Anthony's home

This is Anthony’s home. I can see his tent from my window. The church lets him camp on their sidewalk, though now and then the police force him to move. He moves for a few days and then comes back because he knows the neighborhood. He knows where to find a toilet, where to get a $1 cup of coffee, which establishments are the best ones to fly a sign by.* A few neighbors, including me, check on him now and then, give him a few bucks if they have it. 

He moved here from Arizona in 2008 to help his father, who was killing himself with alcohol. Anthony found a job at a gas station. He got his dad into rehab, helped him clean up his apartment. Now his dad is sober, going to regular meetings, and lives in subsidized housing like mine. 

For a long time Anthony had his own subsidized apartment, but the paperwork killed him. In order to stay in subsidized housing, you have to be “recertified” every now and then. For him it was every six months. For me it’s once a year. Recertification is a recurring nightmare. You have to give them all your details: your bank account, income, expenses. You have to submit all your receipts for medical treatment, they run a computer check of pharmacies to see what meds you’re taking. If your income and your expenses don’t match, it sends up a red flag. That’s how he lost the apartment. He tells me the waiting list for subsidized housing is now 26 months. So he’s coping with the ice storm. He stays in the tent, in two sleeping bags with blankets over them. He has a little radio he listens to when he has batteries. 

He isn't up yet. I wanted to get some photos of the ice storm this morning before the melt starts. I'll go back and check on him around 11.

*Fly a sign: stand in the street, holding a sign asking for money.

P.S. Extra: sunlight on the ice in the trees is dazzling. 

Terrible update, 3 p.m.: I bought some coffee, hot chocolate, and doughnuts for Anthony and took them to him, but he's gone. Between 7:30 a.m. and an hour ago, someone with a very sharp knife waited for Anthony to go for his toilet and then sliced the tent, front and back, and took his stuff. All that's left of his home is the tent stays, a sopping wet pillow, and some torn nylon. The two tent-campers who live near him say they didn't see or hear anyone, and they don't know where Anthony has gone. I gave them the drinks and doughnuts and they were glad to get them. Damn.