The victim was obviously homeless. Less apparent were his circumstances and history, but it did not take long for those to emerge. Of all the homeless people in the subway, the victim, Anthony Horton, 43, had been among the least faceless.
Mr. Horton found solace in the blackness of the tunnels. He made the subway the subject of his canvases, the muse for a graphic novel that he co-wrote, and the place he called home for the better part of his adult life, even when he had other places to stay.
... The book was based on his life underground. He told of a dozen or so rules of thumb, including: Always carry a light. Anything you need can be found in the garbage. Always have more than one spot.
Then there was this: Always have a way out that is different from the way in.
“He was a gentle soul, and I admired him.” ... “I wanted him to live a long time.”
The Fiery End of a Life Lived Beneath the City
ReplyDeleteby Christine Haughney
Hannah Miet contributed reporting.
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/07/nyregion/the-fiery-end-of-a-life-lived-beneath-the-city.html
After the flames were extinguished Sunday night, firefighters made the discovery: a body, deep in an abandoned crew room, in a subway tunnel on the F line just north of 63rd Street and Lexington Avenue.
ReplyDeleteThe victim was obviously homeless. Less apparent were his circumstances and history, but it did not take long for those to emerge. Of all the homeless people in the subway, the victim, Anthony Horton, 43, had been among the least faceless.
Mr. Horton found solace in the blackness of the tunnels. He made the subway the subject of his canvases, the muse for a graphic novel that he co-wrote, and the place he called home for the better part of his adult life, even when he had other places to stay.
When he emerged aboveground, his friends said, he spoke with a rich gravelly voice, he drummed on the tops of mailboxes and improvised songs inspired by the 1970s tunes of Luther Vandross, and when he saw a friend, he would deliver a bear hug that pulsed with warmth.
The book was based on his life underground. He told of a dozen or so rules of thumb, including: Always carry a light. Anything you need can be found in the garbage. Always have more than one spot.
Then there was this: Always have a way out that is different from the way in.
“He was a gentle soul, and I admired him,” said Youme Landowne, who co-wrote the graphic novel, “Pitch Black,” published in 2008. “I wanted him to live a long time.”
Mr. Horton was known to street book vendors near Hunter College, where he struck up conversations about topics like boxing. He was known in Dobbs Ferry, N.Y., where he spent part of his childhood in a children’s group home, after his parents abandoned him. He was known by those who befriended him aboveground and tried to help him lead a more normal existence. And he was known by law enforcement authorities; court records show that Mr. Horton had at least 17 arrests and convictions before 2008.
Mr. Horton was born in New York City and grew up in foster homes, according to his friend Jordan Buck, who met Mr. Horton three decades ago when he was living in Dobbs Ferry. In “Pitch Black,” Mr. Horton wrote that he found the streets safer than shelters. Soon he migrated to the subway’s tunnels and learned from other homeless people how to build a home there.
While Mr. Horton suffered from many of the problems his fellow tunnel dwellers faced, he also had an unusual support network. In his book, he mentions substance-abuse problems, and friends say he struggled with drinking. But he also had friends like Mr. Buck, who invited him to stay with him and his sister at their apartment in TriBeCa in the mid-1990s. Mr. Horton made them omelets and often searched through the trash for gifts to give them. Still he longed for the tunnels, Mr. Buck said, and after about a year, all agreed that it was time for Mr. Horton to leave, and he returned underground.
“He had really mixed feelings about it,” Mr. Buck said. “On the one hand, he set up these rooms for himself and he definitely felt pride and a sense of ownership. There was something magical and mystical down there. The other part was lonely.”
ReplyDeleteMr. Horton met Ms. Landowne when he approached her on a downtown train and asked her whether she was an artist. They began talking about art, and soon he showed her his work: sketches he had done from charcoal and fax machine ink that he had rescued from trash bins. “He drew himself and the subways and things from his imagination, kind of a better world,” Ms. Landowne said. He talked of his love for dogs, especially his dog, Meatball, who was eventually taken from him. She said he taught gymnastics and art classes for homeless people at Jan Hus Presbyterian Church on the Upper East Side.
When Mr. Horton and Ms. Landowne decided to collaborate on a book, he showed her his tunnel homes. One dwelling had a futon, bookshelves and artwork. He said he had hidden his art and few possessions throughout the subway, since they were getting lost or stolen.
Last week, he sent a belated holiday card to Mr. Buck thanking him for his friendship over the years and, Mr. Buck said, “something to the effect that I know I couldn’t be exactly what you all wanted me to be.”
The type of subterranean life that Mr. Horton led “was definitely much more prevalent in the late ’80s and early ’90s,” said Patrick Markee, the senior policy analyst for the Coalition for the Homeless.
“We rarely run into somebody who is sleeping in the tunnels these days,” Mr. Markee said.
Mr. Horton’s last resting place was about 150 feet north of the Queens-bound platform at 63rd Street and Lexington Avenue. After breaking a lock, firefighters discovered a two-room apartment of sorts; Mr. Horton had turned one room into a living room, 9 by 10 feet, and another into a bedroom, 6.5 by 4.5 feet.
“He seemed to have all of the amenities,” said Jim Long, a Fire Department spokesman. “He had a couch. He had a bed. I believe there was a refrigerator-type appliance.” The cause of the fire has not been determined.
On Monday afternoon, the scent of smoke still hung in the station. Joseph Mathew, a booth clerk at the neighboring Roosevelt Island station, said he had seen Mr. Horton a couple of times a week asking people to lend him a swipe of a MetroCard to get home. He remembered Mr. Horton the way many did on Monday, once they learned of his death.
“He was kind,” Mr. Mathew said. “He was not bothering nobody.”