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American Dream
Of Stephanie Kemp
American Dream
Of Stephanie Kemp
I am racing for a cab (big black unmarked SUV with tinted windows, but somehow I know this is a cab in April, 2022) and am grateful that the driver picked me instead of the other 30 people trying to whistle him down. I am also grateful for my fierce whistle.
The city is New York with a dash of Iraq from the opening sequence of Homeland. This feels normal.
The driver seems nice in front of the plastic shield with his mask covering most of his face.
I can’t tell where he is from. He is big and has happy eyes. His hands are on 10 and 2.
I don’t want to be late, I tell him. I am meeting my daughters at a college they are looking it.
They can’t wait to go.
I can’t wait for them to get their lives back.
I will cry and cry and then try to get parts of mine back, too.
I tell him these things, lamenting that idle chit chat no longer comes easily (or at all) to me.
Do I still like people?
We start driving on a dream (and by dream I mean nightmare) version of the West Side Highway. I am hoping I told him the name of the school because I can no longer remember it. This scares and embarrasses me. I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything and try to get comfortable in the silence.
I try to remember that I still love silence.
His eyes take a mean turn as he starts honking and swearing and speeding, trying to get me to my destination on time. As I requested. As he promised.
When we were still talking….
I realize now that I’ve taken a quiet moment to think, that this was an impossible ask, given the physics and timing of my request (if you’re on time you’re already late!)….the state of the road (where the hell are our tax dollars going?!)…the panic and rage of the people on it (what has happened to the people?).
If only I (/they) can get to college!
We clip cars as we dodge and tuck and race and he takes off his mask to yell to (at?) me that we will be there on time. His mouth matches his new eyes. Just as I’m about to say I want to get out, we ram into a minivan and I see airbags go off in all of the windows. There is a stick figure family sticker on the back of the car. The driver keeps going, saying he just needs to find a place to pull over. His eyes are happy again. I am terrified.
Each time I see a place to pull over he speeds by, hands now double knotted at noon and he looks taller in his seat. Nothing on his face is smiling.
We are finally stopped by non-negotiable traffic and I thank him (I thank him!) and tell him I’ll get out here. He tells me that it will be $108. Cash only. As I dig through my purse I suddenly snap out of my trance and tell him to fuck off (once I know that my door opens). I grab my things and what I think is my black backpack and race backwards in the direction of the minivan.
I hear him yelling at me that he is going to kill me. (This is filled out with all the stuff my neighbor - in real life and including the C Word - recently yelled at me when he thought I cut him off on our residential street.)
Please let the family be ok.
I need to call the police.
He can’t catch up to me if I run backwards.
When I get to where the minivan should be, it is gone. I know this because it was next to a black billboard with only an 800 number on it. This is where I realize I am only in a dream (or a tv show or a movie) because there are only fives after the eight zero zero.
Everyone knows that you can’t use real numbers in tv and movies anymore!
There are rules.
And regulations.
And laws.
And separation of Church and State.
And personal integrity and dignity.
Consequences…
This is America!
A crowd has gathered and everyone is judging me for what’s in the backpack that isn’t mine (except for me because I haven’t been brave enough to look in it, even though I didn’t want to put it down in case it has a bomb).
The police arrive even though I didn’t call them.
I will explain.
I will try to remember the details.
I will hope that they listen to and believe me.
I know that it will be ok.
Because this is America.
The city is New York with a dash of Iraq from the opening sequence of Homeland. This feels normal.
The driver seems nice in front of the plastic shield with his mask covering most of his face.
I can’t tell where he is from. He is big and has happy eyes. His hands are on 10 and 2.
I don’t want to be late, I tell him. I am meeting my daughters at a college they are looking it.
They can’t wait to go.
I can’t wait for them to get their lives back.
I will cry and cry and then try to get parts of mine back, too.
I tell him these things, lamenting that idle chit chat no longer comes easily (or at all) to me.
Do I still like people?
We start driving on a dream (and by dream I mean nightmare) version of the West Side Highway. I am hoping I told him the name of the school because I can no longer remember it. This scares and embarrasses me. I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything and try to get comfortable in the silence.
I try to remember that I still love silence.
His eyes take a mean turn as he starts honking and swearing and speeding, trying to get me to my destination on time. As I requested. As he promised.
When we were still talking….
I realize now that I’ve taken a quiet moment to think, that this was an impossible ask, given the physics and timing of my request (if you’re on time you’re already late!)….the state of the road (where the hell are our tax dollars going?!)…the panic and rage of the people on it (what has happened to the people?).
If only I (/they) can get to college!
We clip cars as we dodge and tuck and race and he takes off his mask to yell to (at?) me that we will be there on time. His mouth matches his new eyes. Just as I’m about to say I want to get out, we ram into a minivan and I see airbags go off in all of the windows. There is a stick figure family sticker on the back of the car. The driver keeps going, saying he just needs to find a place to pull over. His eyes are happy again. I am terrified.
Each time I see a place to pull over he speeds by, hands now double knotted at noon and he looks taller in his seat. Nothing on his face is smiling.
We are finally stopped by non-negotiable traffic and I thank him (I thank him!) and tell him I’ll get out here. He tells me that it will be $108. Cash only. As I dig through my purse I suddenly snap out of my trance and tell him to fuck off (once I know that my door opens). I grab my things and what I think is my black backpack and race backwards in the direction of the minivan.
I hear him yelling at me that he is going to kill me. (This is filled out with all the stuff my neighbor - in real life and including the C Word - recently yelled at me when he thought I cut him off on our residential street.)
Please let the family be ok.
I need to call the police.
He can’t catch up to me if I run backwards.
When I get to where the minivan should be, it is gone. I know this because it was next to a black billboard with only an 800 number on it. This is where I realize I am only in a dream (or a tv show or a movie) because there are only fives after the eight zero zero.
Everyone knows that you can’t use real numbers in tv and movies anymore!
There are rules.
And regulations.
And laws.
And separation of Church and State.
And personal integrity and dignity.
Consequences…
This is America!
A crowd has gathered and everyone is judging me for what’s in the backpack that isn’t mine (except for me because I haven’t been brave enough to look in it, even though I didn’t want to put it down in case it has a bomb).
The police arrive even though I didn’t call them.
I will explain.
I will try to remember the details.
I will hope that they listen to and believe me.
I know that it will be ok.
Because this is America.