The Sunshine Hotel

Roman Mars:
This is 99% Invisible. I’m Roman Mars.

Roman Mars:
The Bowery, in lower Manhattan, is one of New York’s oldest neighborhoods, so it’s been through a lot of iterations. In the 1650s, a handful of freed slaves were the neighborhood’s first residents. This was back when New York was still a Dutch colony called New Amsterdam, and the Lower East Side of Manhattan was farmland. By the early 1800s, the neighborhood was a bustling thoroughfare with elegant theaters and taverns and shops. By the late 1800s, it had become a seedier place, full of saloons and dance halls and prostitution and by the 1940s, the Bowery had become New York’s Skid Row. A place where down-and-out men could go and rent a cheap room for the night in one of the neighborhood’s many flophouses. Now, of course, there’s no room for a Skid Row in the Lower East Side of Manhattan and the Bowery, like the rest of the area, is full of expensive places to live and fancy grocery stores. Back in 1998, before the last of the flophouses closed its doors, Dave Isay and Stacy Abramson made one of my favorite radio documentaries of all time about one of these places. These producers knew they were making a time capsule. I don’t think they knew just how fast and complete a transition New York was about to make. Even though most of New York City has moved on from these kinds of voices and stories, you’ll never forget them after you hear Nathan Smith’s riveting guided tour of the Sunshine Hotel.

Nathan Smith:
Welcome. Come on in. If you got the rent money, you can stay. If you ain’t, beat it. This is an eat it and beat it hotel. Normally, people come in, they stay for a day or two and get out. For some reason or another, people come here, and they like to stay for a year or two years. In other words, they like to give you aggravations. If you like aggravations, come to the Sunshine Hotel. It’s a lovely place.

Nathan Smith:
“You checking out?”

Woman:
“I didn’t like the fleas in the bed.”

Nathan Smith:
“Fleas?”

Woman:
“Yeah, I had fleas. I scratched all night, the whole time I was here. Yeah, roaches on the wall…”

Nathan Smith:
It’s a nice place if you’re short of funds and you need to lay your head down for a couple of hours. We hope to make your stay pleasant. But don’t ask me for towels or soap. We don’t have it. We do not have those luxuries.

Henry Fogelman:
“You want to see ID of any kind?”

Nathan Smith:
“Oh no, I believe you. I mean this is the kind of hotel where everybody gives an AKA. You’re welcome to a room for a very nominal fee. Okay, here you are my friend, you’re all set.”

Henry Fogelman:
“Thanks a lot, buddy.”

Nathan Smith:
“Okay. You can square yourself away, this that and the other. This is the last of the last. Welcome to the Sunshine Hotel.”

Henry Fogelman:
“Thanks a lot.”

Nathan Smith:
“The last of the last. Take it easy.”

Henry Fogelman:
“I’m Henry, by the way.”

Nathan Smith:
“Henry, I’m Nathan, okay my friend.”

Henry Fogelman:
“How you doing? Pleased to meet you.”

Nathan Smith:
“Okay.”

Nathan Smith:
“What’s up, guard? What’s happening? All right, my man.”

Nathan Smith:
My name is Nathan Smith. I am the manager of the Sunshine Hotel.”

Nathan Smith:
“Yeah. What can I do for you?”

Man:
“I’d like to pay my rent.”

Nathan Smith:
“Good. You make the landlord a happy man.”

Nathan Smith:
This hotel in 1998 probably looks the same as it did in 1928. Like almost all of the flops, the lobby is on the second floor up a narrow flight of stairs. It’s just a large room with wooden floors and a couple of chairs. I sit in a cage at the front, running the joint. There’s only one telephone for the entire hotel, which, it keeps me pretty busy.

Nathan Smith:
“Sunshine, give me a 10-4. Hey Eddie. Eddie, Eddie. Do me a favor, see if you can get Earl Simpson. Tell Earl it’s his mother. Earl, Earl, Earl. Wake him up. Wake him up. Throw him out the bed and tell him it’s his mother. ”

Nathan Smith:
Headed to the john, you got to see me.

Man:
“Can I have some toilet tissue?”

Nathan Smith:
“35 cents a slice. I’ll put it on your tab. You want paper too?”

Nathan Smith:
Past the lobby, you’ll find the living quarters for 125 residents of this hotel. The Sunshine is one of the last places in the country where people live in cubicles. Maybe it’s a little hard to imagine for those of you living in more affluent circumstances. Picture a long hallway with a series of doors on either side. These are the cubicles, 4×6, no windows. The cubicles are only seven feet high, so there’s chicken wire along the top to keep the guys from climbing over into the next room. Really, it’s like living in a birdcage.

Henry Fogelman:
“My name’s Henry Fogelman and I live in room 36A. Basically, it’s like the size of a jail prison cell. It’s got a light and bed, mattress and a blanket with screen wire on the top and basically that’s about it.”

Man:
“It’s very tiny. It’s so small you have trouble making the bed.”

Man:
“I’ve been in prison jails. I’ve been Upstate, Downstate. My cells were five times bigger than my room.”

Nathan Smith:
So it’s not the Waldorf, but where else can you find a room in New York for $10 a night? If it wasn’t for this hotel, a lot of these guys wouldn’t have any place to go. All you have to do is look around. Like over there, you see that old guy there with the snow-white hair and the guitar? This is Eddie. Eddie Barrett. Eddie’s been with us about 100 years.

Man:
“The rooms still here, we’re still here. So that’s good. Hey.”

Nathan Smith:
Eddie sits all day in a corner of the hotel looking out the window and playing.

Man:
“I play like Johnny Cash.”

Nathan Smith:
The funny thing about Eddie is that he always plays the same songs over and over and over again.

Man:
“Maybe I might sit down and come up with a new tune in my mind, but by the time I pick up the guitar I done, forgot the tune I had in my mind.”

Nathan Smith:
Eddie used to work as a band boy for Tito Puente, but he had a mental breakdown and ended up at this flop.

Man:
“I met a nice guy in the street and he knew the Bowery, and he told me, he said, “Look, you’re looking for a hotel?” He said, “Come on with me. I’ll show you a hotel. A place called Sunshine.” It ain’t bad. So we went together. That’s how we started.”

Nathan Smith:
That was 30 years ago, and he’s still here.

Nathan Smith:
Sunshine is the last stop. On the one hand, it’s probably as close as you can come to living in hell. 125 dysfunctional guys crammed together in this old hotel. On the other hand, it’s pretty interesting. I’ve had everything here from a priest to a murderer. You wouldn’t believe the characters that stay here at the Sunshine. For instance, you see that little elfin white guy walking through the lobby? That happens to be the only deaf-mute crack addict in the Bowery. This is Donnie. He loves this place here. And this gentlemen here, this is our ‘sue maven’.

Bob Russett:
“I’m Bob Russett.”

Nathan Smith:
He sues everybody in town. I think he’s suing the Pope now for malfeasance, or Father O’Connor.

Nathan Smith:
“This is Vinny. This is Vinny here. Vinny Gigante, cubicle 25A. Vinny has throat cancer and talks with a voice box. That’s Vinny, you know.”

Vinnie Gigante:
“This is the manager, he’s the best guy ever. I’ve been here seven years, this man’s like my adopted father…”

Nathan Smith:
Vinny looks a lot like the famous mob boss Vincent “The Chin” Gigante. Rumor has it that the guy’s his uncle, although I don’t know.

Vinnie Gigante:
“I came here because I was addicted to heroin. I didn’t want to bother my family anymore, so I’ve been here since then, and I will be here until I die probably.”

Nathan Smith:
That chirping sound you here is Vinny’s two love birds. He spends all day in his cubicle taking care of them.

Vinnie Gigante:
“This is Pretty Boy. He’s 10 years old. This is Little Bit, he’s 5. He’s a devil, yes you are. They take good care of each other. If it wasn’t for these birds, I don’t think I’d have made it in this place. These birds have been my life. So many people don’t realize you need something to help you through everything, or you’re not going to make it.”

Nathan Smith:
“Hey Pop! Tell me something slick, Anthony. Tell me what’s going on.”

Nathan Smith:
Anthony Coppola, cubicle 4B. Everyone here calls him Fat Anthony because he weighs 425 pounds.

Anthony Coppola:
“Sometimes I knock off a 26 ounce can of Chef Boyardee ravioli. That is for five people in a family. I be eating it cold right out of the can. That is a load of eats. That’s a lot of grub there.”

Nathan Smith:
Anthony’s an orphan who came to the Bowery as a teenager about 20 years ago. When I first met Anthony he was a normal size person, but something about this place caused him to eat and eat and eat. Anthony’s gotten so large, he doesn’t fit in his clothes anymore. He just walks around the hotel wrapped in a sheet and almost never leaves the building.

Anthony Coppola:
“Why should I go anywhere? If I want air, I just open up the window, turn on my fan a little higher and I got air.”

Nathan Smith:
I’ve been trying to get Anthony to move to a hospital, but he won’t go.

Anthony Coppola:
“I don’t want to leave. Not yet. Too much like home, too much like home. You been in a place for such a long time. People get to be like family. You didn’t want to leave. Let this young fella in. My lunch. ”

Bruce:
“A little light snack.”

Nathan Smith:
That’s Bruce, the hotel’s runner, delivering two bags of Chinese food to Fat Anthony. That’s another part of life in these old hotels. You see, up here in the Sunshine we’re totally isolated from the rest of the world, so we create our own little society. Anything you want, you can get from another tenant. We have a loan shark, a drug dealer, a guy who does other tenants laundry for a couple of bucks. A room cleaner, and Bruce, who runs errands for tips all day.

Nathan Smith:
All day, Bruce sits in the lobby waiting for runs. As soon as somebody calls him, then boom, he hops into action.

Man:
“Bruce! Tea, two sugars, one Rolaids, two packs of Monarch non-filtered, large Bacitracin, one pack ginseng. There you go.”

Bruce:
“Tea, two sugars. Rolaids…”

Nathan Smith:
Bruce is a Vietnam vet and for him, running errands is kind of like going into battle.

Bruce:
“It takes constant concentration, constant alertness. The main thing is do the steps. Get the order. Remember who gave you the money and remember how much they gave you.”

Bruce:
It’s a work of constant steps and most of them are mental. Tea, two sugars, one Rolaids, two packs of Monarch… And walking all the time you’ve got people constantly distracting you. Distraction’s your biggest enemy. You get to the store, you got to realize that you’ve got to constantly be on guard, constantly be on guard. You’re in the hustler’s capital of the planet. Every third person you meet is trying to hustle you out of your money. Store clerks included.

Bruce:
You run into every kind of person that’s out for money in the world out there, and you’ve got other people’s money on you. You’ve got to defend it better than you would your own, because that’s your livelihood. You blow at once you could ruin your career. You don’t blow it once. Check and make sure everything’s all right. My reputation is my business. I don’t blow it. I don’t blow it.

Nathan Smith:
Here’s the phone. Business. Sunshine, give me a 10-4. Nah, he’s not here, he didn’t come in yet. All right. Cookie wants $20, so when the loan shark comes in, I’ll tell him. Leave $20 for Cookie.

Loan Shark:
“Cookie with the no teeth?”

Nathan Smith:
“Yeah.”

Loan Shark:
“Right. I know Cookie.”

Nathan Smith:
“Yeah, everybody with no teeth around here. In fact, my greatest wish will be the day when I can have me a set of choppers, you know what I mean?”

Loan Shark:
“I just got the top.”

Nathan Smith:
“All I got is a couple on the bottom.”

Arthur Morrison:
My name is Arthur Morrison, I’m 63 now. I came to the Sunshine Hotel in 1960. At that time it was bars all over the Bowery. Two or three bars on every block. It was like Broadway. It never closed. The whole Bowery was filled with nothing but alcoholics, and most of the people I knew that was on the Bowery is dead now, because of alcohol. I’m lucky to be alive. I know that. Survive those years on the Bowery. It’s rough living. Yeah, really rough living.

Nathan Smith:
Some historical facts about this joint. The Sunshine was opened in 1922 by a guy named Frank Mazarra. Cubicles were a dime a night. His son Carl took over in 1945, and ran the place until a couple of years ago when he sold it to the new owners. Now they’re looking to sell.

Man:
“They should make this building landmark status.”

Man:
“It sure is, yeah.”

Man:
“Without this place we’d be in the street. A lot of guys here, this is the only, we can afford-”

Man:
“This is the place where wise men do not dwell. This place is the last of the Mohicans.”

Man:
“I don’t even call it the Sunshine, you know what I mean? I got a name for it, I call it the Bum Shine. You know what I mean? You know what I mean?”

Nathan Smith:
Like all of the flops, the Sunshine is a men’s only establishment. Some of the hotels left on the Bowery are still whites only, but I let everyone in here. All races, all ages, all kinds of stories. We all have one thing in common. We’re on our own. We all had homes. For some reason we left or got thrown out. Take me for example, I used to work in a bank until one day many years ago I was injured on the job. They fired me and sometime later my wife left, so I came down to the Bowery and I’ve been here ever since.

Nathan Smith:
“Hey, I’ll take care of you in the back. Yeah, tie him up and take him in the back.”

Nathan Smith:
Some of my guys in here are drug addicts or alcoholics, some are just off Rikers Island. Others just dream too big.

Hollis:
“I’m going to build me a summer resort. I’m going to have an artificial football field, I’m going to have four basketball courts. I’m going to have a round oval 440 track. Track. Track, Nate, track!”

Nathan Smith:
“Hollis, don’t you think that’s a little over-ambitious? I mean why don’t you just do one thing?”

Hollis:
“You got to have direction, Nate. I’m having a summer resort, and this is what it’s going to be composed of.”

Nathan Smith:
“I get it Hollis.”

Nathan Smith:
Some of my guys here at the Sunshine are working and trying to save a buck. Some are hiding out from the law. Some are dumped here by a psychiatric hospital.

Jeffrey Mangonis:
“Emotionally distraught people find a home in the Sunshine Hotel and I found home inside me. White is girl colored, black is boy colored, blue is emotion. My name is Jeffrey Mangonis. I live at the Sunshine Hotel. I’m from a family of multi-billionaires. My mother is a multi-billionaire, so is my sister-”

Nathan Smith:
And then there are those of us who end up here because we’re dreamers, and just don’t seem to fit in anywhere else. Like my relief clerk, Vic. Vic spends his days in a corner of the hotel, hunched over his daily racing form. Depressed, but he wasn’t always like that.

Vic:
In my case, I started off, like probably so many people, maybe everyone for all I know. With sweet dreams.

Nathan Smith:
Vic grew up in Ohio with an alcoholic mother and an abusive father. He always felt like a misfit. So he buried himself in philosophy and poetry books, and then set off for the Bowery in 1960 to live cheaply while undertaking his metaphysical journey.

Vic:
I had some crazy soaring ambitions of figuring out everything. Figuring out everything. I was, well the old impossible quest for truth. It’s like singing from that song, ‘What’s It All About Alfie?’ Who hasn’t wondered what it’s all about? Had some furious ambitions along those lines. I don’t know, it seemed like I was making some progress. It was intoxicating, and after a while it seemed like it was some crazy pipe dream, as they say. I figure there’ve been a lot more substantial heavyweights than me by far through history, and they didn’t seem to come up with the answers, the big answers, you know? So where did I get off thinking I had a chance of that. Seems like one of those stories better left untold. To me, it seems that way.

Nathan Smith:
“Can I get an ambulance here to the Sunshine Hotel, 241 Bowery? One of my tenants is very ill.”

Nathan Smith:
Mr. Marshall, room 5B. 80 years old, senile. Dumped here by his son about two months ago. He doesn’t eat anything but Oreo cookies. Can’t walk to the bathroom, so he goes on the floor. He’s down to 80 pounds now and jaundiced. Marshall wouldn’t last another week here in this condition. I called his son last night, but he doesn’t care. Yeah, look at him. He’s starving.

Paramedic:
“Why don’t you come outside?”

Nathan Smith:
“He hasn’t had any food, the whole nine yards.”

Nathan Smith:
I mean, it happens in a place like this. We’re very popular with people being dumped.

Paramedic:
“Keep your hands in your lap though. Don’t reach out to grab anything all right? Just lean back. Relax. Okay?”

Nathan Smith:
The ambulance crew wheels Mr. Marshall out, and Evan, our porter, puts on a gas mask to clean up the room.

Evan:
“Throw everything away?”

Nathan Smith:
“Put it in a bag. Yeah, put it in a bag, yeah.”

Nathan Smith:
The cubicle is covered with feces, flies everywhere. Smells like nothing you’ve ever smelled before.

Evan:
“You see a lot of urine all over the floor. A lot of those are milk cartons full of urine. It’s the worst part. Cleaning up rooms like this.”

Nathan Smith:
Watford’s gone, Rosario’s gone. Robinson’s gone. Dave Rodriguez is gone. Late afternoon at the Sunshine my shift is almost over, and I’m sorting through the mail. Rodney, he’s deceased. This is the guy that got shot by the maintenance man here in the lobby. Over five bucks. Marcus is gone. Scoggins is gone.

Donald:
It’s like a death house, okay? Seven months I’ve been here. Five guys have died. Okay. These guys will never leave the building. I mean, months and months at a time. One guy I knew didn’t leave this building for one year, he says, “Donald,” he says, “I’m going to die in this place.” It scares me. Scares me.

Henry Fogelman:
I can’t go no lower than this. I can’t. The only thing I can do now is start, like a little chicken, start crawling out of the egg.

Donald:
I wake up in the morning and sit in the bed, smoke a cigarette, and say to myself, “Donald, what the hell are you doing here? What the hell are you doing here?”

Max R.:
Most of the people just lay on their bed all day in their cubicle and watching TV or listening to the radio or staring into space or sleeping, and just keep vegetating in these little cells with fluorescent light overhead coming through the chicken wire. That’s their life.

Nathan Smith:
That’s the guy we’ll call Max R. He didn’t want his full name used. Cubicle 1L. Max is a 30-year-old Russian immigrant, a skinny kid with a ponytail and glasses. Unlike the other guys you’ve met, Max is one of my short-term tenants. He left his wife and kids in New Jersey and came here on a heroin binge two months ago.

Max R.:
This is my chance to get away where I just don’t have to do anything for anyone, and just indulge to the maximum without being worried about what anyone’s going to say or how I’m going to affect others. No one knows that I’m here. It’s just a complete getaway.

Nathan Smith:
Max is an architect. Even though he’s only been here for a short while, he managed to make his cubicle homie. Lit with candles. There are piles of books on the floor and posters on his wall.

Max R.:
There is a painting of Saint Jerome who was a hermit. He went to the desert and lived by himself for a very long time to try to seek knowledge, and achieve illumination. In a sense that’s what I’m doing too, I guess. It’s so grotesque, and I enjoy it. It’s like that movie, ‘The Cook, The Thief, The Wife and Her Lover’. The experience is so disgusting, so grotesque, and they’re so gross, but they make an art out of it. I’m kind of making an art out of experiencing this.

Nathan Smith:
A couple of days later, Max is arrested at the Sunshine. They crashed him up against the wall several times, handcuffed him, took them out of here. That means his room is available for anybody that wants to rent. He’s just a cleanout now. Nothing personal. He’s a cleanout, and I’m going to clean him out and sell his room. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll probably sell it tomorrow more than likely.

Nathan Smith:
“Sign here my friend. Sign and print.”

Nathan Smith:
One tenant leaves, another checks in, but the hotel never really changes. The Sunshine will always be a dark place. Wake up every morning with chicken wire just above you. Walls hemming you in on all sides. Alone. It’s a stunningly sad place to live. Sometimes at the Sunshine, I close my eyes and drift off. I forget where I am just for a second or two. Suddenly I’m not in a flop hotel, but sitting in some family kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee. Then I wake up and I’m back at the hotel, just like everyone else here. Hoping for break, waiting for that day when I can finally check out of the Sunshine Hotel for good.

Nathan Smith:
“Wilford, I hope you enjoyed your stay here while you were here. You were a very good tenant.”

Nathan Smith:
I always tell my tenants the same thing when they leave-

Nathan Smith:
“You’re welcome to come back anytime buddy.”

Man:
“Very good.”

Nathan Smith:
“Good luck buddy. Good luck. Good luck.”

Nathan Smith:
Wherever they’re going the next place. I hope it’s not the same as this. I hope it’s a little better, but I always tell them that, good luck. Good luck. That’s all I say.

Nathan Smith:
“Okay. Wilford. Tony, you’re going to help him?”

Anthony Coppola:
“Yeah.”

Nathan Smith:
“Good. Good.”

Nathan Smith:
I’m Nathan Smith at the Sunshine Hotel.

Nathan Smith:
“Take care, my friend. Be careful. God bless, buddy.”

Roman Mars:
The Sunshine Hotel was produced by Dave Isay and Stacy Abramson in 1998. The narrator of this piece, and manager of the Sunshine Hotel, Nathan Smith, died from cancer in 2002. This documentary was a production of Sound Portraits, which went on to spawn StoryCorps, which is dedicated to collecting, sharing, and preserving people’s stories. They’ve probably made you cry during Morning Edition on Fridays, but I’m here to tell you they also have a podcast that’s much longer than what’s on the air, and it’s hosted by StoryCorps producers who offer more backstory and podcast exclusives, and some older documentaries like this one. It’s just great. If you like these kinds of moving and effecting stories of everyday people, subscribe to the StoryCorps podcast wherever you find podcasts. More info about StoryCorps can be found at StoryCorps.org.

Credits

Production

This week, 99% Invisible presents The Sunshine Hotel, an audio documentary produced by David Isay and Stacy Abramson for Sound Portraits. It won the Prix Italia, Europe’s oldest and most prestigious broadcasting award, in 1999. David Isay now runs StoryCorps—check out their great podcast, and David’s awesome TED talk. All the black and white photos above are by Harvey Wang from the book FLOPHOUSE: LIFE ON THE BOWERY.

 

Sponsors

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    1. Wisdom

      The one that plays at the end just as Roman begins talking again?

  1. Phil

    Real Journalism ….something that matters, not celebrity worship. Done long ago but still mades me think about lost souls and how easily circumstances can change and we can find ourselves there.

  2. Jim

    Great piece. Thank you for this.
    A few months ago, I stayed at the Bowery House, just down the block from where the Sunshine was. It’s been updated quite a bit, but they kept the “cubicle” setup for the rooms. My room (they call them cabins) was 4×6′, with chickenwire above to keep it secure. I’m over 6′, so I had to lay diagonal in my bed. Since the top is open, save for the chicken wire, you could hear other guests snoring, coughing, or talking quietly. It’s an interesting (though not unpleasant) place to stay, and it made this well-told story even more vivid.

  3. Blew my mind. Just electric, not a second wasted. Such a wonderful piece. This raises the bar for all other audio documentaries. Fantastic! Thank you!

  4. ed

    Saw the original documentary some years ago back when I was living in NYC. I used to walk by the Sunshine all the time and always wondered about the residents. The documentary and this episode are great insights into a part of Manhattan which is fast disappearing.

  5. Lassanyi Tamas

    The Subshine Hotel was mentioned in a novel of this year’s booker prize winner author, Laszlo Krasznahorkai War and War, as a gate to the “fearsome percints of New York”. The main character of the novel visited the hotel in November 1997, which is almost the same date, when your episode was recorded. fun fact: the main character was shocked by the “terrible indefinable rank smell” of the hotel (and by the guests staring at him) and escaped.

  6. Kip

    This is an incredible character study. I was listening and thinking, “this can’t be real!” But it is all too real, and simply incredible to hear people making the best of it.
    The audio piece runs the gambit of just about every NYC archetype and puts them all under one roof.
    I wish all radio and podcasting had such an attention to detail and storytelling as this piece has.

    Thank you for sharing this on 99PI!

  7. I happen to be reading a collection of New Yorker articles by a man named Joseph Mitchell. Though mostly focused on people and hotels further down Manhattan, like around Fulton Market, they give the same sense of a place now gone. I recommend “Up in the Old Hotel” by Mitchell.

  8. Kit

    Was sorry to find out Nathan (the manager) passed away, he seemed like a pretty genuine person.

  9. Sean

    Along with Kowloon city this is my favourite episode, I love this show and just recently got my wife hooked on it as well. Keep up the great work Roman and team.

  10. Conor

    Too bad The Narrator didn’t make it out, he could have gotten work in radio himself, or maybe even TV/movies

  11. Rodka

    I just viewed the documentary on Amazon over the weekend. What an amazing documentary it was so haunting and riveting. Like a Bukowsky novel come to life I have always felt that America is really more of a depressed and isolated reality. Poverty is more common then we like to admit. It is more of the real face of this Country. The desolate, abandoned all the bodies this system has produce of broken souls lost in a world of shit, pist, rot and despair.

  12. I stayed there with my friend in the late 90’s! You bought your lightbulb from the fella behind the grate when you got there for 5 bucks and folks blasted their radios way into the night! The steps were soft and squishy and there was a community room. Each unit was small like a closet and had a bed and a locker. My room came with a razor blade stuck into the wall and some extra cover of cardboard over the chicken wire. I recall it was painted lovely colors! It was a real scene. I had a special sort of headache by the morning. We paid for 2 nights but only stay for one, ah youth.

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