In southwest Va., as more need help, aid organization has less to give

So now, when people come into her office, she speaks in a constant hum even as she listens. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, I know. Oh, honey. Oh, Lordy.” She makes eye contact. She never looks at the clock. She tells them: “I shop at Family Dollar. I know what it’s like to be poor.” Mostly, she nods in affirmation and listens to their stories.

Into her office comes a 56-year-old named Sam: “I’ve been calling into the radio station, putting an ad on the air looking for work — any work — but there ain’t nothing. Nothing in this damn town. We’ve been staying out in the street three nights, then sleeping over with my nephew and them. Now we’ve found a place real cheap out in Newbern. Good news is, we’ve got either the security deposit or the rent. Bad news is, we don’t got both.”

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(Laris Karklis/The Washington Post)

Next is Cari, with long black hair and a too-small T-shirt: “I used to work over at the foundry, melting liquid iron, but that’s been a year and a half ago at least. My husband and me are living with a friend now. He’s real good to us, but food goes fast.”

Next is a 29-year-old who wants gas money to visit a sick grandfather: “I need a tank and some Tylenol.” Next is a woman with an electric bill for $422.13 who bounces her right knee compulsively and adds the numbers on the bill again and again: “This can’t be right, can it? No, this can’t be right.” Next is a regular client, an ex-convict who comes each month for food, and Hancock walks next door to the pantry and fills four Save-A-Lot plastic bags with chicken gizzards, canned beans, cheese, peanut butter, tuna, ramen noodles and generic-brand cereal. “This is great,” the man says, rifling through the bags to see what’s inside. “This is my grocery shopping.”

Next is a woman with a $210 water bill . . . and a homeless teenager carrying his belongings in a duffel bag . . . and a father of two hoping to pick up some cereal. Hancock gives him three boxes and watches him head out the door. The waiting room is empty. The office is quiet. Finally.

“I can’t take no more today,” Hancock says. “I need a cigarette.”

She walks out to the sloping front porch and lights up a Pyramid 100. A battered Ford truck pulls up across the street. The driver climbs out and starts walking toward the porch. “Oh no,” Hancock says. “Another.”

It’s almost 4:30 p.m., a full hour after she is scheduled to stop seeing clients. Two of her co-workers have already gone home for the day and the other is about to leave. But Hancock stubs out her cigarette, smiles at the woman and holds open the front door. The client follows her into the office, and Hancock sits down at the computer. For now, she still has a little money left to give out. For now, this is still her job.

“Okay,” she says, looking across the desk, beginning the same conversation again. “Income still zero, honey?”