{{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.