The Cash Box Chapter 7

 Chapter 7: The God of Gold

Raymond’s sleep was restless, plagued by visions of Johnny. In his dream, Johnny was on the floor again, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes wide and pleading. Raymond reached for him, but his hands passed through Johnny’s body like smoke. Johnny’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Then, suddenly, the scene shifted. Raymond was the one on the floor, a shadowy figure standing over him, a knife glinting in the dim light. He woke up with a start, kicking and punching at the air. His foot connected with the bed frame, and with a loud crack, it collapsed beneath him.

He sat up, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. The room was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the nightmare, but the image of Johnny’s lifeless eyes lingered.

The next morning, Raymond felt off. His head was heavy, his thoughts scattered. He sat at the kitchen table, picking at a plate of eggs and chorizo. Vanni and Nelson were already buzzing around him, their energy relentless.

“Raymond, did you really live in California?” Nelson asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Raymond forced a smile. “Yeah, kid. You always gonna ask me the same thing?”

Vanni leaned in, her elbows on the table. “What did you go to jail for?”

Raymond’s smile faltered. Before he could answer, Jorge stepped in, his voice firm but gentle. “Hey, hey. Enough with the questions. Let the man eat in peace for once.”

“¿Cómo está tu nuevo trabajo?” Sebastian muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Raymond’s Spanish was broken, but he understood enough. “Está bien,” he replied, his voice flat. “No es tan malo.”

Sebastian snorted, turning back to the TV. Raymond clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. He didn’t need this kid’s attitude, not today.

After breakfast, Raymond turned to Jorge. “Can I borrow your car today? I need to get to work.”

Jorge hesitated, then nodded. “Sure, but be careful with it. That old thing’s on its last legs.”

Raymond nodded, grabbing the keys from the hook by the door. He didn’t mention where he was really going after work. He didn’t think Jorge would approve. Nelson seemed agitated, his small hands gripping the edge of the table as he leaned in.

“Raymond,” Nelson said, his voice high and urgent, “there’s this kid at school, Marcus. He’s always picking on me. He calls me names, trips me in the hallway, and yesterday he stole my lunch money. I don’t know what to do.”

Raymond glanced up, his eyes narrowing. He wasn’t in the mood for this, but the kid’s desperation tugged at something deep inside him. He leaned back in his chair, his voice low and rough. “You wanna know what to do? Punch him. Right in the face. Bullies don’t stop until you make ‘em stop.”

Nelson’s eyes widened, a mix of fear and excitement flashing across his face. “But… what if he hits me back?”

Raymond shrugged, his tone cold. “Then you hit him harder. You don’t let anyone push you around, kid. Ever.”

Vanni, sitting across the table, frowned. “That’s not good advice, Raymond. Nelson could get in trouble.”

Raymond shot her a look. “You want him to keep getting picked on? Sometimes you gotta fight fire with fire.”

Jorge, who had been quietly sipping his coffee at the head of the table, set his cup down with a soft clink. His voice was calm but firm. “Raymond, violence isn’t the answer. Nelson, you don’t need to fight Marcus. You tell a teacher, or you walk away. Fighting only makes things worse.”

Raymond scoffed, leaning forward. “Yeah, because telling a teacher always works. Kid’s gotta learn to stand up for himself.”

Sebastian, who had been sitting silently on the couch, turned his head sharply. His voice was low, his English broken but biting. “You think you know everything, huh? You think punching people solves all your problems? That’s why you’re here, living in our house, with nothing.”

Raymond’s jaw tightened. He turned to face Sebastian, his eyes hard. “You got something to say, say it to my face.”

Sebastian stood, his arms crossed, his expression dark. “I’m saying you don’t belong here. You’re just… taking up space. You think you’re tough, but you’re nothing.”

Raymond pushed his chair back, standing to his full height. The tension in the room was thick, suffocating. Jorge stepped between them, his voice rising. “Enough! Both of you, sit down. This is not how we handle things in this house.”

Raymond glared at Sebastian, his fists clenched at his sides. “Kid’s got a big mouth for someone who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Sebastian shot back, his voice rising. “I know enough. You’re a loser. You always will be.”

Raymond took a step forward, but Jorge blocked him, his hand pressing against Raymond’s chest. “That’s enough, Raymond. Sit down.”

For a moment, Raymond hesitated, his eyes locked on Sebastian. Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned and grabbed his plate, dumping the remains of his breakfast into the trash. “I’m out of here,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

Jorge sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Sebastian, you need to show some respect. Raymond’s been through a lot.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath in Spanish. “No es mi problema.”

Jorge turned to Nelson, his voice softening. “And you, mijo, don’t listen to Raymond. Violence isn’t the answer. You’re better than that.”

Nelson nodded, but his eyes were still wide, his mind clearly racing. Vanni reached over, squeezing his hand. “It’s gonna be okay, Nelson. We’ll figure it out.”

Raymond stepped outside, the cool morning air hitting his face. He leaned against Jorge’s car, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The confrontation with Sebastian had left him on edge, his nerves raw. He didn’t need this—not today. He had enough on his plate without some kid giving him attitude.

But as he stood there, the weight of his own words to Nelson settled on him. ‘Punch him. Right in the face.’ He knew it was bad advice, but it was the only thing he knew. Violence had always been his answer, his way of surviving. And now, here he was, passing that same toxic mindset onto a kid who didn’t deserve it.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He didn’t have time for this. He had work, and later, he had to meet Lorenzo. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t keep living like this. He needed a way out.

The gas station was on the outskirts of town, a run-down place with flickering fluorescent lights and a faint smell of stale coffee. Raymond stood behind the counter, his mind elsewhere. He felt mentally off, his thoughts jumbled, his emotions raw. Every time a customer walked in, he tensed, especially when it was a good-looking woman. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like they could see right through him.

The gas station was a dump, no doubt about it. The fluorescent lights cast a sickly glow over the aisles of overpriced snacks and dusty car accessories. Raymond stood behind the counter, his hands resting on the worn surface, his mind elsewhere. He felt off and every time the bell above the door chimed, signaling another customer, he tensed. He hated this place. He hated the smell of stale coffee and burnt motor oil. He hated the way the manager, a balding, pot-bellied man named Carl, always seemed to be breathing down his neck.

Carl had a way of making Raymond feel small, like he was nothing more than a nuisance. And today, Carl was in rare form.

Raymond had just finished ringing up an elderly black woman who had come in to fill up her tank. She’d been kind, smiling at him as she handed over her cash, and Raymond had let her pump her gas before paying. It was a small act of trust, something he’d done a dozen times before without issue. But as soon as the woman left, Carl appeared out of nowhere, his face red, his voice sharp.

“Raymond!” Carl barked, his tone dripping with disdain. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Raymond frowned, his patience already wearing thin. “What are you talking about?”

Carl jabbed a finger toward the pumps outside. “You let that woman pump before paying. Again. How many times do I have to tell you? No pumping before paying!”

Raymond clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. “She’s a regular. She’s always paid before. I was just—”

“I don’t care if she’s the damn pope!” Carl interrupted, his voice rising. “You don’t let anyone pump before paying. Period. End of story.”

Raymond’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You said it was okay if it was an old lady. I was just following your rules.”

Carl’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a sneer. “I said it was okay if it was a white old lady. That woman out there? She’s not white. You let her pump before paying, and if you do it again, you’re fired. You understand me?”

Raymond felt a surge of anger, hot and sharp, rising in his chest. He took a step forward, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re really gonna stand there and tell me it’s okay to let some people pump before paying but not others? Based on the color of their skin? That’s messed up, man.”

Carl didn’t back down. He stepped closer, his face inches from Raymond’s, his breath reeking of stale coffee and cigarettes. “This is my store, and my rules. You don’t like it? Tough. You’re lucky I even gave you this job. You think anyone else would hire an ex-con like you? You’re nothing, Raymond. Nothing. And if you don’t start following the rules, you’ll be back on the streets where you belong.”

Raymond’s vision blurred, his fists trembling at his sides. He imagined grabbing Carl by the collar, slamming his head into the counter, beating him until he was a bloody pulp. He could almost feel the impact, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his knuckles. But he forced himself to stay still, his jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth might shatter.

Carl must have seen the rage in Raymond’s eyes because he took a step back, his tone softening just enough to be condescending. “Look, Raymond, I’m just trying to run a business here. You need to follow the rules. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Raymond didn’t respond. He just stood there, his chest heaving, his mind racing. Carl gave him one last look, then turned and walked away, muttering something under his breath about “ungrateful employees.”

As soon as Carl was out of sight, Raymond grabbed the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside him. But it was no use. The anger was there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for an outlet.

He glanced at the clock. His shift wasn’t over for another three hours. Three more hours of this hell. Three more hours of Carl’s smug face and condescending tone. Three more hours of feeling like he was nothing.

Raymond closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. But he didn’t have a choice. Not yet, anyway. He needed this job, at least for now. But the thought of quitting, of walking out and never looking back, was becoming more and more tempting.

For now, though, he had to endure. He had to keep his head down and his mouth shut. But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before he snapped. And when he did, Carl better hope he wasn’t around to see it.

In the grocery aisle, two rednecks were arguing, their voices loud and slurred. One of them, a burly man with a beer belly, was holding a pack of pork chops.

“I’m tellin’ ya, man, I feel sick ‘cause I ate pork during Ramadan,” he said, his voice rising. “Even though I ain’t Muslim, there’s somethin’ in the earth’s magnetic field during Ramadan that makes your body reject pork.”

The other redneck, a skinny guy with a mullet, rolled his eyes. “That’s bullshit, man. This is America. We got freedom. We eat pork whenever we damn well please.”

The first redneck shook his head. “Nah, man, I’m serious. Maybe it’s Covid-19. I heard that messes with your head.”

“Covid ain’t real,” the skinny one shot back. “It’s all a hoax.”

Raymond clenched his fists, trying to block out their voices. He didn’t need this today. His manager, a balding man with a permanent scowl, appeared out of nowhere, his voice sharp.

“Raymond, why the hell are you letting these drunks hang around? Get ‘em out of here!”

Raymond nodded, stepping out from behind the counter. He approached the rednecks, his voice low but firm. “You guys need to leave. Now.”

The burly one glared at him. “Who the hell are you to tell us what to do?”

Raymond’s patience snapped. He grabbed the man by the arm, steering him toward the door. The redneck stumbled, cursing under his breath, but didn’t resist. The skinny one followed, muttering something about “damn Mexicans.”

On his break, Raymond called Lorenzo from the gas station phone. “Is today a good day for me to come by?” he asked, his voice low.

“Sure, man,” Lorenzo replied. “Come by at 11. We’ll talk.”

Raymond hung up, his mind racing. He didn’t know what he was getting into, but he didn’t have many options.

The drive home was a blur. Raymond’s mind was elsewhere, his thoughts jumbled. He nearly got into a road rage incident when a car cut him off, but he managed to keep his cool.

That evening, after dinner with Jorge and the kids, Raymond asked to borrow the car again. “I’ve got a date,” he lied. “Met a cute customer at the gas station.”

Jorge raised an eyebrow but handed over the keys. “Be careful, Raymond. Some of these women, all they want is a green card. And don’t stay out too late.”

Lorenzo’s bar was a Tex-Mex steakhouse, its neon sign flickering in the night. A beautiful woman stood outside, smoking a cigarette. She smiled at Raymond as he approached.

“You here to see Lorenzo?” she asked, her voice smooth.

Raymond nodded. “Yeah. He’s expecting me.”

She gestured toward the door. “Go on in.”

But as Raymond stepped inside, a massive man blocked his path. He was nearly seven feet tall, his arms crossed, his expression cold.

“We’re closed,” the man said, his voice deep and menacing.

Raymond frowned. “Lorenzo invited me. He’s expecting me.”

The man feigned confusion. “Lorenzo? Don’t know who you’re talking about. You need to leave.”

Raymond’s patience snapped. He shoved the man, hard. The giant stumbled back, surprised, but quickly recovered. He lunged at Raymond, but Raymond was faster. He ducked under the man’s swing, landing a solid punch to his gut. The man doubled over, and Raymond followed up with a knee to his face. The giant crumpled to the floor, groaning.

Lorenzo appeared out of nowhere, his two thugs close behind. He laughed, clapping Raymond on the back. “Damn, Raymond! Still got that fire as well as the crazy in you, huh?”

Raymond shrugged, his chest heaving. “He started it.”

Lorenzo grinned. “Come on, let’s talk.”

The Tex-Mex steakhouse was dimly lit, the kind of place where the shadows seemed to cling to the corners, hiding secrets. The air was thick with the smell of sizzling meat and spices, mingling with the faint tang of cigarette smoke. Lorenzo’s bar was closed for the night, the chairs upturned on the tables, the floor freshly mopped. The only light came from a single bulb hanging above the booth where Lorenzo and Raymond sat, their plates piled high with steak, rice, and beans. The food was rich, flavorful, but Raymond barely tasted it. His mind was elsewhere, his thoughts a tangled mess.

Lorenzo, on the other hand, was in his element. He leaned back in the booth, his tailored suit jacket slung over the back of the seat, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in intricate tattoos. He cut into his steak with precision, his movements smooth and deliberate. He was a man who exuded confidence, who seemed to command the room without even trying. And he was talking—always talking.

“So, Raymond,” Lorenzo began, his voice low and smooth, “where you staying these days? Last I heard, you were crashing on couches, living out of your car. That still the case?”

Raymond hesitated, his eyes fixed on his plate. He didn’t want to talk about this, not with Lorenzo. But he knew the man wouldn’t let it go. “I’m… staying with someone,” he said finally, his voice quiet.

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, his expression curious. “Someone? Who’s this someone? You got a girl or something?”

Raymond shook his head, his jaw tightening. “No. It’s… it’s this old man. Jorge. He’s letting me stay with him for a while.”

Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Jorge, huh? Who’s Jorge? Some kind of saint? Or just a sucker?”

Raymond’s hands clenched into fists under the table, but he forced himself to stay calm. “He’s… he’s just a guy. He’s helping me out.”

Lorenzo leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes locked onto Raymond’s. “Helping you out? What, like charity? You taking handouts now, Raymond?”

Raymond’s face burned with shame, but he didn’t respond. He just stared at his plate, his mind racing. He didn’t want to admit it, not to Lorenzo. He didn’t want to admit that he was living off the kindness of a stranger, that he had nowhere else to go.

Lorenzo chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day. Raymond Avila, taking charity. Living with some old man like a lost puppy. What happened to you, man? You used to have pride.” 

“You know, Raymond,” Lorenzo began, his voice low and smooth, “I heard about you living on the streets in California. Man, that’s rough. I’d rather take my gun and shoot myself than ever end up like that. It’s a matter of pride, you know? Self-respect. And not to mention, you’re an American citizen. There is nothing in this country that you can’t do and you go and give up on life. What happened, you finally lost it and went crazy?”

Raymond glanced up, his jaw tightening. He didn’t need Lorenzo’s pity, but he didn’t say anything. He just nodded, his eyes fixed on his plate.

Lorenzo continued, his tone almost philosophical. “But hey, I get it. People lose their souls out there. They fall prey to that shameless life, that desperation. And honestly, it’s what I’d expect from California. That place… it’s like a black hole. It sucks people in, chews them up, and spits them out. You’re lucky you got out when you did.”

“You remember that time we got into it with those guys from the north side?” Lorenzo asked, a grin spreading across his face. “What were their names? The Martinez brothers?”

Raymond glanced up, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I remember. They thought they could come into our neighborhood and take over. We showed them otherwise.”

Lorenzo laughed, a deep, hearty sound. “Man, we were crazy back then. You remember what you did to that one guy? What was his name? Benito?”

Raymond nodded, his smile fading slightly. “Yeah. I broke his nose. He was talking shit about my mom.”

Lorenzo’s grin widened. “That’s right. You didn’t even hesitate. Just walked up to him and bam! Right in the face. That’s what I always liked about you, Raymond. You didn’t take shit from anyone.”

Raymond didn’t respond. He just stared at his plate, his mind drifting back to those days. They had been young then, full of fire and fury. They had been caught between two worlds—American-born Mexican Americans, not quite accepted by either side. They had fought to carve out a place for themselves, to prove they belonged.

Lorenzo leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “You remember what it was like back then? Trying to fit in, but never really belonging? The white kids thought we were too Mexican, and the Mexican kids thought we were too American. We were stuck in the middle, man. Always fighting, always trying to prove ourselves.”

Raymond nodded, his voice quiet. “Yeah. I remember.”

Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. “But we didn’t let it break us. We fought back. We made our own way. That’s what I always admired about you, Raymond. You never backed down. You never let anyone push you around.”

Raymond’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew Lorenzo was right, at least in part. They had fought back, but at what cost? They had been young and angry, full of fire and fury. But that fire had burned them, too. It had left scars, both visible and invisible.

Lorenzo leaned back again, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Raymond, I always thought we’d make it big. I thought we’d take over the world. But life had other plans, huh?”

Raymond didn’t respond. He just stared at his plate, his mind racing. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to explain the weight of the past, the scars it had left on him.

Lorenzo leaned forward again, his voice low and intense. “But hey, we’re still here, man. We’re still fighting. And that’s what matters. We’re survivors, Raymond. We’re fighters. And we’re gonna make it, no matter what.”

Raymond nodded, but he didn’t believe it. He didn’t know if he could keep fighting, if he could keep surviving. But he didn’t have a choice. Not yet, anyway. The rest of the meal passed in a blur, Lorenzo’s words filling the silence. Raymond barely tasted the food, his mind elsewhere. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew he couldn’t keep living like this. 

Raymond forced a smile, nodding again. He didn’t trust Lorenzo, not entirely, but he couldn’t deny the man had a way with words. He made it sound like he cared, like he understood. But Raymond knew better. Lorenzo was a businessman, first and foremost. And right now, Raymond was a potential asset.

Lorenzo took a sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing as he studied Raymond. “You know, now that Trump’s out and Biden’s in, things are a little more relaxed in the trade. You ever hear of a thing called yeh DEA? They aren’t breathing down our necks as much. It’s a good time to be in the game.”

Raymond frowned, his voice cautious. “I thought you said you were legit now. That you didn’t do that stuff anymore.”

Lorenzo chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “I am legit, Raymond. Mostly. But you gotta adapt, you know? The world’s changing, and you gotta change with it. My philosophy? Never fight the government. You’re not gonna win that way. You win by joining them. You play by their rules, but you play smarter.”

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Raymond’s. “You agree with me, don’t you?”

Raymond hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”

Lorenzo smiled, satisfied. “Good. That’s what I like to hear. You gotta be smart, Raymond. You gotta think ahead. That’s why I’m investing in gold. You know why?”

Raymond shook his head, his expression blank.

“Because gold is forever,” Lorenzo said, his voice rising with passion. “It’s stable. It’s reliable. And it’s a way to get back what the white man stole from us. You know how much gold they took from Mexico? From all of Latin America? Billions, man. Billions. And I’m gonna get it back. One way or another.”

Raymond raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re gonna get all the gold back?”

Lorenzo laughed, a deep, hearty sound. “Maybe not all of it. But I’m gonna get my share. And you could too, if you play your cards right.”

Raymond didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. Lorenzo’s confidence was intoxicating, but it also made him uneasy. He didn’t trust the man, not entirely. But he couldn’t deny the pull of his words, the promise of something more.

Lorenzo leaned back in the booth, his steak half-eaten, his glass of whiskey nearly empty. The dim light above them flickered slightly, casting shadows across his face as he stared at Raymond with an intensity that made the air feel heavy. He swirled the remaining whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly, before setting it down with a deliberate thud. His voice, low and smooth, carried the weight of years, of struggle, of a life built from nothing.

“You know, Raymond,” Lorenzo began, his tone almost reverent, “I used to think God was the only thing that could save us. Back when we were kids, running around the barrio, dodging cops and gangbangers, I’d pray every night. I’d beg God to get me out of that life, to give me something better. But you know what? God never showed up. Not for me. Not for us.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “But you know what did show up? Gold. Cold, hard, beautiful gold. That’s my God now, Raymond. Gold. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t care where you came from or what you’ve done. It just *is*. And if you’ve got enough of it, you’re untouchable.”

Raymond shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes flicking up to meet Lorenzo’s. He didn’t say anything, but Lorenzo didn’t need him to. This was his moment, his sermon, and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

“You remember what it was like, don’t you?” Lorenzo continued, his voice rising slightly. “Living in that tiny apartment with six people, sharing a bed with your brothers, eating beans and rice every damn night because that’s all we could afford. Pobrecitos, that’s what they called us. Poor little things. Like we were less than human. Like we didn’t deserve better.”

He leaned back again, his expression darkening. “I swore to myself back then, Raymond. I swore I’d never go back to that life. Never. And I haven’t. Because I found something better. Something real. Gold. It’s the great equalizer, man. It doesn’t care if you’re brown, white, or purple. It doesn’t care if you grew up in the barrio or Beverly Hills. If you’ve got it, you’ve got power. And if you don’t? Well, you’re just another pobrecito, begging for scraps.”

Lorenzo’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “That’s why I’m investing in gold, Raymond. It’s my future. My security. My freedom. Freedom, right? America. I’m not gonna let anyone take that away from me. Not the government, not the cartels, not anyone. Because once you’ve got gold, you’ve got options. You’ve got a way out.”

He paused, his gaze locking onto Raymond’s. “You remember what it was like, don’t you? Being stuck in that cycle, that never-ending grind of poverty and violence. You remember how it felt to want something more, to dream of something better. Well, this is it, man. This is the dream. And I’m not letting it go.”

Lorenzo leaned back again, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s not. You’ve gotta be smart. You’ve gotta be ruthless. But most of all, you’ve gotta believe in yourself. Believe that you deserve more than what they gave us. Because we do, Raymond. We deserve more.”

He raised his glass, the last of the whiskey catching the light. “To gold,” he said, his voice steady. “The only God I’ll ever need.”

Raymond didn’t raise his glass. He just sat there, his mind racing, his chest tight. Lorenzo’s words hung in the air, heavy and persistent. The feeling of possibility was returning.

Lorenzo leaned back again, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Raymond, you need a job. A real job. Nothing’s given in life. You gotta work for it. You gotta earn it. That’s the way the world works.”

Raymond nodded, his voice quiet. “I know.”

Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. “Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re just drifting. You’re not the Raymond Avila I knew when we were in school, escaping from juvenile hall. You’re not going anywhere. You’re not building anything. You’re just… surviving. And that’s not enough, Raymond. You gotta have a purpose. You gotta have a plan.”

Raymond’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew Lorenzo was right, at least in part. He had been drifting, just trying to get by. But he didn’t know how to change that. He didn’t know where to start.

Lorenzo leaned forward again, his voice low and intense. “Let me tell you something about capitalism versus socialism, Ray. Capitalism is about opportunity. It’s about taking what’s yours, about building something from nothing. Socialism? That’s about giving up, about letting someone else take care of you. And that’s not you, Raymond. You’re not a socialist. You have no business in Cali. You’re a fighter. You’re a survivor. You just need the right opportunity.”

Raymond frowned, his voice cautious. “And you’re offering me that opportunity?”

Lorenzo smiled, his eyes gleaming. “I am. I’ve got a place for you, Raymond. A job. It’s legit, mostly. But it’s a start. It’s a way to get back on your feet, to start building something.”

Raymond hesitated, his mind racing. He didn’t know if he was ready to go back to that life, to the world of crime and danger. But he didn’t have many options. And the thought of having a real job, a real chance, was tempting.

“I don’t know, Lorenzo,” he said finally. “I’m not sure I’m ready to go back to that life.”

Lorenzo’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. “Don’t you remember what I said? I don’t believe in going against the government. If you work for me, you’ll always be on the right side of the law. You’ll be legit. You’ll be building something. And you’ll be getting paid.”

Raymond nodded, but he still wasn’t convinced. He didn’t trust Lorenzo, not entirely. But he didn’t have many options. And the thought of having a real job, a real chance, was tempting.

Lorenzo leaned back again, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Raymond, you gave me chills back there. When you took down that guy at the door. You’re like a bull, man. You’ve got that fire in you. That’s what I need. Someone who’s not afraid to fight, who’s not afraid to take what’s theirs.”

Raymond didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. Lorenzo’s words were flattering, but they also made him uneasy. He didn’t trust the man but he couldn’t deny the pull of his words, the promise of something more.

Lorenzo leaned forward again, his voice low and intense. “Think about it, Raymond. You’re living a low-class life. You’re working at a meat factory, barely making ends meet. Is that really what you want? Is that really all you’re worth?”

Lorenzo scowled, his eyes sharp. “You need a job, Raymond. A real job. Nothing’s given in life. You gotta work for it. Capitalism, socialism—it’s all the same. You gotta build for the future.”

Raymond nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t trust Lorenzo, but he didn’t have many options.

The next day, Raymond’s car broke down on the way to work. He took it to a garage, but the cost to fix it was more than he made in a week at the gas station. He felt the weight of the world pressing down on him, heavy and unrelenting.

Raymond had just finished counting the cash in his register at the end of his shift. He’d been distracted, his mind replaying the confrontation with Sebastian earlier that morning, and he’d miscounted. The drawer was short—twenty bucks, maybe thirty. Not a huge deal, but enough to set Carl off.

As soon as Carl saw the discrepancy, his face turned red, his voice sharp. “Raymond!” he barked, his tone dripping with disdain. “What the hell is this?”

Raymond frowned, his patience already wearing thin. “What are you talking about?”

Carl jabbed a finger at the cash register. “Your drawer’s short. Again. How many times do I have to tell you? You gotta pay attention!”

Raymond clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. “It was a mistake. I’ll cover it.”

“A mistake?” Carl sneered. “You’re full of mistakes, Raymond. You’re a walking tin can. I don’t know why I even bother with you.”

Raymond’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I said I’d cover it. What more do you want?”

Carl stepped closer, his face inches from Raymond’s, his breath reeking of stale coffee and cigarettes. “I want you to do your damn job! You think anyone else would hire an ex-con like you? You’re nothing, Raymond. Nothing. And if you don’t start following the rules, you’ll be back on the streets where you belong.”

Raymond’s vision blurred, his fists trembling at his sides. He imagined grabbing Carl by the collar, slamming his head into the counter, beating him until he was a bloody pulp. He could almost feel the impact, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his knuckles. But he forced himself to stay still, his jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth might shatter.

Carl must have seen the rage in Raymond’s eyes because he took a step back, his tone softening just enough to be condescending. “Look, Raymond, I’m just trying to run a business here. You need to follow the rules. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Raymond didn’t respond. He just stood there, his chest heaving, his mind racing. Carl gave him one last look, then turned and walked away, muttering something under his breath about “junkies stealing money.”

As soon as Carl was out of sight, Raymond grabbed the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside him. But it was no use. The anger was there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for an outlet.

He glanced at the clock. His shift wasn’t over for another three hours. Three more hours of this hell. Three more hours of Carl’s smug face and condescending tone. Three more hours of feeling like he was nothing.

Raymond closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. But he didn’t have a choice. Not yet, anyway. He needed this job, at least for now. But the thought of quitting, of walking out and never looking back, was becoming more and more tempting.

The rest of the shift dragged on, each minute feeling like an hour. Raymond’s patience was wearing thinner by the second, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He tried to focus on the tasks at hand—restocking the shelves, cleaning the coffee machine, ringing up customers—but his mind kept drifting back to Carl’s words. You’re nothing, Raymond. Nothing.

The final straw came when Carl reappeared, this time to scold Raymond for another minor mistake. A customer had complained about the price of a pack of cigarettes, and Carl was livid.

“Raymond!” Carl barked, his voice sharp. “What the hell is wrong with you? You charged that guy the wrong price for the Marlboros. How many times do I have to tell you? You gotta pay attention!”

Raymond clenched his jaw, his hands trembling at his sides. “It was a mistake. I fixed it.”

“Another mistake?” Carl sneered. “This country is going to hell in a hand basket for all your generation and your mistakes, Raymond. You’re a walking bag of seed. I don’t know why I even bother with you.”

That was it. Raymond snapped. He grabbed Carl by the collar, his fingers digging into the fabric of the man’s shirt. Carl’s eyes widened in shock, but before he could say anything, Raymond flipped him over the counter. Carl landed hard on the floor, groaning in pain.

The gas station fell silent, the other customers and employees staring in shock. Raymond didn’t care. He grabbed a pack of Marlboros and a Red Bull from the shelf, then walked out, quitting on the spot.

As he started the engine of Jorge’s car, he imagined calling Lorenzo, taking him up on his offer. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t keep living like this. He needed a way out. And maybe, just maybe, Lorenzo could give it to him.

AtilA