Chapter 1: The Price of Pride

Back when I drove for cash, I picked up all kinds. That night, a guy slid into my backseat and said, “Take me to a karaoke joint—need to meet some ladies tonight.” His cologne nearly knocked me out, and he tossed his keys on my center console like he owned the place. He talked with a Jersey-Chicago mashup accent, but that shiny BMW logo under the streetlights said he was desperate to leave all that behind.

It was one of those sticky Midwestern summer nights, the air heavy with humidity and the gasoline tang drifting from the convenience store next door. I watched him swagger inside the club, peeling off twenties for the hostess like it was nothing. But when it came to me—the guy who got him there safe—he still owed thirty-six cents.

Who would’ve thought? A man in a suit, flashing cash, tipping hostesses like he was running for mayor, but stiffing his driver out of pocket change. It grated on me. You expect better from someone who acts like he’s got the world on a string, but here he was, making a show for everyone except the guy who actually mattered for a second.

The fare was $8.36, but he handed me eight bucks and walked off. I shot him a polite text, asking for the rest, and instead got back: “You kidding me? You’re blowing up my phone over thirty-six cents? Man, get a life.”

The notification glowed on my cracked screen. His words stung deeper than a slap. I remembered the week I skipped lunch, counting out change for gas. Thirty-six cents could mean getting home or walking in the rain. Part of me wanted to laugh—it was so little—but another part, tired of being brushed aside, was furious. This wasn’t about the change anymore.

Anger boiling over, I called the cops. My voice was steady, almost cold, as I gave dispatch the details. Maybe he’d brag about his connections, but even in this city, sometimes you have to push back. For once, I was the one making the call.

After calling, I didn’t rush inside. Instead, I walked around to the back of the building, where a rusted metal staircase hugged the wall, leading to the staff apartments. Every city has alleys that smell like hot garbage and broken dreams. You learn a lot about the underbelly when you drive for a living.

Places like this—karaoke bars with shady reputations—you get to know them better than the customers do. Tinted windows, bouncers with NFL frames, backroom deals that never see the light of day. I’d ferried enough drunk men and anxious girls to know what kind of place this was.

I once asked a customer, half-drunk and brimming with bravado, if they were ever afraid of getting busted. He laughed, breath sour with whiskey, and said, “Cops? They know better than to come here unless they’re off-duty.” He kept glancing over his shoulder, then let slip about the escape route out back—almost like he was proud of it.

Drunk customers love to brag when their guard is down. He told me the karaoke bar had a secret passage to the staff apartments, and from there you could escape down the fire escape if the cops ever showed. His friends all nodded, like being in on the secret made them untouchable.

Tonight, that metal staircase was their escape route. The steps creaked under my sneakers as I climbed up, heart pounding. I found a busted chair, wedged it under the handle, and kicked it for good measure. The lock was ancient, but the chair would buy time. I waited, heart in my throat, for sirens that hadn’t started yet.

Once the back door was blocked, I headed through the main entrance. Neon lights, fake gold trim, the stink of cigarettes and spilled vodka. I walked in like I belonged. The receptionist didn’t look up from her People magazine. I already knew their private room: Room 21.

I made my way to Room 21 and peered through the glass door, phone in hand. Velvet couches, LED lights, laughter bouncing off the cheap wallpaper. The bass thumped through the floor, rattling my bones. I pressed record, hands sweaty.

Inside, it was a circus—bottle service, girls in skimpy dresses grinding in men’s laps, everyone shouting over the music. A neon Bud Light sign flickered over the bar, and the carpet reeked of old beer and cigarette ash. Champagne bottles lined the table—each one probably over a hundred bucks.

The girls looked like Instagram models after a rough night—makeup smudged, laughter too loud, eyes already glassy. The BMW owner poured another glass, one girl snapping selfies as the others posed with their drinks.

It made me sick. They’d drop a hundred on another round, while I checked the couch cushions for change. I clenched my jaw, bitterness burning in my chest.

I kept recording. Suddenly, a voice barked at me: “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

It was the server—a tall guy with a buzzcut and arms covered in bad tattoos. I fumbled, hitting SEND to push the video to my Facebook Messenger before swiping the chat away. My heart pounded like I’d been caught cheating on a test.

Trying to stay calm, I said, “I’m looking for someone.” My voice cracked too high. The server squinted, suspicion all over his face. I forced a smile, hands jammed in my pockets to hide the shaking.

But he didn’t buy it. He grabbed my arm, grip like iron, demanding to see my phone. Voices hushed in the hallway. Heads turned. It felt like everyone was waiting to see what would happen next.

The BMW owner burst out of Room 21, face pale. “Are you insane? What are you doing here?”

I stood my ground. “You’re calling me crazy? You stiffed me for my pay and now you’re playing the victim?” My voice echoed. I could see faces peeking from other rooms.

He glared. “You’re making me look bad over a few cents? I let you drive me. That’s already a favor!” He shoved me, hard. His breath reeked of whiskey. My fists clenched, every muscle tight. But I didn’t move.

Thirty-six cents. I remembered the week I skipped lunch, counting change for gas. Thirty-six cents could mean getting home or walking in the rain. The little things build up until all you have left is pride.

I’d heard him brag earlier about his factory—how every part was worth a penny. Thirty-six pieces, thirty-six moments of someone’s sweat, all for the pocket change he refused to pay.

The unfairness pressed down like a weight. I thought about my daughter’s crayon drawings on the fridge—her world, so bright and simple, nothing like this.

The server said, “Boss, he was recording. We need to check his phone.” The BMW owner’s face flickered with fear. His friends rushed out, pinning me down, grabbing for my phone. I fought, but I was outnumbered.

He slapped me hard across the face. My head snapped sideways, blood in my mouth, ears ringing. I forced myself not to cry out. He leaned in, voice cold: “Go ahead, hit me. Just try.”

My chest heaved, but I kept breathing. He grinned, “I can afford to hit you. But can you afford to hit back? Can you bear the consequences?”

Humiliation flooded me. I swallowed hard, thinking of my daughter’s art on the fridge, the rent due, the promises I’d made to do better. I couldn’t let my pride destroy everything I was working for.

They forced my hand to unlock the phone, scrolled through my photos, and handed it to the BMW owner. He found the video, deleted everything—even the recently deleted folder. But the video was already in my Messenger. That gave me hope.

The server dragged me down the hall, toward a STAFF ONLY door. But the BMW owner waved him off. “Wait. Let us teach him a lesson.”

They hauled me back into Room 21, slammed the door, and kicked the back of my knee. I dropped to the sticky carpet, forced to kneel before the girls on the couch.

Their laughter was sharp and cruel, eyes darting to the money, hungry and wary—survivors, just like me, playing a different game. Every time I tried to rise, someone pressed me down again. The BMW owner draped his arm around a girl, eyes icy. “Why did you record?”

I stared him down, voice shaky but clear. “I wanted to record you and post it online.” I didn’t mention I’d already called the police.

He scoffed. “Just for thirty-six cents, you want to expose me? You’re crazy. No wonder you’re a driver. People like you have no right to succeed.” The girls paused, surprised. “Boss, just for thirty-six cents?” One muttered, “I wouldn’t even pick that up off the ground.”

I clenched my jaw so tight my teeth ached. I watched their eyes—not cruel, just tired. They clung to pride like a life raft. Somewhere out there, a girl was clipping coupons, praying for a thirty-six cent discount on takeout.

A customer piped up: “See, it’s easy to deal with the devil, but hard to deal with little pests.”

I glared at him. Was that all I was—a nuisance to be swatted away?

I just wanted what I was owed. Why was I the pest?

The BMW owner sneered. “You want money? Fine, I’ll give it to you.” He pulled out his wallet, fanned out bills—hundreds, fifties, twenties. The girls’ eyes lit up. He stuffed bills down their collars, each girl murmuring, “Thank you, boss.”

He waved a hundred in my face. “Say ‘thank you, boss,’ and it’s yours. Then you get out.”

I kept my voice even. “I don’t want a hundred. I want my thirty-six cents.”

The room erupted in laughter. They doubled over, cackling. My face burned. To them, it was a joke. To me, it was everything.

Someone said, “You slapped him twice—he’s just talking back.” The BMW owner forced a laugh, then fanned out more cash. “A thousand bucks for each slap. Here’s two thousand. You came for money, right? Now I’m giving it to you.”

He smashed the money into my face. The bills stung, edges scraping my skin. “Your money—I’ve given it. But my pride, you have to give back too. I’m buying my dignity with money.”

He pointed at the beers. “Today’s my birthday. Drink a bottle, I’ll give you a hundred. Drink twenty, say ‘happy birthday, boss,’ and I’ll let you go.”

A girl giggled, “Boss is smart, making him drink the free beer, not the champagne.” The BMW owner slapped her on the butt, laughing. She popped open bottle after bottle. I stared at the lineup—cold, sweating, a cruel dare.

I whispered, “I won’t drink.”

He loomed over me. “What, not enough?”

I met his gaze. “I don’t want your hundred, or your two thousand. I just want my thirty-six cents.”

This time, no one laughed. Even the girls went quiet. The room felt colder.

A girl tried to calm him, but her voice shook. The BMW owner was losing it, veins bulging. I thought about my parents, about the lessons they’d taught me—respect, hard work, dignity. It was like we lived on different planets.

To them, pride was a joke. To me, it was everything.

He grabbed my jaw, jammed a beer bottle against my teeth. The pain was blinding. Blood welled up. Still, I refused to open my mouth. They forced my head back, poured beer in. I choked, coughing, beer and blood mixing. Someone said, “Slow down, don’t choke him. His life isn’t worth you going to jail.”

Finally, the BMW owner let go. I collapsed, gasping, carpet sticky under my cheek. He wiped his hands, more worried about jail than my life. He smashed a bottle over my head. Glass rained down, slicing my scalp. The girls screamed, shrinking away.

He pressed the broken bottle to my neck. “You really embarrassed me. For someone like you, your life isn’t as important as my pride.”

I looked up, voice soft but sharp. “Someone who can’t even pay thirty-six cents—what pride do you have?”

He shouted, “I’m so rich! Can’t you see?”

I spat, “All I know is, you can’t even pay me my thirty-six cents.”

A girl blurted, “Boss, just throw him out! It’s your birthday—don’t let him ruin it.” The BMW owner turned on her, roaring. The women shrank back, eyes on the floor. When the rich are angry, everyone else remembers their place.

He turned to me, furious. “You went through all this for thirty-six cents? Fine, I didn’t have change, or I would’ve given it to you earlier.” He shoved a hundred at me. “Here. Keep the change. Bow your head and apologize, take the two thousand, and this is over.”

I took the hundred, hands trembling. He sneered, “So in the end, you just want money.”

But his smile froze. I reached into my pocket, pulled out every coin I had. I counted out ninety-nine dollars and sixty-four cents, stacking it on the table. Then, with bloodied hands, I opened Venmo, found his account by his number, and transferred thirty-six cents. I held the cracked, sticky screen up for everyone to see. “Here’s your change. I’m not apologizing.”

The BMW owner lost it. He kicked me over, his friends pinning me down. He threw wad after wad of cash in my face, screaming, “Let’s see how long you can keep pretending! Drink! Kneel and drink, and wish me a happy birthday! I’m buying your dignity with cash!”

Bills fluttered around me. I thought about online jokes—people dreaming of being slapped with cash by a rich man. But that wasn’t my dream. I wanted to live with dignity. Even now, I held onto that last scrap of pride.

Suddenly, I thought of my parents—my mom’s gentle voice, my dad’s rough hands. I remembered going to church as a kid, plastic flowers on the altar, a choir that always sang off-key. My parents never wished for me to be rich—just safe, healthy, and happy.

Now, I knelt in a karaoke bar, blood drying on my face. The money piled around me. Once, I knelt in hope; now, I knelt in humiliation. But my parents’ hopes gave me strength.

The BMW owner was still screaming, desperate for me to give in. I shakily stood, grabbed a bottle of champagne. He sneered, “So you want the expensive stuff? Something you’ll never afford—today you get to taste it.”

I popped the cork and drank. The cold, sweet wine burned down my throat. For a moment, I tasted hope.

The crowd jeered, urging me to drink. I ignored them, focusing on the memory of my parents, the prayer, the love that got me here.

My phone rang—a number I didn’t know. A girl answered, put it on speaker. A man’s voice: “Did you call the police? We’re at the karaoke bar now—which room are you in?”

Relief swept through me. The BMW owner’s face went white. I finished the champagne, then took a deep breath. “Room 21,” I said, voice calm.

For the first time all night, I saw fear flicker in the BMW owner’s eyes.

He stammered, “You called the cops already?”

I met his gaze, steady. I knew the smart thing was to force a smile, wish him happy birthday, and let the police handle it. I’d already won. But maybe it was the alcohol, or the pain, or my parents’ hopes echoing in my head. Whatever it was, I wasn’t done.

Even though I’d already won, I picked up the champagne bottle and smashed it hard over the BMW owner’s head. The crash was loud, glass sparkling in the neon light. He crumpled, hands clutching his bleeding scalp.

The hush was complete. I felt my breath steady, a single image from childhood flickering through my mind—my parents kneeling at the altar, wishing for nothing but my happiness. I looked down at him and said, quietly, “Happy birthday.”