I had only come to America to make a small fortune – Creative Writing

To sidereal day was not a good day for me. Not many days are. It started out a warm day. The sunniness was shining and people where retrieveting on with their lives, drive-bys, robbing banks and the normal nine to five-spot crafts that where available. I dont live in a particularly nice place, Harlem, just at the moment I could only concede to live there. I walked out of my small one bedroom, cramped flat onto the managery roadway and was on the way to the bus stop to get to work when deuce people came out of nowhere and attacked me. They stole my wallet and ran away.After to the highest degree five minutes I limped up off the floor and keep my journey to work. After that it was a slow and painful walk just I eventually reached the bus stop. The bus arrived and I got on. I had to contend my way to the back and had to stand up at the back of the bus because there wasnt a free seat available. I glanced down at my watch and realised that I was already five minutes modern f or work. I had to try so hard to find a job and I didnt want to loose this one and go back to living on the streets.Most people didnt want to hire a murky person to even clean the dishes at a restaurant. There was constantly the option of cleaning the streets plainly I had only come to the States to make a small fortune then I would take for gone back piazza. But now I realise that manners doesnt always turn out as you expected to. I worked in a small cafi. I didnt make much there but I could live off it. I got off the bus in a rush and ran down the street as fast as my legs could carry me, ignoring the pain I was still in.The cafi I worked in was both blocks away from the bus stop so I was still kinda far away from it. I finally reached it. It was a small whiteness building, which, was really in need of a clean and a cay job. I ran in the back door and started to get changed. My boss was rest at the door and he looked quite angry. I slowly walked up to him and apologised for being late. every(prenominal) I could think about was what he was button to say to me. He had been the only person to give me a expectation to work.I tried to apologise to him but he just told me to get my stuff and go home. I decided to walk back home. All I could think about was how back home in the first light you would wake up to the sound of the waves hitting the rocks and the smell of the salt from the sea. I thought about how friendly the people where there and missed the informality of life. I thought about the sun setting on the shore and listening to the sea slop around calmly over the sumptuous and silver sand.How at night you can smell the fresh sea air intertwined with the smells of the foods that people had prepared earlier for themselves , carried with the smell of the pure spliff that you got there, not the chemical stuff that you get in Harlem , thats sold on the street corners by the dealers. Then I thought about my home there. I wasnt much but to me i t was more than I have in Harlem. It was a little wooden hut. I continued to comfort myself as I solemnly walked back to my apartment. As I walked across a road a man stuck out his leg and tripped me over.I axiom the man walk off and cars swerved around me trying not to rate me over. I quickly got up and started to run home. I tried to stave off anyone I could see so that my journey back would be quicker. I knew that I was quite close to my apartment so I zip even more. I finally arrived and as I walked up the stairs people where staring at me. I got inside and felt so depressed. It was the type of feeling when your goalkeeper gets sent off in the eighteenth minute of the champions league final. Now all I want to do is go back to Jamaica and see my family but I cant afford it so all I have left is my memories of the past.