The light above the hostel’s front door winked like a bug zapper. Only flies weren't attracted to it; poor vagrants who found the obvious lack of repairs on the outside of the building a good sign that it would be a cheap rest on nights too cold for a doorstep and too crowded at a shelter were drawn inside instead. I was among them. Only I don’t pay, I work. My days are spent washing bedding in the back room of the run-down hostel known ironically as The Palace. The name may have fit a hundred years ago when the building was first erected and the East End was where the downtown nightlife used to live. Back when the red light district was just on the edge of the area and escorts dripped with gems bought as tokens by big time executives. Now there is no line. The street walkers have multiplied, but the money has moved elsewhere in the city.

There is no denying the rooms are plentiful at The Palace, much larger than many of the other buildings on the same street. The heavy curtains in the windows have intricate patterns on them that look like they might have fit in nicely at the Taj Mahal until light falls on them and moth holes blink light and dust layers gray the material. Spider web cracks sneak through many of the windows. It is one of the few buildings on this street without bars blocking the view, but that requires the desk to be manned 24/7.

The small back room I earn my wages in is unseen by the customers. Not that most people in their state would really care what the behind the scenes looked like, but perhaps the owner is afraid the customers might care what it smells like. The combination supply closet, laundry, and dish sink room has an obvious odor of mold and something else that I can’t exactly place. In theory, it is the decay of rat corpses behind the clothes dryer. There are obvious triangular footprints running through the graying arsenic powder rat poison piled into old microwave dinner containers in every corner, but I have yet to have the pleasure of throwing a rat funeral.

I twisted the chipping gold painted handle of the front door and gave it a shove; I’ve learned over the last few months that it sticks. A few dark green paint flakes fall to the cracked cement stoop. I hold my breath as the specks flutter down. Worried about lead, I had asked the owner a few months back when she last repainted, and if it was possible there was lead paint used. She grew very defensive saying, “How would I know? My dead husband painted it last. Hank did all the work years ago. You afraid of paint? Then you can go buy it new yourself.” She had then turned back to the television, dismissing me.

From exploring, I have discovered there is no WD40 in the supply closet, laundry, dish sink room (SCLDSR), no sandpaper, no tools, and no intent by the owner, Pam, to fix anything that costs more than a few bucks. Any brilliant ideas I had to fix the business up, I learned to keep to myself after our last conversation.

Pam sat in her terry cloth pink night robe in a pink, worn out high-backed floral print chair as I entered the hostel’s little lobby, if it could be called that. The 8X11 foot space was full with the two chairs, a small water warped coffee table and a thick television. The owner had pink curlers in her short, gray hair, illuminated by the glow of the small cathode ray tube box that was always on. The thing never seemed to break. I hadn’t known any still existed until I moved in here. She turned at the sound of the door, and seeing that it was me waved me over with one flick of a wrinkled wrist. I sat down in the other faded high-backed floral printed chair. This chair was a deep shade of red and only slightly smaller than Pam’s. The rummage sale set, according to Pam, really made her business that much more cozy. In reality, she simply broke down and coughed up the ten dollars to have a place to sit and watch channel 11 instead of leaning on the counter. Standing for too long seemed to tire her out.

The news was on, it was always on. I don’t even know if that television was capable of showing anything else. Pam kept the remote in her lap when she was downstairs and in an unknown location whenever she was upstairs.

Cherry Reeds had her perfect newscaster smile on her face as she discussed the latest policy from President Persim. Her large, red lips perfectly matched the tight fitting dress she had on as she spoke. Her voluptuous brown hair did not move even with the wind blowing a brown paper bag in loops behind her, and her eyes shone brightly as she stared happily into the camera. The lights from the camera lit up her porcelain skin and drew the eyes away from the cracking, city street behind her that was becoming engulfed in the growing evening darkness.

“That’s right, Tom. The new Volunteer Tax that was signed into legislation today by President Persim, despite some minor controversy, will really be helping out those poverty stricken in the inner cities.” I let out a snort of contempt. Pam shook her pink hair rollers and put up a liver spot covered hand to shush me, never taking her eyes off the screen. “This new tax will have those that volunteer their time with the less fortunate document their well spent hours and pay a tax per hour they volunteered. The money will benefit the less fortunate by being added to the, already in use, Persim Fund.”

A man with salt and pepper hair from another station responded on a split screen, “The real genius of this plan is that it is taxing citizens that have no room to complain. Those that can spend their days working for free in our cities shelters, hospitals, and food banks have the finances and hearts to spare their money as well as time for those in need,” the responding man tilted his head down as his mouth shut. His glasses reflected a screen in front of him.

A third person appeared on screen. Her newscaster face wore a mask of concern, framed by long tendrils of black hair. “I think we are forgetting to mention the tax breaks this legislation will change for the 2090 fiscal year. Another added benefit is all tax break monies will now also be contributed to the less fortunate, so the individual or company donating does not reap any personal benefits. This will be true charity in its purest form.”

All three heads nodded in approval on the screen before the salt and pepper haired man spoke, “Cherry, do you foresee any correlation between this tax legislation passing and the recent rise of the Suicide Speakeasies?”

“A wonderful question, Tom. President Persim held a press conference earlier this afternoon addressing the nation's concerns. Let’s take a look at what she had to say,” she held her flawless smile for a couple heartbeats until the footage began to roll.

The little box of light switched to show the President dressed in a tailored blue pantsuit standing behind a clear, glass podium with the presidential seal engraved. “It is our country’s greatest tragedy of the last two decades. These so called Suicide Speakeasies have become a prevalent issue in our nation’s once proud cities. The high percentage of low income people that enter these businesses and never return is at an all time unprecedented high. The major concern now is no longer the loss of life, but the fact that so many Americans would rather take their own lives than seek the help they need to escape their circumstances. That they would rather sink into warm blackness than work their way out of poverty to show the world what the American Dream truly can do!” She paused as the crowd cheered approval. “With my newest Volunteer Tax I hope to see these wretched places wiped out entirely! We will not let past policies continue to poison the heart of our country.” She slammed her manicured fist on the podium and the unseen crowd cheered once more.

“She talks with her hands an awful lot,” I said.

Pam shook her hair rollers again. So I stood up and left her to her television before I said something that could get me reported. I didn’t think Pam was the type to dial the number that everyone knows but no one talks about, but then again everyone seems the type under the right circumstances. The childhood tune resounded in my head. Dial 734 and they will knock on your door.

“Goodnight,” I said down the hall. She grumbled what I assumed was the appropriate response as I walked over the unfinished wood flooring to my room near the SCLRDS.