“Then why come here? You promised me work, a better life.” Juan twisted the fabric of the oversized jeans Manuel had leant him.

“You can have it. I already got you a job. It’s not much, but let me tell you. It’s better than selling gum on the street in Mexico. And the women out here taste like strawberries.”

Juan gritted his teeth. “What kind of job?” Not that it mattered. Juan would have taken anything. Since he was forced to close his taco stand back home, he’d been out of work. He had to swallow his pride and move in with his mother-in-law, who liked him as much as she liked cancer in her tits. So when he got Manuel’s letter, explaining how he’d made it across and was living a good life, he jumped at the opportunity, promised his wife he would send for her and their daughter, bring them across to start over. He followed Manuel’s instructions exactly, and there he sat in the crummy apartment on a squeaky, soft-as-steel-wool couch.

“You’ll be working at the restaurant. With me.”

“As a cook? You know I love cooking, but I can’t cook that Chinese shit.”

“No, cousin. Bus boy. You pick up the dishes, clean off the tables, sweep the floors, that kind of thing.”

Juan’s lip twitched and his mustache nearly made him sneeze. His eyebrow rose and he rubbed his clammy hands together.

“Look, it’s the best I could do. You’re lucky Mr. Chan agreed to take you in at all. The little fucker is mean. But it’s work.”

Juan nodded and sighed. Manuel was right, it did beat standing on the street selling gum to tourists. And it sure as hell beat lying to his wife, telling her he’d found a job, then picking a corner and rattling a coffee can for loose change. The Americans sure loved tossing coins to the local bums, like feeding the squirrels or something. They always had that goofy smirk when they did it, like it gave them a sense of well-being to toss a black nickel to a dirty Mexican.

Juan took a long look at the apartment. No bigger than a small bedroom. The couch, Juan assumed, was Manuel’s bed. The floor was a mixture of empty food packaging, beer cans, and dark carpet stains. Manuel leaned over and picked up the carton he’d just tossed away a moment ago. He peered into it and was disappointed all over again.

“I thought you said the food at the Chinese restaurant was terrible.” He’d mentioned it in the letter. How rats wouldn’t even eat the stuff.

Manuel crushed the carton and growled slightly. “It was. Could barely stand to smell it, let alone cook it. But Mr. Chan changed the recipe about a month ago.” He wiped a coating of drool from his lower lip. “Noticed it smelled better and the customers seemed to like it. Now we can’t keep the motherfuckers out. So I gave it a try.”