He wasn’t American, but he was raised to believe in the American dream. His father had risked everything to bring the family over. Despite others’ misfortunes, they’d been some of the lucky few that had made it to the States, one of the few whose service record allowed entry.
That was enough for his father, a rich man in his homeland but who died a poor one in his new country. It would not be enough for the son, though, left to his studies and the television, both of which seemed to promise there was more, always more, more money, more cars, more women. There was always more and it was always just out of reach.
He understood that it was always, anywhere, easier to be rich than poor. In the States now, though, it was like a compressed Darwinian experiment with the Matthew Principal pressing down on the fast forward button. Even with a university education that his mother had killed herself working to afford him, his opportunities for gainful employment, much less riches, were a very great distance away.
After both parents passed, he was left with nothing but the feeling that he had failed them. So he’d go his uncle’s route – get rich or die trying. The uncle had died in the mountains of Peru, but perhaps he wouldn’t. The uncle had left a rolodex of contacts that flipped across the continent, a metonym of dangerous individuals that would pay fortunes for a man of his talents that was willing to skirt the law.
The luggage in his hand was filled with every kind of contraband he could get ahold of – one was mostly fentanyl, the other explosives. If he got caught, he’d detonate the one bag. If he didn’t, he’d be rich. It was math simpler than his chemical engineering finals.
Photo courtesy of Mart Production.
See the author’s published work here.
Related Posts
The American: Trouble with Escape Next Post:
