Jennifer Jiggetts

Hard times drive many people to live out of cars By Jennifer Jiggetts Dec 4, 2011 Ross Taylor| The Virginian-Pilot Alice Wilkomer, 76, and her husband, Oscar Wilkomer, 64, used to be homeless and lived out of this car. Here they rest on Monday, Nov. 14, 2011, outside their new apartment in Ocean View shortly after moving in some of their belongings. Ross Taylor| The Virginian-Pilot Oscar Wilkomer, 64, and his wife, Alice Wilkomer, 76, used to be homeless and lived out of their car. Here, they pose for a portrait on Monday, Nov. 14, 2011, inside their new apartment in Ocean View in Norfolk. The walls are bare in the one-bedroom studio apartment off Shore Drive in Ocean View. There's a blue lawn chair in the bedroom and an air mattress rolled up against the wall in the kitchen. The cabinets are empty. Two boxes of Little Caesars pizza sit on the refrigerator shelf, next to a gallon of 2 percent milk. The rent is $500 a month, plus utilities. Apartment 102 might not have much, but it is home now for Oscar and Alice Wilkomer. Oscar, who is 64, and Alice, 76, have been married since 1975. Over the years, they made enough money to keep a roof over their heads, but medical expenses led to their missing rental payments on their last place. A few weeks ago, the Wilkomers were living out of their car in Virginia Beach. Homeless service providers in the area say a growing number of people teetering on the brink of poverty now live in their cars. Some are turned away by shelters experiencing high demand. Jimmy Barnes, a spokesman with the Virginia Beach Police Department, said it's illegal to sleep in a car in public in the city. He said police have charged 11 people with the misdemeanor offense since January; 17 the previous year. It is not clear that those individuals were homeless, but officers will ask the person what's wrong if they see someone in his car. "Someone could fall asleep in their car after going to the bar," Barnes said. "Would you rather them drive home or sleep in their car?" Neil Donovan, executive director of the National Coalition for the Homeless in Washington, D.C., said about 1-in-4 of the nation's homeless people don't stay in shelters. They live on the streets, in the woods, at abandoned properties or in their cars. The car campers typically live that way for about 30 days or less. If they're lucky, they'll scrape up enough money for a motel, Donovan said. Living in a car is a different kind of homelessness, Donovan said. "Your day is spent trying to not look like you're homeless," he said. "And it's hard, when you have nowhere to go." The Wilkomers remember that first night. They drove around Norfolk for a little bit, trying to figure out where to park. They tried a couple of stores but were chased out. They heard from others looking for affordable housing that they could park their car at some big-box stores in the area. "We had no money. No shelter. It was me and Alice," Oscar Wilkomer said. "Where were we supposed to go?" They parked in the back of the lot at a Virginia Beach Kmart store because they didn't want anyone, especially the security guards, to notice them. Every few hours or so, Oscar Wilkomer would pretend to shop. He learned that from the homeless people he encountered as a greeter at a Norfolk Walmart. He spent about $10 on dinner that night. Alice Wilkomer ate packaged tuna and he ate canned spaghetti and meatballs with plastic utensils. Pepsi, chips and cookies rounded out the meal. The weather was in the low 40s. They had no heat, so they kept warm with blankets. They heard cars going by, and intoxicated people arguing. Oscar Wilkomer couldn't sleep that night. He stood guard, with a gun for protection. He was worried they'd get robbed. The car windows wouldn't go all the way up, and the door locks weren't working properly. The next morning, after his wife woke up, the couple looked at each other and asked, "Where do we go now?" The Wilkomers had never been homeless. They met at an Israeli forum at Old Dominion University in 1975. They went out on a date, fell in love, and got married a few weeks later. At the time, they owned a new Datsun 240Z. Their car note was $112 a month. Oscar Wilkomer looks like he'd make a nice Santa Claus, with his salt-and-pepper beard and paunchy belly. He is of Polish descent and was born in a German hospital. His family came to the United States in 1951 because his mother had a cousin in Norfolk. He said he worked as a social worker in Norfolk and an assistant convention director in Miami in the 1970s and a car salesman and real-estate agent in the '80s. He was a teacher's assistant at the Center for Effective Learning in Virginia Beach for three years and a substitute teacher in the area in the '90s. His most recent job was at that Walmart. Wilkomer's childhood role model was Elvis Presley, and with his deep voice and 6-foot-1 frame, he does spot-on impersonations of an older Presley. He was a well-known impersonator in the area several years ago, gyrating his hips in purple and gold flashy gear. He would later lose all of his costumes in a storage auction. Alice Wilkomer was his vocal coach. She stands 4 feet, 11 inches tall, and her big, brown eyes are magnified by her bifocals. She's the oldest of six children, was born in Morocco, and said she was an opera singer in France. She had a job as an executive secretary at an American military installation in Kenitra, Morocco, in the '50s and '60s. She translated English, Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish and French for the military for 12 years. She came to America in 1971 and said she's since worked as a cashier at the Dam Neck Annex cafeteria at Oceana Naval Air Station, and at Lillian Vernon in Virginia Beach. Most recently, she said, she worked at local restaurants as a waitress. The Wilkomers lived a comfortable life. They made enough, they say, to donate to charity. Earlier this year, they fell behind on medical payments. Oscar Wilkomer has the joint disorder osteoarthritis and heart problems. In August, they got evicted from the house in Norview they'd rented for nine years. Later, they stayed in a motel for several weeks. Both say they are estranged from the little family they have in the area. They get about $1,000 a month from Social Security. So, eventually, their only option was to live in the car, a 1984 Mercedes-Benz 300D Turbo Diesel, or "The Benzo." The day after that first night, the Wilkomers went to Jewish Family Services of Tidewater and found out about the Lighthouse Center, a place in Virginia Beach with no overnight or dining facilities but where homeless individuals can shower and do laundry. From then on, they were receiving services from the Winter Shelter Program, which places people overnight at church facilities. If they couldn't get a bed through the program, they'd sleep in the car. This went on for about a month. Sometimes, they'd eat a $5 Little Caesars pizza for dinner. They would shower at the Lighthouse Center during the day or take birdbaths - a skill Oscar Wilkomer said he learned while in the Army Reserve - in the store restroom when customers were scarce. The Benzo has about a half-million miles on it. They had little money for gas so they drove only if they had to. Plus, they had an expired inspection sticker. Sometimes, store security guards would drive past the car and notice them but then look the other way. They knew. The customers never really noticed they were homeless, though. The Wilkomers placed everything they owned in dark green plastic bags in the back seat and the trunk. The back seat was covered with blankets. "We didn't look raggedy," Oscar Wilkomer said. "No one could prove we were homeless." People probably figured they were moving to a new apartment or out of state, he said. They would never sleep at the same time, so that one could stand guard. Alice Wilkomer said she would pray for their safety and a warm place to call home before reclining her seat back to sleep. The Wilkomers also came across other car campers. There was the mother who fed her three children with bread. And the young married couple from Ohio who came to Hampton Roads for a construction job that didn't pan out. The shelter turned them and their baby away. Alice Wilkomer said she was thankful that she and her husband had the car to live in. They heard stories from people at the Lighthouse Center about folks living in homeless encampments or sleeping in alleys or behind convenience stores. Somehow, sleeping in The Benzo didn't seem so bad. Ask Oscar what the most valuable thing he had in the car was, and he'll tell you in a flash: Alice. He often felt guilty and depressed that he couldn't put a roof over her head. "My love for Alice is not infinity," he said. "It's beyond infinity." The week before Thanksgiving, the Wilkomers secured the place in Ocean View. A deacon they had met through the shelter program helped find the apartment in Norfolk and put new tires on The Benzo. The couple say there's nothing like having a place of their own. They missed the security of locking their front door. They missed talking to neighbors. "This is what homeless people dream about at night: When am I going to have my own apartment?" he said. Habits from their time spent car camping remain. Alice wears her leather purse around her neck at all times, for example. And they drive only if they have to, for fear of running out of gas. The Benzo could use some TLC. There are spots on the tan leather seats. The roof and sides of the gray car are fading. A photo album, telephone book and wires rest on the back dashboard. There's a bottle of aspirin, toothpaste and a few bills in the glove compartment. The car smells like cigarettes. Oscar Wilkomer said either the fuel filter needs cleaning or the transmission needs replacing. The car only gets up to about 45 mph. He worries about it breaking down but can't afford to have it fixed right now. They are doing everything possible to make sure they keep this place. Oscar Wilkomer pays $20 a month toward his medical bills. It's not much, he says, but it's a start. He said he and his wife can't stand for very long, and that makes working difficult. The Wilkomers say their spirits are high, though. Their new apartment, not far from a marina, is the best place they've ever lived. "It represents a new beginning, just like spring is a new beginning," Oscar Wilkomer said, pointing to the beige-and-brown checkered kitchen floor. "Being homeless is the worse feeling I ever had." Jennifer Jiggetts, -,-