Working Stiff by Grant Stoddard Page A

contemplated so many times. I had kept my imminent escape to America to myself up until I was forced to confront my mortality. Kevin had taken a dislike to me after I mentioned that I had been to college, and I didn’t want to incur anyone else’s hatred for what is known locally as having “ideas above your station.” I longed for Becky and the Garden State. Something no one else here could understand.
    â€œAmerica?” spat George, the middle-aged and effeminate catering supervisor huddled next to me in the shelter. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
    â€œThey say everything’s so much bigger over there, don’t they? No, I’m quite happy here, thank you very much.”
    George had somehow interpreted my plan of a new life as an invitation for him to join me and had declined point-blank. He represented a commonly held view that almost everything about life in America was grossly out of proportion. The cars people drive, the food they eat, their disposable income, the energy they consumed, the volume at which they talked, the number of TV channels they had, the distance between any two places. It’s all sort of valid, but while others took offense at America, I found myself drawn to its bigness, hungry for a heaving slice of it.
    My leaving Corringham happened in gentle increments over a period of almost four years, which helped dull any pangs of homesickness. First there was college: my mother cried when they left me in the care and tutelage of Mrs. Montague, but I soon found myself coming home every weekend. Then, a yearlong period of spending three months in America followed by two or three months at home, working like a dog to fund another ninety-day stint in New Jersey. I’d heard stories of people not being allowed back into the States after overstaying their visas, if only by a day or two. I wanted to make sure there was no reason for being kept out, or worse, deported.
    The contrast between these seasons at home and abroad was brought into sharper focus by how I was spending my time in each. Being at home meant full shifts of manual labor and grabbing as much overtime as I could: unclogging wet cement from turbines at the breeze block factory; pressing shapes or drilling holes into sheet metal on the night shift; saving every penny while my peers were suddenly commuting, buying cars and homes, and getting two-hundred-dollar haircuts.
    In the comparative affluence of Morris County, New Jersey, life felt like an extended vacation: dining out twice a day, trips to the beach, camping, sailing, strolling around the city, making new friends with just my accent, watching art-house movies, all with a vivacious, outspoken American girl whom I loved and who loved me back.

HOMELAND INSECURITIES
    WHAT ARE YOU planning to do with that guitar?” asked the immigration official.
    â€œPlay it,” I said.
    â€œFor money?”
    â€œNo, just for fun.”
    This was my third entry into the United States in seven months and the immigration questions were getting tougher.
    â€œMr. Stoddard, you have already spent a lot of time in the United States in the past few months. What are you doing here and how are you funding these trips?”
    â€œI’m taking my time seeing the country and my parents are rich.”
    He looked up at me sternly.
    â€œThen you are a very lucky man,” he said and handed my passport back to me. “Have a nice day.”
    Any residual homesickness had been flushed out of me on this last gray, cold, depressing trip back to England. I knew that I had to somehow find a way to live and work legally in the United States, though the obstacles to that end seemed to be insurmountable. I had no skill set, no specialist training, and no prior work experience. Becky had repeatedly offered to marry me, though I saw it as a last resort, not least because our relationship was beginning to show signs of cooling.
    While I was away in England, I’d been