I rarely work on Sundays, but had to go in today. On my way in, I meet a friend, a Spanish-speaking migrant who, like so many, does landscaping work in town.

“I have to work today,” I complain. “I hate working Sundays.” It’s a tone-deaf comment. He has to work himself.

”I work every day,” he rejoins matter-of-factly. “I have no day of rest.”

Photo credit: National Day Laborer Organizing Network. “Family members seek information as to the whereabouts of the detained from Princeton, New Jersey.”

An awkward silence follows. My Spanish isn’t good enough to tell me where to go with this.

“Every day I work is a day of crime,” he says at last. “Or so they tell me.” He holds out his calloused hands. “Look at these hands, these criminal hands,” he says and laughs. “This is what they call ‘the American Dream’: you have to work, but your work is a crime. So you spend your life working, and spend it committing crimes.”

He laughs again, amused at his own insight. “The American Dream,” he says, ignoring me as he sets off for work.

The American Dream, I think, as I board the train and set off for work.