{{Ginger & Chris}}

{{Ginger}}

I pulled my coupe up to the store, anticipating a stereotypical hippie lifestyle; hem shoes and canvas bags, smart cars and earth tones. Surprisingly, the clientele is quite the opposite, for the most part. In between the tree-huggers walk New York's elite. Birkin bags and red-soled shoes, E-Classes and dark Gucci shades. This lifestyle is gonna take some getting used to, but I have a funny feeling I'm going to fit right in.

{{Chris}}

The job of Regional Trainer is tough, but enjoyable. Most of the trainees are teen-aged and fidgety, and it gets tiring asking them to put away cell phones and stop popping gum. Some don't even stay awake through the sessions. It's slightly frustrating, but it also has its perks. The company car is complete with gas reimbursement, and the salary is not half bad, either. My condo overlooks the city, I eat the best meals with my friends and co-workers. Traveling is done for work and for leisure, but still, something is missing. There is nothing I would love more than to come home to a warm body at night, instead of my prized Bull Terrier, Exige. 


I've never been able to find that certain someone, and dating within the company is not only a serious fail, but a strong risk to take. My ex still works for Wildwood, Inc. and let me tell you, corporate meetings became extremely awkward. At twenty-eight, my life plan is almost complete. Great job, awesome home, financial stability - all I need now is the woman of my dreams to knock the wind from my chest. And I think she just bounced through the door.


The smallest feet step into my office wearing army green Nike Air Max. I look up to see a red-haired angel peeking through the glass doors. 
    'Hi Chris, I'm Ginger, the new accountant. Day one of training?" 
She smiles and exposes her pearly whites. Most New York City women have the same veneer smile. Hers were perfectly imperfect, straight with the brightest wattage. Her eyes light up as she reaches out to shake my hand. Freshly manicured hands, french tips, soft fingers. Her acrylic nails are a bit long for a business setting, but otherwise near perfect. The loose shirt isn't fooling anyone, either - I can tell she's stacked, but it leaves her shape a mystery. I shake off the thoughts in my head and get back to business.
     "Welcome to Wildwood, you are definitely going to be an asset to our company."


After a quick introduction to the the admin team, I lead Ginger to her office down the hall. I know nothing about accounting, but I show her how to navigate her company MacBook and iMac, run the CPA programs for her and give her a tour of the store. She's going to be handling all their money, might as well put a face to the name. A very beautiful face, by the way...

{{Ginger}}

"Left, right, left, right - one, two, three - down!" Verona yells from below.


I climb as high as the rooftop, grab hold of the rafters, and swing as hard as I can. Wrapping my legs tightly around the pole, it's time for the finale. One release of my thigh muscles, and I'm flying down to the ground. 
"STOP!" 
At the sound of her voice, I tighten up - and barely miss my head on the stage. I did it. A sigh of relief escapes me as I ease my feet down to the floor. 
"Good job, thought you were going to bust your head on the floor again," Verona says as she slaps me on the butt. I thank her and head off to the showers.


Six years as a "dancer", and my body is paying the price. I know it's time to leave the field, but where do you find money this good? It started out as a way to pay for tuition; go-go dancing at night clubs, mermaid swimming at mansions. Then, I got an offer to work at King of Diamonds - one of the country's largest and highest grossing strip clubs. The Miami scene was intense - we always had to keep up with the latest trends, perfect our skills - stay on top. Bringing in at least $500 a night is great, but after graduating with my dual-degree in Accounting and Business Management, I am ready for a career change. 


One of my clients suggested I get into the high-end retail industry, and I found a posting at Wildwood for Regional Accountant. Since moving here to NY four months ago, this is the first job interview I'll be going on - the cash I brought from Miami has yet to be depleted. This dance scene is just not the same, and I know I can't do this forever. My fancy sports car and Midtown apartment aren't cheap, though - and I need a job that will balance that. 


I dry off and get dressed in the locker room. Perfections is a nice club, but the girls here just don't bring in the money I'm looking for. Hopefully tomorrow's interview goes well, and the next time I step in this place - I'll be making it rain off the stage...

{{Rashid}}

I hate this place. Nobody pays attention to me. All I do is dirty work and get nothing but this measly paycheck. Ten hours a day - I wash dishes. Wash, dry, wash, dry. Do you think my boss even says hello? Of course not. I get treated like an animal, and I am fed up. Today, I clock out to smoke a cigar in the parking lot. I let the Nicaraguan tobacco bring my mind back home, they would never treat me like this, but I can't go back there. Ever. They exiled me. Well - I had to run away. Nobody can make me re-live my past, but I can't let this continue to be my present. This thing I call life is worthless! For two years I have been here in America; I thought I could start a new life and become a greater man. But I get paid in beans and can't seem to get any benefits. I feel like less of a man here - I don't know how much more I can take. 

I finish my smoke and head inside to continue my shift. As I walk into the back entrance I see my boss, Rafael, getting out of his red Jaguar. Imagine that. All he does is tell people what to do, and he has enough money for an X-Type Jaguar.  How the world turns. Guess I'll get back in there and work the rest of my shift. Three hours won't be so bad, at some point I'll have to see the bright side in this. 

Ten o'clock rolls around and I hang my smock and gloves up, slip out of my boots and reach for my punch card. Time to go home and relax. As I swipe my card, I'm already thinking about pouring myself a nice glass of rum and sitting out on my fire escape. Shoot, I might even call the girl I met at the bar on Saturday and take her out on a date. I won't let this country get the best of me, I have got to calm down before I snap. I promised I would never lose my cool again - where will I go if America rejects me? From now on, I vow to be calm and try my best to stay happy. 

I stroll out to the parking lot, where my shiny "new" 1999 Honda Civic waits for me. I saved up for six months to get this car, and I finally got the money to pay for my inspection and tags. The body kit is nearly perfect, 17 inch rims, and  a nice speaker system. All I want to do is speed out of that lot and get home. Right before I get to the driver's side, I realize there's a car parked way too close to me. Of course, my boss is over the line and I have to climb into the passenger side to get in the driver's seat. I race out of the lot and head home, music loud and bumping heavy. 

The Bronx is always busy, no matter what time of night. My neighbors sit outside sipping beer, one of them comes over to admire the new car. 

  "That's a hot whip, bro - what you got under the hood?" 

We talk pistons and coils as he checks out the body, he hands me a beer and circles the new ride. 

  "This kit is tight, the owner gave you a deal with this scrape on it?" 

WHAT SCRAPE?

Rushing over to the driver's side, I'm shocked to see a red line running across the door. Red paint? Red paint. That asshole Rafael scraped my car. The last swig of beer is wasted on the sidewalk - I am pissed. I say goodnight to my homeboys and march up three stories to my apartment. Forget going out - my night is ruined. I toss and turn in bed as my thoughts race back to the parking lot. Of all the spots - why next to me? Just my luck, as usual. 

He won't get away with this.