"One of us -- an Iraqi woman -- started crying hysterically. While the cops were trying to calm her down, I saw a chance.
"The wall into the dining room has an opening where we set the finished plates for the waiters to pick up. I dived at the opening, hurt my hip like hell going over it, and landed on the floor of the dining room. Police were shouting at me from the kitchen.
"By the time I got up, a cop who was guarding the front door was running towards me. I knocked over a table to block his way. The cop darted around it to cut me off. He was right behind me going out the door, but I was faster. It meant a lot more to me than it did to him. Plus he had a beer belly.
"I sprinted across the street, almost got hit by cars both ways. When I looked back, he was waiting for a break in the traffic. I didn't slow down. Sometimes they have a motorcycle backup, but I was lucky.
"I went back a couple of days later to get my pay, but the manager wouldn't give it to me, said I broke a bunch of dishes when I pushed over the table. The money he owed me was a lot more than the dishes, but what could I do, call the cops? He gave me back my coat, though.
"So I got another job. Lots of places want to hire us because we work so cheap. We're captive labor.
"I've worked picking strawberries and apples. Dug asparagus. Swept out movie theaters after the last show. Swamped out bars. Washed windows. I lugged around dead pigs in a slaughter house -- at least that's better than eating them.
"I'd write a book too, if I didn't have to work all the time." Jamal gave me a look of envy with a bit of accusation in it.
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