My American Dream

My American Dream

AIR-BOUND

I went to America once. As I boarded the plane, my eyes were shiny with
anticipation and the sting of the double vodka I'd downed to blot out
my fear of flying.

I hadn't flown on my own before. I found it more boring than anything
else - no cigarettes and no-one to talk to. I was in the middle of a
three-seat row, I had an older man on each side of me and, as far as I
could gather, one was Japanese and the other Lebanese. Needless to say
they weren't much interested in talking to a 19 year old. So, much to
their annoyance, I stuck on my headphones at full-blast and sunk glass
after glass of red wine.

Touchdown in the Land of the Free. My eyes were not bright now but
dazed. I did not know what to expect - who will come for me? where will
they take me? I felt alone but exhilarated, the air was languorously
warm. As I came out of customs, I saw the bright shiny faces and the
big red and white lacquered sign: "Good Evening, it's Camp
America!"

CONNECTICUT

I was bundled into a minibus with several other bright-eyed young
things, we drove into the depths of Connecticut - I had never seen so
many thick trees and valleys awash with green.
The journey took several hours, and when we arrived we were ushered to
our cabins.
I woke up in a wooden room with six girls in three bunk-beds. My legs
were itching, I pulled back my sheet and saw that I had large welts on
my legs - then I saw the culprit: a green, purple and yellow
fly-cum-bug staring at me on the ledge of bed. I jumped out of bed
three-foot in fright, I'd never seen anything like it before.
"Morning girls!" I said.

Breakfast was held at seven a.m. in the main dorm, a large sunny
building, and it looked as if there were about 100 of us. Here we were,
all of us, having travelled in from every inch of the world. We were
given a welcome talk by Mickey and Jen, the all-American couple who
owned the camp. Everyone fancied Mickey, he had a touch of George
Clooney about him, and Jen was that wholesome sort, all white teeth and
glowing skin, but not too thin with sensible hair.

Buck's Rock was a specialist arts and drama summer camp for
over-privileged American children. I was to be their chef-cum-general
dogsbody. Every morning I had a seven a.m. start, through to 10 p.m.,
with an afternoon break. The kitchen was wet and hot, and my hands were
often red from scrubbing pots and baking muffins.

Bagel fillings. Pancakes in maple syrup. Burgers. Fat children.
Obstreperous children. Stupid children:
"Excuse me, but is there meat in that?" they asked. I sighed as I
pointed at the big sign that said MEAT. I went to the sink to wash my
hands.

The girls in my cabin were pleasant but distant. They'd had the
sensible idea of bringing their best friends along with them too. The
only 'single' girl was from the Czech Republic - she spoke broken
English and seemed to struggle to bring me the kitchen utensils I
required:

"Petra, can you bring me a sponge?" I'd say, and more often than not
she'd bring me a wooden spoon or a fork. And she'd cheerily bound into
the cabin after work:
"Bye! How are you?" she'd say.
I sank my head beneath my bug-ridden sheets and sighed.

Later I met Steve Toglia, an all-American boy bristling with muscle and
a wide, white smile. He had nicknamed himself Sincere Steve, which I
thought was a bit odd at first, but he soon grew on me. We spent every
spare moment together, usually in "Rexy's" redneck bar three miles
away; we'd enjoy the slow walk there and back, through the winding
conifer trees. The camp really was in the depths of nowhere, so far in
the woods you'd never know that there was a camp of over 400 people:
where the chalking of minds, the boredom, the whispers, had combined
with the heady sun and wood flies to deaden my soul.
I had never felt so alone among so many people.

In the pitch black, Steve and I would sit in the old school hall,
drinking beer and laughing. We talked of our dreams under the wooden
canopy, my legs draped over his. We made love in the drama hall, and
swung on the swings in the park and pushed each other down the long
slippery slide, uproarious. Some evenings we brought candles to the
park and lay on our backs staring at the stars, wondering what we might
be when we grew up.

One night Steve overslept in my bed; we didn't know that boys were
banned from the girls' cabins.

The next morning Steve came to my kitchen.
"I've got to go," he said.
"Go where?" I asked.
"Mickey said I've got to leave, I've been caught. I'm going back to New
York."
My hands began to tremble, I couldn't be here, I couldn't be in this
vice of minds deep in the forest, in another country, without
him.
"Wait, I'm coming with you. Hold it."

I ran out of the kitchen, ripping off my apron. In the cabin I
hurriedly threw my clothes into a bag. We sped off in a yellow taxi and
my head was squeezed between Steve's knees as I tried to hide my face.
I'd been there six weeks and I didn't say goodbye to a single
soul.

NEW YORK CITY

"I'm coming travelling with you," Steve said with energy in his
eyes.
I looked at his strong brown shoulders and the ripples in his vest, I
felt so physically pleased by him - I couldn't believe he was
mine!

We went to visit his Grandma in Valley Stream, a slightly neglected
town, where the cars kicked up yellow dust on the road. The summer haze
was so thick that it blurred my vision and the little wooden houses
seem to rock from side to side in the heat.

We reached Grandma's cabin, a small building on stilts, where the paint
seemed to want to run away from the walls.

"Grandma, I need 1,000 dollars."
Her face showed slight concern, but there was warmth you could see that
she reserved for her only grandson:
"What for?" she asked quietly.
Steve explained, and Grandma soon counted out the notes, one by
one.

THE CHELSEA HOTEL, NYC

Back in New York, we heard gun shots outside our hotel. I looked out of
the window, the noise was immense, and the polyphony of colours and
smells made me feel heady. I turned to Steve and buried my head in his
neck - we stood very still for a long time, then we heard more gunshots
- back and forth - back and forth. I wasn't sure how to feel, after
all, my parents were away sailing in the Atlantic, and not a soul in
the world knew where I was.

Steve and I had been planning our Greyhound bus-route across the
States, it was now four in the morning but we were still
wide-awake.

"I need some cigarettes," I said.
"Are you sure you can't wait 'til the morning?" Steve asked.
"I can't sleep."
"It's dangerous out there, you don't know what you might you see.
There's madmen out at this time, ya know."
I pleaded that I needed some nicotine to steady my nerves. I was
feeling a bit out of kilter.

He shrugged his shoulders: "OK."

THE STREETS, NYC

The night was dense and warm, and it was less noisy now too. Steve
looked a bit like a pimp tonight with his skin-tight muscle vest and
gold chain, I thought. He draped his arm casually around my shoulders.
We'd been walking for ages and all the kiosks seemed to be closed. We
walked down a side street where the noise seemed to disappear and the
street lights flickered on and off - it was an effort to dodge the
trash that spilled out over the pavements. Then we saw a tall man
walking towards us with purpose. Something made me look to my right - I
saw another man, in a leather coat, walking in our direction.

A car pulled up on our left.
A man with gold teeth and a shaven head spoke through the window:
"How much for her?" He pointed at me.
"Nothing." Steve said, and we carried on walking.
"Steve, look..." I pointed to my right.
"Jesus Christ! Look, carry on walking with me, look straight
ahead."
The man ahead was getting close, and I could hear the footsteps of the
man to right even more clearly.
"How much, Punk? How much for the bitch?" the man in front spat.
I was finding it difficult to breathe now. We were being closed
in.

"Fuck it, Chloe... fuck it! Run babes, run back to the hotel. I'll deal
with them. Run, damn it, run!"

I ran so fast that I couldn't feel my legs anymore - the speed blew
wind into my ears and I coughed as the dry air caught my throat. After
a few minutes I looked behind me, I couldn't see any of the men.

THE CHELSEA HOTEL, NYC

At the hotel, I waited. I watched as the sun came up and the
shopkeepers pulled up their shutters. Soon the noise began: the daily
New York cacophony of car horns, police sirens and the chatter of a
million different languages. I realised it was now midday. I wrapped
the blanket closer around my shoulders - I shouldn't have felt cold, it
was nearly 100 degrees.

To this day, I still don't know what happened to Steve. Where are you,
my American dream?