No Miracle on Main Street

A homeless woman's plight highlights the harsh realities for the disabled poor

A A A Comments By Mary Ann Tawasha Thursday, Dec 9 1999

...continued from page 2

Undeterred, the man continues. "Well, do you have room for some money?" His question provokes a smile that breaks out on her unlined face. "I think so." He advances to deliver a fistful of change before driving off.

Young got her biggest treat on Thanksgiving Day. A stranger drove up and paid for a night's lodging at the nearby Days Inn. According to the motel staff, various benefactors pay for Young to have a night's stay there about once a month. But it isn't exactly a scene of an awestruck invalid bashfully entering comparatively opulent quarters, the stuff of sanitized toilets and color TV.

Mary Ann Tawasha

Young dreams of a walker and facial soap.

More About

Like this Story?

Sign up for the Weekly Newsletter: Our weekly feature stories, movie reviews, calendar picks and more - minus the newsprint and sent directly to your inbox.

Staffers provide her with the medical room rate of $45 -- a $14 discount -- and brace themselves for anything.

Once she checks into the room, there are often repeated calls to the front desk, reporting that someone is knocking on her door. They receive her stream of complaints and commentary, often in person, for prolonged periods.

Even the housekeeping crew knows when the guest has been Young. They have to do extra cleaning, they say, to remove the left-behind dirt and occasional smells.

"She really isn't that friendly," one staff member says. "But we manage."

Young displays none of that behavior in a series of interviews. There is a slight odor of urine, but she seems obsessed with hygiene.

Asked what she would like for Christmas, she leans over and first mentions a walker.

"That would be good. And some soap from Clinique. If I give you some money -- I know Foley's has a special -- I could get one of those gifts, too, that comes with all sorts of stuff."

Her mind seems to drift into the dream. "You'd only have to put in a little bit."

Then she interrupts herself for the music, the Walkman music that she says comforts her. "Wait, I like this song." She turns up the volume on her headphones, now around her neck. "It's Alan Jackson," she announces.

The conversation, even about Christmas gifts, is suddenly over.

Yule lights flash in the far distance from this desolate campsite, but there is no miracle on Main Street coming tonight for Cheryl Ann Young. She returns the headphones to her ears and closes her eyes, as the music drives away the thunder from her concrete ceiling above.

Check out this week's featured ad for News