Tampa’s ‘Blanket Guy’ provides for people sleeping on the streets
TAMPA — Before he searches for Tammy and Paula, who live in their car, or Jay, whom he last saw sleeping on a bench, or Shane and Leilani, who stay in a tent, “The Blanket Guy” drives his packed RAV4 to Chick-fil-A.
Someone sent a stack of gift cards. Today, in addition to comforters and clothes, he will be able to share hot food.
It’s a sunny Thursday in February. Jon Pessano, 53, tosses two sacks of sandwiches behind his driver’s seat, on top of garbage bags bulging with donations: socks, sweatpants, backpacks and a mountain of blankets.
He steers down Dale Mabry, scanning parking lots for a beat-up black sedan with sun shades taped over the rear windows. Tammy and Paula have to keep moving so they won’t get caught.
There, behind some storage units, he sees it. “You guys in there?” he calls, knocking on the windshield. “How you doing? Look what I brought.”
Slowly, the back doors open and two women unfold. Both have gray hair, pulled into ponytails. “Oh, we’re better,” says the taller woman. “Because of you, we can sleep now. We’re not as cold.”
The women are sisters. They have been living in their car for six weeks, ever since a boyfriend left and they could no longer afford rent. Tammy Perez, 55, has a bad back. Paula Ingles, 52, lost her teeth and struggles to stand. Pessano had gotten her a walker and given them an armful of quilts.
Now, as he hands them steaming sandwiches, he asks, “What do you need? Clothes? Cookies?” Today, he brought Nutri-Grain bars, too. “I got something soft for you right here.”
• • •
He grew up in Dunedin, graduated from the University of South Florida, designed software for NASA and the Department of Defense.
Of course he knew, in a distant way, that there were people living on the streets.
But Pessano says he didn’t really start seeing them until about three years ago, after he retired and started driving for Meals on Wheels.
On the roads of Riverview and East Tampa, he noticed people hunched over, shivering. In parks of Temple Terrace, Carrollwood, South Tampa. Ybor City’s sidewalks were strewn with people.
It broke Pessano’s heart — and made him furious.
Pessano is not religious. “I’m not some do-gooder or bleeding heart.” He doesn’t consider what he does a ministry. “I just can’t sit around and do nothing.”
He hates the news. Doesn’t know that in the last five years rent has spiked 38% in Tampa, or that more than 4,000 people across Tampa Bay are unhoused. He doesn’t know that last year in Hillsborough County 110 people died while homeless — the most in three years.
He has no use for politicians. “I don’t care what those idiots do!”
A proud Libertarian, he’s ashamed that his neighbors are suffering on the streets. “We live in a rich country. We can afford wars and take care of immigrants. But we can’t even feed our own people.”
He’s not trying to save anyone, he says. He never gives out money.
But he can help strangers keep warm, bring them underwear and clean socks. One woman wanted a wheelchair. Another pleaded for a phone charger. When he gave sleeping bags to two young women who had just gotten out of jail, they cried.
• • •
On the way to Ybor, he worries about Frank, who used to stay near Adamo Drive. “Hopefully he’s out of jail.” And Angel, who lives with his wife under the Crosstown Expressway. “She didn’t have any shoes.”
He slows down at the 7-Eleven, searching for Kenny. “I don’t know if he’s homeless or just down on his luck,” Pessano says. “Doesn’t matter.”
He asks their first names but never their stories. Sometimes he asks to take their photos to post on his Facebook group. “I want people to see them as humans, not invisible homeless.”
Mostly, he works alone. He brought his wife, a doctor, along for the ride — once. “She broke down. She couldn’t shake it. She wanted to go to Walmart and buy everything for everyone.”
The “Blanket Guy” page, which Pessano started a few months ago, has 300 members. At first he was only accepting bedding. But people started asking if he would pick up clothes, shoes, snacks. Pessano became a sort-of Robin Hood, collecting from the comfortable. “Most people don’t know how to help,” he says. “I’m the middleman.”
A couple of volunteers help pick up donations. Every week, Pessano fills, and empties, his SUV. “It’s like bringing Goodwill to the people,” he says. “Except I don’t charge $10 for jeans.”
He never wakes people, never approaches groups of men or anyone “who looks like they’re having an episode.” Some curse him for not giving them cash. He usually doesn’t feel threatened but often carries a gun.
On Seventh Avenue, Pessano spots a man lying on a bench beside a duffel bag, staring at the sky. He parks and walks up. “Hey, Jay! What’s up, bro?”
The man sits up and smiles. “You got some snacks?”
“I got snacks galore,” Pessano says. “And dude, check this out!” He hands him a sandwich.
“Awesome!” Jay cries, unwrapping the Chick-fil-A. “Ooh man, it’s still hot.”
• • •
At 3:30 p.m., a half-hour before the food distribution truck arrives, more than 50 people are lined up outside Grace Family Church near the Gandy Bridge. Couples and families, elderly women on walkers, teenage boys on bikes.
While volunteers set up folding tables, Pessano opens his hatchback. “Who needs jeans? Who needs jackets?” he calls. “Come get what you need.”
A dozen people crowd around the garbage bags, which Pessano opens on the asphalt. “Help yourself!”
A man leaning on a cane takes a pair of green high-tops. A gray-bearded man finds a pair of navy Dickies. A woman in a kerchief tries on an orange sweater. “It still has the tags!”
“All the people look forward to him coming,” says volunteer Martha Scott, who is sorting produce. “And the best part is, he’s never judgmental.” In the parking lot, Pessano sees a couple about his age, walking up with a dog, waving. Shane Long, 52, and Leilani Shelton, 53, had been living in a little house with their Doberman, paying $1,000 a month in rent. Then their landlord raised the rent to $2,875, and they couldn’t find anywhere they could afford. They have been living in a tent behind McDonald’s for almost two years.
“We’re on a list, trying to get help,” Shelton says. “Just trying to get through it …”
Pessano gives them granola bars, crackers, a backpack. Someone even donated kibble for Sampson. “Oh, and I got you Gatorade, low sugar,” he tells Shelton. “I remembered you’re diabetic.”
Shelton wipes her eyes. “Oh, you’re so kind,” she says. “So many people turn their heads. You don’t have to do all this.”
Pessano hands them the last two chicken sandwiches. “Well,” he says. “Someone has to.”
How to help
To donate something to be distributed, find Pessano on Facebook at shorturl.at/guxD6
