A Mouthful of America
By Nicha Jaroensuk
The year was 1977 and it was the perfect winter for a lot of firsts.
Walking off his first airplane, he was a hopeful man of twenty-five. Snugged in his oversized coat and hand-me-down cowboy boots, he thought he was ready for Chicago winter. He was wrong. On the other side of the runway was the warmth of a woman who had been waiting for him with fiery anticipation. Nine months they’d been apart, he’d been writing her four letters a week and her heart had been inked by every curve of his handwriting.
Quickly pacing to the arrival hall, as his eyes zeroed in on her, but he’s lost in a sea of people in hers. It was impossible for her to recognize him at first glance, the oversized coat and cowboy boots had replaced the Bob Dylan t-shirt and the ripped bellbottoms she’d always known. As he emerged, their first embrace marked the day he left the Bangkok summers behind to brave the Midwestern winters and dedicated his life to being captivated by the delicate scent of his girlfriend’s hair.
She took his hand and together they got into a taxi. As he looked out the foggy taxi window, he felt an indescribable excitement in the pit of his stomach.
Having been an avid admirer of the American culture, especially its music, thinking back to that day, he swore he heard music in his ears…
“Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together…And we walked off to look for America…” The familiar sound of Simon and Garfunkel’s America rang softly in his ears. He would always remember that the lush sky of the Windy City was a sight for sore eyes that day, its pinkish hue laid against the buildings that were being lit up one tiny square at a time.
“Hungry? I know a great place”, his girlfriend asked.
He nodded, she swiftly told the driver to stop two blocks up. As they approached their destination, he saw two big yellow arches standing proudly in the middle of the tallest rows of buildings he had ever seen. He tried to capture the white letters against a red background but couldn’t.
As they entered the restaurant, his girlfriend told him to sit on a cold plastic chair. He looked around the restaurant. It felt as foreign to him as the country he just landed in. He looked up at the prices from afar. His hefty twenty-seven dollars suddenly reduced in size, for the land of the free, everything felt so expensive, out of reach.
A few moments later, he came to realize his first meal in this foreign land turned out to be the most foreign thing he’d ever seen.
The crinkly paper wrapper said “cheeseburger”. This was something unheard of. It took him a minute to unwrap. It looked simple, he investigated. Two pieces of bread, a slice of yellow, splats of red and a thin veil of beef, that’s it.
“You should take a bite before it bites you.” His girlfriend chuckled sweetly.
He stared at her cupping both hands around the “cheeseburger” and took a bite, he felt safe enough to do the same. Suddenly, as the flavors melted in his mouth, it was the taste of the unknown. It was greasy but savory, diverse but felt like a single punch, foreign but welcoming.
To him, this was the first taste of his unknown future. To him, this was his first mouthful of America.
With this cheeseburger, for a moment in this crowded restaurant, he felt he was part of America - a part of the country he came looking for. He felt the warm welcome from this very first meal. Food can sometimes be powerful like that. He gazed ahead, at the cheeseburger, at his beloved, he saw his future orchestrated by the warmest American folk song he’d been listening to all his life so much so the cold outside the window didn’t matter.
“So tomorrow morning at the gas station. Two dollars an hour. Under the table, ok? We aren’t exactly legal here” His girlfriend muttered, breaking his delicious silence.
And just like that, the warm bubble burst. Suddenly, another song traveled through his ears as he looked outside at the cold, grey sky of Chicago. As fast as the lush pink sky had disappeared, the welcoming arms of America turned into nerve-wracking restraints and a hopeful song from the taxi became…
“ I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told. I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles. Such are promises, all lies and jests…”