I had been out less than five minutes and already he was hounding me to come back, not to mention I hardly took breaks even while pulling a double. Hardly working meant less tips. That is where I got most of my money anyway because Ricky was a cheap bastard, and he took full advantage of paying the help less than minimum wage. Of course he could get away with it, those were the benefits of getting paid "under the table.” There was no place in New York City that would hire me. Leaving with a decent reference from Ricky or Josue was damned near impossible and without that, waiting tables for a living seemed to be my calling.
So I face a decision:
Do I walk around to the front of the building, facing embarrassment as I stroll past the busy cluster of clients inside?
Do I try banging on the back door in the hope that 'someone' inside will hear and take pity on me?