99% Invisible - 175- The Sunshine Hotel

Episode Date: August 5, 2015

The Bowery, in lower Manhattan, is one of New York’s oldest neighborhoods. It’s been through a lot of iterations. In the 1650s, a handful of freed slaves were the neighborhood’s first residents. At the time, New York was still a … Continue reading →

This is 99% invisible. I'm 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 neighborhoods 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 seedy 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 neighborhoods many flop houses. Now of course there's no room for a Skid Row on the lower east side of Manhattan, and the bowry, like the rest of the area, is full of expensive places to live in fancy grocery stores. But back in 1998, before the last of the flop houses closed its doors, Dave I say and Stacey Abramsson made one of my favorite radio documentaries of all time

about one of these places. These producers knew they were making a time capsule, but 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're here, Nathan Smith's riveting guided tour of the Sunshine Hotel. This is an eating and beaded hotel. Normally people come in and stay for a day or two and get out. But for some reason or another people come in and they like to stay for a year, for two years. In other words, they like to give you aggravation. If you like aggravation, come to the Sunshine Hotel. It's a lovely place.

I didn't like the police in the bad, you know? The police? Yeah, I had police. I scratched all night, a couple of time hours here. Yeah, it wrote to us on the wall. I mean, it was 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 luxury. You want to see ID? Don't you want to come any time? No, I believe you. I mean, this is the kind of hotel where everybody gives an AK, and you're welcome to a room.

For a very nominal fee. Okay, here on my friend, you're all set. Thanks, everybody. Okay, you can squeeze yourself away. Just tell the other. This is the last of the last. Welcome to the Sunshine Hotel. Thanks a This is the last of the last. Welcome to the Sunshine Hotel. Thanks a lot. The last of the last.

I'm headin' to be by the way. Headin' to me to Nathan, my friend. Excuse me. Okay. What's up, God? What's happening? All right, my man. My name is Nathan Smith. I am the manager of the Sunshine Hotel. Yeah, what can I do for you? I'd like to pay my man. My name is Nathan Smith. I am the manager of the Sunshine Hotel. Yeah, what can I do for you? I'd like to pay my rent. Good, you made the landlord a happy man. This hotel in 1998 probably looks the same as it did in 1920.

Like almost all of the flops. The lobby is on the second floor of a narrow flight of stairs. It's just a large room with wooden floors on 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 you can keep safe, pretty busy. Zahnshine, give me a 10-4.

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, do me a favor. See if you can get an Earl Simpson. Tell Earl, it's his mother. Earl, Earl, Earl. Wake favor. See if you can get an Earl Simpson. Tell Earl it's his mother. Earl, Earl, Earl. Wake him up, wake him up. Throw him out the bed and dump him some up. Headed to the John, you gotta see me. Catch a tool to him.

35 cents of slice. I'll put it on your tab. You want a paper too? Okay, so this is small, thank you. 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 fluent circumstances.

Picture a long hallway with a series of doors on either side. These are the cubicle. Four by six, no windows. The cubicle's on the seven feet high, so this chicken wire along the top to keep the guys from climbing over into the next room. Really, it's like living on a bird cage. I'm Henry Fogelman, and I live in the 36A.

Basically, it's like the size of like a jail prison cell. It's got a light and bed mattress and a blanket with a screen wire on the top. And basically, that's about it. It's very tiny. It's so small. You have trouble making the bed. I've been in prison's jails. I've been upstate, downstate. Myself. For five times bigger than my room. So it's not the wall though.

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 with just no idea where he had to get to. This is Eddie. Eddie Bauer. Eddie Fink. There's about 100 people. There's a new day in San Chaud and the world's still here.

We're still here. So that's good. Hey. Eddie sits all day in the corner of the hotel looking out the window and playing. I play you like Johnny Cash, you know what? That's my inspiration to Johnny Cash, right that's my inspiration Johnny Cash. The funny thing about Eddie is that he always plays the same songs over and over and over again. 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 don't forget the tune I had in my mind. Eddie used to work as a bandboard for Tito Puente, but he had a mental breakdown and ended up at this spot.

Hello, nice guy in the street. And he knew the barbie. And he told me, seven. You looking for a hotel? Come on with me, I'll show you a hotel. Just a place called Sunshine. It ain't bad. So we went together, right?

That's how we started. That was 30 years ago. And he's still here. It's one of my plays, no. Somewhere...over the boundary. I need to be laying on you for another spot. You're laid up for me. My hands feel cold, they don't get enough feel.

Sunshine is the last start. 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. There was some hotels on the balcony. 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 elf and white guy walking through the lobby. That happens to be the only death new crack guy that's going to die. This is Donnie. He loves this place. This is our suit, Maven. He suits everybody in town. I think he's suing the Pope now for a mouth-easance or father O'Connell. You know what happened?

This is Vinnie. This is Vinnie. What, Vinnie Giganti, cubicle 25 a. Vinnie has throat cancer and talks with a voice doctor. That's Vinnie, you know. This is the manager, he's the best guy ever. I've been here seven years as man's life

might have adopted father. Then he looks a lot like the famous Marlborz Vincent to change your chances. Rumour hasn't that the guy is his uncle, all the while I don't know. I came in because I was a tinted arrow when I didn't want to bother my family anymore, so I'd been here since then, and I will be here until I die, bro.

That chirping sound you hear is Vinnie's two love birds. He spends all day in his cubicle taking care of. Yes, it's pretty, boy. He's 10 years old. This is a little bit. He's five. He's a devil. Yes, you all.

They take good care of each other. If there wasn't for these birds, I don't think I'd have made it in this place. These birds depend my life. So many people on me are like, you need something. You know they'll be through everything or you're not going to make it. Hey, Pat. You get to do everything or you're not gonna make it. Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk,sk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, t I grew up with 26 ounce of can of Chef Barri-D. That is for five people in the family. I'd be in a cold ready to can. That is a load of eats.

That's a lot of grub there. Anthony's an orphan who came to the barri as a teenager, about 20 years ago. When I first met Anthony, he was a normal sized 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. Why should I go anywhere? If I'm one air I just open up to the window turning on my face a little higher than I got air. Excuse me. I've been trying to get Anthony to move to a hospital, but he won't go. I don't want to leave that yet.

Too much like home. Too much like home. You've been in a place all such a long time. People get to be like family. You don't want to leave? Let this young fellow here. Just as my younger, my watch. Little white snack.

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 tent. We have a long shark, a drug dealer, a guy who does other tents, laundry for a couple of bucks, a room cleaner, and Bruce who runs errands for tips. All day, Bruce sits in a lobby waiting for runs and as soon as somebody calls him, then

boom, he pops in the ax. Hey, T2 sugars, one role A, two packs of monarch non-filter, large bass tracin, one fact gin, same two packs anison. There you go. T2 sugars, role A. Bruce is a Vietnam fit, and for him running errands is kind of like going into battle. 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. Eleven should cover it, right? Okay. It's a work of constant steps and most of them are mental. T2 sugars, one role A, two pecs of monarch and walk in all the time. You've got people constantly distracting you. Distractions are bigger, standing on the other one side of the using. Oh, I need the T with two sugars. two pecs of monarch and walk in all the time you've got people constantly distracting you distractions are biggest and I'm not a better one-time using on either T with two sugars you get to the store T with two sugars you get the story you got to realize that you've got to be constantly be on guard constantly be on guard you're in the hustler's capital of planet every third person you meet is trying to hustle you out of your money store clerks included

how much of the money? 75. Okay, I give you a dollar. Now you give me. I give you a 50 same buy under me. You run every kind of person that's out for money in the world out there. And you got other people's money on you. You've got to defend it better than you will your own.

Because that's your livelihood. Your boy at once, you could ruin your career. You don't blow it. You can make sure everything's alright. My reputation is my business. I don ruin your career. You don't blow it. You can make sure everything's alright. My reputation is my business. I don't blow it. I don't blow it. 37 and $37,000, ain't you?

OK. OK. Keep that. All right. All right. All day long, I hear my tongue a phone ring. I'm a friend. You can do it.

Goodbye. Show time. Show time at the Apollo. I'll not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking.

I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking.

I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking. I'm tell them. Leave $20 for cookie. Cookie with no tea? Right, I know cookie.

Yeah, everybody's no tea. Yeah. In fact, my greatest wish is a day when I can have me a set of chops. You know? Yeah. And just get some. My name is Alton Morris and I'm 63 now. I came to the Sunshine Hotel in 1960. At that time, it was a bar all over the borough, you know, two or three bars in every block. And it was like Broadway, it never closed.

And the whole borough was filled with nothing but alcoholics. And most of the people that I knew that was on the bar was dead. I mean, cause where I call. And so I'm lucky to be alive as I know that. Survived that those years on the bar, it's rough living. Yeah, really rough living. That's the season. Some historical facts about this joint. The sunshine was open in 1922 by a guy named Plank Masara.

Cubicles were a diamond knight. His son called took over in 1945 and ran the place until a couple of years ago when he sold it to the New of now that looking for sell They should make this building landmark status Yeah sure, sure, sure, but at this place we be in the street a lot of guys here This is the only thing we can afford with this place The last men do not dwell this place is the last of the more I don't need all the sunshine You know, I got a I got a name, but I got a bunch.

You know what I mean? You know what I mean? Like all of the plots, the sunshine is a men's only establishment. Some of the hotels left on the bar 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, but 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 a job. They fired me and sometime later my wife left. So I came down to the Bowery and I'd been here ever since. What's the going? Take Terry in the back. Get time off and take me back. Some of my guys in here are drug addicts or alcoholics. Some are just off

Rikers Island. Others just going to be. I'm gonna be on me a summer resort. I'm gonna have an audition put on for you. I'm gonna have four basketball courts. I'm gonna have around over 440 tracks. Track, track, they track. Oh, so you think I'm gonna go over and fish? You know what I mean? Once you just do one thing, you gotta have your reaction, mate.

I'm having a summer re-door and this is what is going to be composed of. Like, yeah. Some of my guys here at the Sunshine of Working and trying to save a buck, some are hiding out from the law, some are dumped here by psychiatric hospital. 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 Mangones. I live in the Sunshine Hotel. I'm from a family of multi-bullying areas. My mother is multi-bullying there, it's with my sister. 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. In my case, I started off like probably so many people. Maybe everyone for all I know, with sweet dreams, you know. They grew up in Ohio with an alcoholic mother and abusive father. He always felt like a miss-fit, 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. 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? Some fierce ambitions along those lines. I don't know, seemed like I was making some progress. It was intoxicating. And after a while seemed like it was some crazy pipe dream, as they say. I figure there, there, there, there, there, there, there, there, been a lot more substantial heavy weights than me by far through history, you know, 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, you know, a chance for that? It seems like one of those stories better left untold. To me, it seems that way. I could get a name left here to the Sunshine Hotel, 241 Bar, he's one of my tenants. He's very ill. I'm Mr. Marshall, I think he's been five to eighty years old, he's seen Ile. 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. Here he is now. He's down to 80 pounds now in John's. 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. Don't you come on outside? Yeah, man. Don't. Don't. I mean, it happens, you know, place like this, you know, they, you know, we're very popular with people being dumped, you know.

Keep your hands on your left. Don't reach out to grab anything, right? Just lean back, relax, okay? The ambulance crew wheels Mr. Marshall out and Edwin out ported puts on a gas mask to clean up. He said he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, he's not a toilet, put it in the bag, yeah. The cubicle has covered with feces, flies everywhere, it smells like nothing you ever smelled before. You see a lot of urine all over the floor. A lot of those milk cartons full of urine. It's the worst part, cleaning up rooms like this. Yeah. What was gone was areas, Robinson was gone, Dave Rodriguez was gone. Late afternoon at the sunshine, my ship is almost over and I'm sorting through the mail. Rodney is deceased. This is the guy that got shot by the maintenance man here in the lobby.

Over five bucks. Marcus is gone. Scott is like a death house. Okay, seven months I've been here, five guys have died. Okay, and these guys will never leave the building. I meet months and months at a time. One guy I knew that would leave this building for one year. He says, don't, says, I'm gonna die in this place, you know? And, you know, so it scares me.

It scares me. I can't go to a lower than this. I can't. The only thing I can do now is start. Like a little chicken to start crawling out of the egg. 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? What the hell are you doing?

Most of the people just lay on their bed all day and they're cubicle watching TV or listening to the radio or staring into space or sleeping and just keep vegetating and these little cells with fluorescent light overhead coming through the chicken wire and that's their life. That's a 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 me on a heroin binge two months ago. 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. Max is an architect and even though he's only been here for a short while, he managed to make his cubicle homey, lit with candles, their piles of books on the floor, and posters on his wall. There is a painting of a dearest St. 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 some grotesque. And I enjoy it. It's like that movie that cooked the thief, the wife and her lover. The experience is so disgusting, so grotesque and they're so gross.

But they make an arc out of it. I'm kind of making an arc out of experiencing this. A couple of days later, Max is arrested at the Sun Channel. When they crashed him up against the wall several times, and Han Cupden took him out of here. And that means his room is revealed for anybody who wants to rent. He's just a clean-out now. Nothing personal, he's a clean-out. You know, now I'm going to clean him out and sell his room.

Maybe tomorrow. I'll probably sell it tomorrow more than like. All right, signing in my friend, signing in print. 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 wide, just above you walls,

heavy 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 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 a break, waiting for that day when I can finally check out of the Sunshine Hotel for good. I hope you enjoyed your stay here while you were here.

You were very good. I always tell my tenants the same thing when they leave. You're welcome to come back anytime buddy. Very good. Hey good luck buddy. Good luck. Good luck. Yeah.

Good luck. 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. Okay, walk me. Tony, you're going to help them. Yeah. them, good luck. Good luck, that's all I say. Okay, walking. Tony, you gonna help them? Yeah.

Good, good. I'm Nathan Smith at the Sunshine Hotel. Take care of my plan. Yeah, we should. God bless, buddy. Yeah. Okay. Go.

Go. Go. Go. Go. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. The Sunshine Hotel was produced by Dave Isay in Stacey 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 story quar which is dedicated to collecting, sharing, and preserving people's stories. They 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 StoryCore producers who offer more backstory and podcast exclusives and some older documentaries like this one. It's just great. So if you like these kinds of moving and affecting stories of everyday people,

subscribe to the StoryCore podcast wherever you find podcasts. More info about StoryCore can be found at storycore.org. 99% Invisible is Sam Greenspan, Katie Mingle, Avery, Troubleman, and me Roman Mars. We are a production of 91.7KALW San Francisco and produced out of the offices of ArcSign, an architecture and interior sperm in beautiful, downtown, Oakland, California. You can find the show and like the show on Facebook, we're all on Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram and Spotify, but you can listen to every single episode of 99% Invisible at 99pi.org. Radio Tapio.

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