A thin mattress on the floor. The tag on it says Beautyrest. Blood stains and brown spots cover it.

He lies down, resting his head on a folded Carhartt jacket, smelling of smoke, and cigarettes. Work boots remain on. Soles worn thin. His feet sweat in unwashed wool socks his parents gave him for Christmas one year. A picture of them folded in his wallet.

The toilet down the hall runs all night. No one bothers to shake the handle. Smells of dead rats in the walls permeate the building. After a while, you get used to it, he writes down on a legal pad next to the bed; trying to capture the real America. Leaving suburbia behind. The smell of burning charcoal replaced with that of shit. He stares up at the cracked ceiling. Smiles and waits for more observations.

Snow is piling up outside. Plows scrape steel on streets. The flashing neon sign that reads, The Tiny Tap Two blinks on and off, glowing under streetlights on Dearborn. It’s four in the morning.  Drunks yelling out for forgiveness ring throughout the city. He lights a candle.

What is true? He ponders. What is real? Maybe the affairs and quiet alcoholism of Hinsdale are more American than the brutal honesty of Chicago. Perhaps. He picks up his pencil and writes, This country is one big lie.