THE SUBTERRANEAN HOMESICK NOOS

Man at Embassy: Do you have any relatives in the United States?
Noodle: No.
Man at Embassy: Do you know anyone in the United States?
Noodle: No.
Man at Embassy: Do you have anywhere to stay in the United States?
Noodle (sheepishly): Ah, no. Not yet.
Man at Embassy: Have you arranged employment in the United States?
Noodle: No. No, I haven’t.

Suddenly, I’m aware. As this part is actually verbalized, I’m aware of how silly and mad it all sounds. Noodle living in the US. Stupid teenage dream. Might as well go back to reading romance novels with windswept Fabios and quivering girlie bosoms on the cover.

I’ve already shed the US$435 to be asked these questions, but the cash outlay doesn’t really bother me. It is a lottery after all. I’ve opened my life for inspection. I’ve shown my bank account, been jabbed with multiple vaccinations—three for good luck—and had radiation shot through my chest to see if my heart is bigger than Phar Lap’s. Just between you, me, and the x-ray machine, I reckon it is. But now, standing in front of this guy, I don’t feel too confident about the application. Realise I sound like a dreamer. But, I think to myself, at least I took some happy snaps of some Benjamin Franklins while I had them.

US Green Card. It was a nice dream. Better than that one about my teeth falling out and the black blood in my mouth.

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