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

Today was not a good day for me. Not many days are. It started out a warm day. The sun was shining and people where getting on with their lives, drive-bys, robbing banks and the normal nine to five jobs that where available. I don't live in a particularly nice place, Harlem, but at the moment I could only afford to live there. I walked out of my small one bedroom, cramped flat onto the busy street and was on the way to the bus stop to get to work when two people came out of nowhere and attacked me. They stole my wallet and ran away. After about five minutes I limped up off the floor and continued my journey to work. After that it was a slow and painful walk but I eventually reached the bus stop. The bus arrived and I got on. I had to push my way to the back and had to stand up at the back of the bus because there wasn't a free seat available. I glanced down at my watch and realised that I was already five minutes late for work. I had to try so hard to find a job and I didn't want to loose this one and go back to living on the streets. Most people didn't want to hire a black person to even clean the dishes at a restaurant. There was always the option of cleaning the streets but I had only come to America to make a small fortune then I would have gone back home. But now I realise that life doesn't always turn out as you expected to. I worked in a small cafi. I didn't 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 two blocks away from the bus stop so I was still quite far away from it. I finally reached it. It was a small white building, which, was really in need of a clean and a paint job. I ran in the back door and started to get changed. My boss was standing at the door and he looked quite angry. I slowly walked up to him and apologised for being late. All I could think about was what he was going to say to me. He had been the only person to give me a chance 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 morning 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 simplicity of life. I thought about the sun setting on the beach and listening to the sea slop around calmly over the gold 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 reefer that you got there, not the chemical stuff that you get in Harlem , that's sold on the street corners by the dealers. Then I thought about my home there. I wasn't much but to me it 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 saw the man walk off and cars swerved around me trying not to run me over. I quickly got up and started to run home. I tried to avoid anyone I could see so that my journey back would be quicker. I knew that I was quite close to my apartment so I hurried 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 18th minute of the champion's 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.