Fearing and Loathing the American Dream - Volume 1: San Francisco

An honest, original account of a New Zealander's experiences whilst in search of the American Dream.

 “Hot diggity, we’re here!” I said to my friend Sarge. We had finally arrived in the United States, and what a relief that was.

            A bit of background: I had been assigned a project by The Chronicle, a student-run magazine associated with the university I study at in New Zealand—a project involving traveling to the States and writing up an exposé on the concept of the elusive American Dream. I accepted the assignment as soon as it was proposed as it sounded vaguely interesting, but more than anything I was rapturous at the anticipation of engorging myself on those giant pretzels. I had asked my good friend Sarge to accompany me on this trip, for I felt her insight would be of value to me. This would prove to be my first miscalculation.

            It had been a long and turbulence-filled flight, with very questionable meal options. On the plus side I watched Toy Story 3, even if that was marred somewhat by the fact that beside me Sarge was watching Eclipse continuously, so that I spent much of the flight with Pattinson’s gnarly mug in my peripheral vision.

            We caught a taxi and it dropped us off before a large, street-wide arch, marking the entrance of Chinatown. “Well, we’re here. What should we check out first? Seeing as we’re here on a serious mission and all.”

            “I sure am hungry,” she said. “How ‘bout checking for the American Dream in that Chinese restaurant?”

* * *

“Omigod,” Sarge said seriously when we were seated with two large plates of steaming rice. “If the rice was alive, would it—would it think we were giants?”

            Then she collapsed on the floor in a fit of hysterics, basking in her own genius.

            I rolled my eyes. “You know you’re a freak of nature,” I said when she had collected herself.

            “Keeps my young,” she said simply.

            After this we went into a strange little souvenir store. I stood in the entranceway and took in everything giddily: glass displays of twinkling trinkets and gaudy knick-knacks packed onto shelves running from floor to ceiling. I wandered around the store feeling a lot like a fairy princess exploring an enchanted forest. Then I ran to the counter. “Ding-ding-ding!” I said, banging my hand on the countertop. Eventually a small Chinese woman with graying hair shuffled out.

            “Ah, my good Shopkeep! I’ll take the room!”

            “Nooo,” Sarge yelled, careening up to us. She nodded apologetically to the old woman, pushed me outside, and rounded on me. “What the hell, man?”

            “Sarge, did you see it? Everything’s so… divine! Look at this.” I pulled her inside and held up a compacted mound of multicoloured clay. “See? This is essential to everyday living!”

            Sarge frowned. “What is it?”

            “Well—I’m not sure. But I must have it. I must have it all!”

            “Be serious. You can’t bring all this back home. Hell, you can’t even pay for all this.”

            “Ah,” I said with a raised eyebrow, “I could… if I put it all on The Chronicle.” I waved the credit card in her face with a smirk and she snatched it out of my hand.

            “Anne, you seem to be having a power overdose, and we’re here for a reason, so I’m holding onto this until you can be trusted with it.”

            “Whatever. This probably is the American Dream. You know, the whole consumerism thing.”

            Sarge ignored this. “Where to?”

            “Well the Fisherman’s Wharf is supposedly a big deal, and we’re burning daylight here. Seriously, Sarge. I’m not putting up with any more dilly-dallying.”

* * *

“Scallops! Octopus tentacles! Fish entrails! Get your fish entrails here!”

            “Oh, hell. I think I’m going to ralph.” I put a hand to my mouth and doubled over.

            Sarge smirked.

            “Right,” I said, “we’ve seen the Fisherman’s Wharf. So now we can leave.  Seafood is the horse’s ass.”

            “Crabs!” an elderly fisherman appeared out of nowhere and came forward, holding a bucket of live crabs. “Here, try crabs! You’ll like!”

            “Get those rancid things away from me!” I whined, backing into a vender with a loud thud.

            “Tourists,” the man growled, shaking his head and walking away.

            “Unbelievable,” I muttered while Sarge chortled. “Hey, it’s not bloody funny!” I hit my fist on the countertop of the vender. A moment later I felt a sharp pain and looked down to see a crab clamped to my forefinger.

            “Little Under the Sea sonuvabitch’s got me!” I gasped.

            Sarge was pointing and laughing uproariously at my plight.

            “Good one, Anne!” she said, and then skipped off to another stall.

            Finally I tumbled over and whacked the little sucker on the concrete and it made a satisfying smooshing sound.

            “You all right there, sweetheart?” came a voice.

            “I was just attacked by someone’s dinner,” I said without looking up. “What do you think?”

            “C’mon, up you get,” the stranger said, pulling me up. He gazed at me and smiled, a blonde mop of hair falling over his eyes. He examined the wounded finger tenderly.

            “It’s just a small cut, barely broke the skin. You’ll be OK,” he said with a grin, showing off his perfect whites.

            I snatched my hand back. “What are you, a doctor?” I snapped. “And get a hair cut.”

            He raised his hands at me resignedly and backed away.

            “You okay?” Sarge asked when she’d finally reappeared.

            “No!” I whined. “I’m, like, mortally wounded here, and now I’m being harassed by the locals. Where were you, anyway?”

            Sarge looked over her shoulder. “You mean the gorgeous good samaritan surfer guy who you so rudely just scared off?”

            “Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “The good doctor so needs to man-up. Where were you in my time of need, anyway?”

            “Sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all, “got sidetracked. They actually sell giant pretzels here! How great is America?”

* * *

“And here we are!” I said grandly, stepping out of the taxi.

            Sarge followed my gaze and frowned. “Anne, what does the big rusty red eyesore have to do with the American Dream?”

            “Sarge, it’s the Golden Gate Bridge! It’s… an iconic American landmark… synonymous with the good old fashioned America…” I trailed off and looked at her sideways. “Oh, I don’t know! We’re only in San Francisco for one day. We might as well get up close and personal with the big rusty red eyesore.”

            We went over to where a group of tourists were congregating. They were circled around a large plaque screwed onto one of the bridge supports. We moved closer to read the sign, which turned out to be a sum-up of the bridge’s history, and also a dedication to the men who’d lost their lives during its building.

            “Hmm. So much for your American Dream theory,” Sarge said, glowering at me. “I bet plummeting to their deaths because of failed netting wasn’t their American Dream.”

            “Oh, aren’t we being a tad overdramatic?” I scoffed.

            “I think not. But what’s a little sacrifice for the greater good, right? I guess the needs of the many outweighed the risks.”

            I looked at her in surprise. Sure, what she’d said slightly too reminiscent of Star Trek for my liking, but I had to give her opinion some thought. Were those workers aware of the risk? Were their families, the soon-to-be-widows? The children who would grow up fatherless? Maybe it just wasn’t their place to know.

Thanks very much for reading! Any feedback/constructive criticism is welcome, and if you've enjoyed my first account, there are more volumes yet to come.

© 2011 Anne Oddity. All rights reserved.