometimes millions, they get lost in the shuffle of people who really do have a destination.
Here, at least Patsy is a name and face.
A small door prize in life compared to the grim, heartless reality. A reality we need to think about while we hold our remote controls and our call waiting. While we eat our Whoppers and drink our 7-11 coffee. While we are so quick to complain about our lives.
There is no escape from the problems of homelessness.
Even in small-town America. MEMO: Mike Kernels has worked in Suffolk for almost four years. He first met
Patsy in the winter of '91 when he nearly hit her as she was crossing
North Main Street. by CNB