Immigrant girl

Chapter 1. Anya.

Have you ever thought about what hopelessness smells like? I can tell you.

Hopelessness smells like sour beer and acrid tobacco smoke. And, hopelessness also smells like the last twenty-dollar bill in your pocket.

So, what do I do now? I was completely lost. How did I end up here? I don't even remember how I got here. I was sitting at the bar on Hollywood Boulevard. Once again, I had lost my job, and a wave of despair washed over me and pulled me away from a normal life.

I came to Los Angeles a year ago. With $5,000 in my pocket and a single suitcase. I had no regrets, and I had no plans to go back. There was nowhere to return to, and no one was waiting for me in the place I used to call home.

I took a step into a new life. But being an immigrant in the USA, oh guys, it can be quite a mess at times.

Let me introduce myself, my name is Anya, I'm twenty-six years old, and I'm in deep trouble.

You might be wondering, what kind of work can an illegal immigrant do? Well, primarily, it's various jobs in the restaurant business—dishwashers, cleaners, waitstaff, assistants. They pay little and in cash, and many don't ask for documents. But, as a rule, they don't keep illegals for long; it's risky. Over the past year, I've changed jobs about a dozen times, and until today, I worked as a waitress in an Irish pub near the business district of Los Angeles. A lousy place, and the clientele matched. But what choice did I have? They paid me eleven dollars an hour, and I worked twelve hours a day, without a day off. Eighty-four hours a week. My salary was paid at the end of each week, so I earned about $1,100 a week, including tips. You might think it's not bad—$4,400 a month. But exactly half of it went to rent, which my friend's parents rented to me because, without documents, I couldn't even get a doghouse to rent. Another thousand dollars I set aside for my immigration lawyer and other necessary expenses, like doctor visits. With what was left, I tried to get by. Not such a happy life, right? I agree, not such a happy life.

And here I am, sitting in this smoky and unattractive bar with a Margarita in my hand, drowning my meager savings. I pitied myself, I felt like crying right there and banging my head against the dirty bar counter. I felt lonelier than ever, I felt pitiful, I couldn't see a way out. I was tired and helpless. Staring into space, I didn't even notice when someone took the seat next to me.

"Bad day, little sister?" a soft and gentle male voice inquired.

I turned towards the speaker and locked eyes with a young man, no older than 35. He had thick, long fiery red hair tied into a bun on the top of his head. Penetrating brown eyes gazed at me, and a charming mole graced the space just above his upper lip. His figure was athletic, and even through his black leather jacket, bulging biceps were visible. He was clean-shaven and regarded me with a half-smile on his handsome face.

"I can't call it the worst, but it's far from good," I replied in a weary voice, still twirling my Margarita glass. "And what's your excuse for being in this shady place in the middle of the workweek?" I asked, though I couldn't care less about his answer.

"I came to see the owner of this establishment. I need to pick up some mon... uh, certain documents," the man cleared his throat and continued to look at me with interest. "I'm sorry, are you Russian?" His half-smile widened.

What the hell does he want from me? Why is he addressing me informally, and why does his gaze make me uncomfortable? I looked at him cautiously.

"Sorry, my curiosity sometimes gets the better of me. You have a slight Slavic accent and a very pretty face," he said, lacing his fingers together.

"Yes, I'm from Russia," I replied, observing his clasped hands. "I came here a year ago, but I'm already thinking about going back."

"I thought Russians don't give up," he chuckled, and his laughter reminded me of the deep growl of some predatory animal. "I have some time; would you like to share your sorrows with me? They say talking to strangers is better than therapy, and it's entirely free." I glimpsed a spark of genuine interest in his eyes for a moment.