Free The Dead Do Not Improve by Jay Caspian Kang Page B

will be forced to call the police.”
    Hofspaur laughed derisively and pointed at Finch, who was trying to hide his face behind what remained of his green drink. “That,” he said, pointing at Finch, “is the police.”
    “Well, then the officer should be well versed that this is a private establishment and that we reserve the right to serve who we want to serve, and that in this case, we refuse to serve people who relocate men and women from the bounty of the earth into the wasteland of depravity and virtual death found on websites like smut.com and its affiliated websites.”
    Everyone turned to look at Finch, who, in turn, stared into the bottom of his glass. He became acutely aware of the empty space underneath his armpit where his holster usually would be.
    The man closest to Finch, who, had this been a boy band, might have been the forgettable baritone, asked, “Officer, what’s the verdict?”
    The tingling intensified. It almost felt as if the back of his head was slowly being sheared off. It occurred to him that he might have been drugged. But when he looked over at Hofspaur, he didn’t notice any discomfort on his new friend’s face.
    “Do you own this place?” Finch heard himself ask.
    “This is a collective. It is owned by the workers.”
    A digitized whomping flooded Finch’s ears—a loud, vibrating noise, which, had he been able to access his memory, he might have recognized as the sound you hear after huffing down a canister of nitrous oxide. His vision blurred. He was vaguely aware of some danger. At some point, he began to laugh. His cheeks felt enormous. A wet sensation splashed across his thighs.
    Then, as easy as that, he blacked out.

LET’S ALL SAVE TONY ORLANDO’S HOUSE
    1 . And so I began my stay at the Hotel St. Francis under the name Charlie Dushu. For an extra $20 a week, I was given my own bathroom and daily maid service, which meant at ten every morning, my neighbor would knock politely on our shared door. On the first morning, she waddled in, knock-kneed, approximated a service smile, and proceeded to punch the pillows and toss the shabby brown comforter over the unspeakable mattress. The next day, she took out the trash. She was about nineteen, maybe eighteen, and didn’t really say much to me.
    What would be the point of describing her build, the color of her hair, the shape of her eyes? Just know, I tipped her well.
    Most of the social activity at the Hotel St. Francis occurred inside the shared bathrooms, so it was kind of like high school in that way. Tenants did congregate in the lobby, but only to succumb, collectively, to their catatonia. The TV didn’t get VH1. Or
SportsCenter
. I could sense everyone’s hatred. On the first day, I sat in my room and read
Hunger
, which I hoped would put things in the proper perspective. It didn’t work.After an hour of deliberation, I called my favorite Chinese delivery place and demanded they bring the food directly to my room.
    When the delivery guy got to the lobby, he called my cell phone and pretended to not speak English until I agreed to come downstairs. He must have recognized me from earlier deliveries because he frowned, not in sympathy or anger, but rather in concentration, as he did the math we all do when we are confronted with the irrefutable proof of debits and hard times.
    I tipped him well, too.
    I don’t know if it was the smell of Lunch Combo 21 or the sound of cash exchanging hands, but the bodies in the green lawn chairs all sat up and turned their heads in our direction. The delivery guy frowned again. I knew what he was thinking: Whatever you’ve done, you deserve what’s coming.
    One of the bodies lifted itself out of its chair and staggered on over.
    It was my disenfranchised friend from Election Day, the one who looked like Cornel West, but with bits of doughnut in his beard. He asked if I remembered him.
    It never occurred to me that the insane might be able to recognize actual people.
    He asked again,