I walk under a short arch before the reception desk where an impatient-looking man in a turban is shouting into a phone inches away from his face. Another, more stout, turban-clad man behind him is habitually entering the room, lifting a sizable stack of documents, taking them into the back room, and returning for more. A woman in nothing but a long black raincoat, sunglasses, and heels as old and red as the carpet leans against the desk, her white legs exposed, her knees bright as knives and twice as sharp. She applies lip balm to her bottom lip with one pale fingertip as she brushes her dark bangs back with her other hand, just to let them fall over her face again.

The reception clerk hangs up gently, the receiver accepting the phone like a puddle takes rain.

“Do you have a reservation?” he asks. I take my eyes off the woman and address the clerk.

“Yeah,” I respond. My lungs seize for a moment.

I hesitate to say my name. I fear the echo of my name. I’m not ready to hear the woman say my name. Not yet. Not in a question, not in a sigh. Not in a scream, nor a whisper in my ear. Not yet.

“Hank Louis.” I breathe out finally. A dying breath. “My name is Hank Louis and I should have a room reserved.”

“We have several occupancies on the third floor if privacy is preferable,” he says to me, furrowing his thick brow as he consults his clipboard chart, covered in red-pen etchings and indecipherable scrawlings.

I glance over to the woman, her lips fully coated and shining a deep, luscious pink. She presses her fingertip to her tongue. Cherry. Or is it watermelon? Is it a Saturday?

“I’ll take a room on the third floor,” I say, making sure to let her hear. “Near the fire exit.”

“We don’t have fire exits. We have several fire extinguishers. My apologies, sir. Do you need help with your bags?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He points to my bags and mutters something to the man who has been relocating the documents. He lays his stack on the floor, walks around the desk, and takes one of my bags, leaving the other to me. He beckons me out of the lobby. As I follow him, I look back to the woman in the black raincoat. She is licking her lips sloppily, tasting the lip balm with every inch of her tongue. The man behind the desk opens his eyes wide and picks the phone up again. I cringe and look away. This is a terrible place. A threatening place. This is no place for me. This is a circus. This is a freak show. This is everything Upton Sinclair warned us about, but we were too hungry, too blood-thirsty, to listen. I don’t like it at all.

His name is Sukhman. This man’s name is Sukhman.  The man with my bags has a nametag that says his name is Sukhman.

“My boss is a cunt,” he says to me. “Don’ tell ‘im I told you.”

“I won’t,” I reply.

We stop before a double-door entrance. In each heavy wooden door, there is a panel of circular glass through which I can see the staircase, wooden, worn down and weathered like the whole Hotel. Sukhman pulls one of the brass handles and leads me into the stairway. I can faintly see the orange streetlights outside, painfully distorted through the frosted windows on each turn-about of the staircase. With each step we take, I can begin to feel the contents of my bag weighing down on my arms and legs. Too many shirts. Too many pants. An international plug converter. Whose fault is electric inconsistency? I blame Tesla.

“Two years ago, I had to break up a dispute in this stairwell.” Sukhman says, his voice ringing off of the white walls.

“Oh really?”

“Yeh. A bloke and a lady was fightin’ about somethin’ particular. Can’ say what, exactly,”

“Why’s that? Is it private?”

“No. I can’ remember. Anyhow, I break it up and I left,”

“Oh. Is that all?”

“No. When I came back one of ‘em was dead.” We both pause and stand still for a moment.

“Which one?” I ask reluctantly.

“Which one what?”

“Which one of them was dead?”

“’Twas the man,”

“Oh.” We continue up the stairs.

“A tragedy to be sure. Died of natural causes, he did.”

“How old was he?”

“My guess’s about thirty…thirty-four. Long before his time.”

We reach the third floor. We pass down a dank, narrow hallway, tinted urine-yellow by the lightbulbs wasting away overhead. Sukhman sets my bag down, digs his hand into his pocket, and produces a key bound to what looks like a rusty old doorknob, probably stolen. The Hotel’s name has been carved into it, along with the Hotel’s phone number, and my room number. He hands me the apparatus.

“Well, this is you. 318, sir.” I pull a two pound coin out of my coat pocket and drop it in his outstretched hand. As I fumble with the key, I turn to watch him leave. He whistles a tune that I recognize as he swaggers down the hall. “O Grande Amor.” Stan Getz & João Gilberto. He struts as if he were on a balance beam. He punches a door and I swear I hear wood splintering. He just keeps walking. I knew I smelled rum on his breath. Or was it vodka? Is it a Saturday? I don’t know. I should’ve listened.