American Dreaming
“I made certain,” the Uber driver said, “that my wife-to-be shared my goals: financial, social, spiritual.” Outside, beyond the line of palms, the sky had a fierce, pale sheen, the light was all blaze and glare, and the temperature had reached 38 degrees. It was a heatwave, fitting for a day of high drama. We were driving at high speed towards Beverly Hills.
“My car,” the driver continued, “is a Tesla. I call it Kit. When my wife and I shop, it parks itself. After shopping in the mall, we summon it. I geo-locate my wife’s position when she drives, to keep her safe. By the way,” he added, “I’ve been to New Zealand myself. I was there with a mentor who was in the business of high-end property. He checked out some oil wells. Oh, and a mine.”
He went on, in his glazed monotone. Minutes before, I had dreamily understood: this was his American dream. Wealth, success, a self-driving car, a perfect wife. It didn’t matter if none of it was true. What you needed was faith, the patter, the specifications; you could summon your shining future, talk it into being real.
Los Angeles: city of stories. The same day, an artist in a cowboy hat told me this: “My laptop crashed and I lost some new work. No one could fix it, until I was referred by a super-specialist. I drove out into the desert; there was an empty mall. At the far end of the mall were two guys at a counter; you could tell they were highly educated. Turns out they were military. They fixed my computer. Out the back of the mall was a military base, where they were testing the prototype of a new stealth bomber. I took film of it; here it is.” And he showed me a video on his phone of a military plane over a desert. I sat there enjoying the surreal, dream-like quality of the story. It certainly didn’t matter if it was real. There was a small, quiet woman in the artist’s party. She hesitated getting into the elevator and I assumed she was claustrophobic, until I was told she’d spent two years in an American Navy submarine.
We swooped onto the freeway, speeding through the post-truth afternoon. Just as our driver was describing his trip to New Zealand - “I don’t know what city I was in. I was situated in a prestigious property, in a country locale. For four months, we discussed multi-million-dollar deals” - the computer announced we had arrived.
I opened the door of the Beverly Hills Courthouse and made a polite inquiry. Two armed guys ushered us in, pushed us towards the metal detector, scanned our bags. On the top floor a masked woman approached. “Family, please attend outside.”
We waited in the lobby until the doors burst open and the wedding party arrived; bohemian, glamorous, stylish and lawless, they swept us into the elevator and we all poured onto the top floor, and there was our handsome son Conrad and his beautiful partner Ashley, about to be married at the Beverly Hills Courthouse.
Conrad was present at our marriage, a little fifteen-month-old chap in new shoes. Now we were at his, and it was a joyous comedy in a heatwave. The celebrant was a ferocious old dragon who paused to ask the bride, “Can I ask why you’re laughing?” Then she threatened to have us all arrested, for breaching regulations. But who cared? We surged out onto the courthouse roof, into the oven of the air, and took photos of the happy couple. It was a beautiful, high-resolution American dream, and it was real.
