American Dream

Pete Wilson was on his front porch in his peeling rocking chair. He was a forgotten man.

He was resigned to this fact in a quiet hopeless way. He did not blame himself. He was a scuba diver down on the ocean floor whose oxygen supply had been cut off. Do you blame your lungs for not being able to extract oxygen from water? That would be absurd.

Pete’s father had worked on the Ford line for 40 years. Hard work, but honest. Back then a company cared about its employees. Pete’s father got an ample pension when he retired. He met up with his old assembly line pals three mornings a week at McDonald’s for 15 years before he died. He had respect.

As a child Pete figured he’d take his father’s place on the line. But the Ford manufacturing plant packed up and shut down. Most of the jobs in the city went with it.

Pete had made the mistake of buying a house two years before the Ford plant left. It dragged his house value down like a stone. He was stuck in a mortgage he couldn’t sell.

Pete leaned back in his chair and murmured, “The closest I’ve been to the American Dream is when I close my eyes at night.”

He said this line a lot. His buddies all knew when it was coming and rolled their eyes. Once he tried it out on a pretty face when he was down at Herman’s shooting pool. He never tried that again.

Pete glanced down at his watch. Eight fifteen. He knew he should be on the way to work by now. He yawned and stretched. “Five more minutes.”

Thirty minutes later, Pete pulled his battered pickup onto the interstate. A Ford, of course. Ford had royally screwed his future but he was still fiercely loyal. He’d shoot the bird at any Hyundai he saw. Damn foreign cars taking away American jobs. Lightweight pieces of shit. He fantasized about leaving them in clouds of smoke out of stoplights.

He pulled into the Tyson plant and quickwalked through the double doors. He was hoping to get to the locker room unnoticed, throw on his coveralls, and grab his broom.

“Wilson!” Pete stopped and swore under his breath. That was his boss’ voice.

Pete’s boss was a mosquito of a man. Always swooping in when least wanted, too fast to be swatted.

“Wilson,” his boss said again. “What time is it?”

Pete glanced at his watch. “Nine oh five.”

“Hrh,” said his boss. It sounded like a grunt mixed with a hiccup. “And what time does your shift start?”

Pete closed his eyes. “Eight thirty.”

He felt something soft on his cheek and jerked his eyes open. His boss’ hand was resting on his face. He snapped his head back and said, “What the hell?”

His boss was chuckling mirthlessly. He had a laugh like bones breaking. “Soft hands, huh, Wilson. Like a baby’s. Know why? Because I’m smart.”

He slapped Pete lightly on the cheek. “And if you’re smart, doll, you won’t be late again. Or I’ll take a broom myself and sweep you right onto the street. Now get to work.”

Pete swept the next eight hours out of his memory. Then the whistle blew and he was back in his locker room, pulling off his coveralls. Shooting the shit with his buddies.

“See you at Herman’s?” Brandon asked. Pete nodded. “Hell yeah.” He looked over at Rod and said, “First round’s on me.”

Rod smiled. “Gotta take a raincheck tonight, boys.”

Brandon cuffed Pete on the arm. “Shit, Rod, you got a date? She got any friends?”

Rod shook his head. “Nope. The library’s got these free classes I been going to. They have you write a resume and do interviews and everything. Gotta wear a shirt and tie.”

Pete gaped. “Shit, Rod. You serious? Why? You’re dumb as a rock and twice as ugly. Hell, you’d scare the chickens if they weren’t dead already.”

Rod looked at his feet. “I’m tryin’ to advance myself. Tryin’ to make a better life.”

“Damn fool!” Pete said loudly. “You’re gonna die in this town just like the rest of us.”

He knew he was shouting but he didn’t care. “Getting too big for your damn britches. I’ll see you here in thirty years.”

He turned to Brandon. “Let’s get out of here.”

Most of the regulars were already bellied up by the time they got to Herman’s. Pete and Brandon found their usual seats at the bar and started making up for lost time.

They did what they always did. They drank a lot. They made clumsy unsuccessful passes at women. They loudly lamented the rise of the metro-fuckin-sexuals.

“A good man like us can’t find a woman no more, Brandon,” proclaimed Pete. “Times have changed. Used to be a decent job and a firm, uh, handshake was enough.” He winked. “But now all women want is some long-haired limp-dick to cry about their feelings with.”

He pointed across the bar. “Like that sun-bitch over there. A little too much cream in his coffee if you know what I mean.”

He had meant to say this a little less loudly. On second thought, he didn’t care. He’d been aching for a fight.

After he and Brandon had thrown the limp-dick and his buddies out of the bar, they’d come back to a free round waiting for them. “Old Herman himself would’ve thanked you,” said Staci the bartender.

Before long God Bless the USA was blaring on the jukebox and the whole bar was singing along. Pete had tears in his eyes. He loved his country. The American Dream lay thick on his tongue.

“Call me Orville Wright,” he shouted. “I’m takin’ flight to the big-time. Who wants in?” He untucked his shirt and held it out. “Grab ahold of my shirttails. I’m bustin’ out of this place.”

The night ended with arms around shoulders and maudlin grins. Pete put the night’s drinks on his tab and weaved his way over to his truck. He barely got three blocks before he tried to dodge a pothole and hit a telephone pole.

The police officer was a friend of Pete’s. He let him off with a warning and even followed him home. Pete collapsed on the couch without taking off his shoes.

Morning light shone bright in Pete’s eyes as he opened his eyes. Lee Greenwood was starting a second set inside his head. He rubbed his temple, groaned, and glanced at his watch.

Nine fifteen.

“Shit!” Pete jumped to his feet and dashed to his truck. He ran red lights all the way to the Tyson plant.

His boss was waiting for him at the door. Pete opened his mouth, but his boss was faster.

“Back those sweet feet up, Wilson.” He held up one of his impossibly smooth hands and waved. “Bye-bye now.”

Back on his front porch, Pete sat heavily in his rocking chair. He was an after-sex cigarette butt tossed to the curb by the American Dream. She had chosen another partner.

Pete was dejected but not surprised. When the road is full of potholes you’re bound to end up wrapped around a telephone pole.