“Gap year – Go West, my boy!” And I did.
Me and my best mate Gary had just finished our A-levels – university entrance exams – in the UK in the 1980s. I had failed everything. I’d discovered sex, drugs, motorbikes and rock and roll.
I needed a reset. Traveling seemed like the thing to do. “Let’s go check out the USA – the land of milk and honey. The land where dreams are realised.”
So we came up with a plan: sell our cars (I got £200 for mine) and turn up at Heathrow Airport to try and get a standby seat – a cheap way to fly back then. Flights with spare seats were often sold last-minute at the airport. This was long before the age of smartphones and buying anything from anywhere.
There we were, standing at Heathrow with our rucksacks and a guitar, like two hapless itinerant troubadours. We got our cheap flight and flew to America, landing at JFK Airport in New York. I was immediately freaked out when I saw policemen with guns. I had never seen a real one before. I knew American cops carried guns, of course – but seeing it in person was something else.
Our first stop was Boston – or more accurately, Harvard, a suburb a little to the west. We both got jobs, lying about work permits and making up fake Social Security numbers. But we went for it with gusto. It was all just part of the adventure.
There have always been illegal workers in the USA – and we were just another pair. I landed a couple of jobs. The first was at the Mug and Muffin in Harvard Square. I got fired for calling the boss a jerk – not to his face, but unfortunately he was standing right behind me when I said it loudly to a workmate. Out I went.
Soon after, I found another job down Massachusetts Avenue, in a shop that sold food – ice creams, cheese melts, that sort of upmarket fast food. They had hundreds of ice cream flavours, and I had a hell of a time memorising them – to the annoyance of one particular coworker.
We slept on the floor at a local lady’s house – her name was Trish. Her boyfriend was a budding comedian, and we had the joy of going to see him and others perform at the Boston Comedy Connection. Great nights out, watching new stand-up acts.
Next door, there was a bar where some very nice ladies worked. I mustered the courage to ask one of them out. Magic – my first date in the USA! She was cute as could be, and most importantly, she said yes. The evening arrived and we went out. I don’t remember much about where we went – maybe to see a band – but that night would be overshadowed by what happened next.
I walked her home, and she invited me in. “Fucking great,” I thought. “Game on!” She lived in a three-storey townhouse big enough to hold five or six apartments. Hers was on the top floor.
I hung out for maybe 30 minutes… and then I missed my opportunity. I wasn’t brave enough to make the first move. As I got up to leave, she walked me to her door. I looked into her eyes. Now’s the moment, my brain was screaming. Just do it – kiss her! But I couldn’t. So I very politely – and very Englishly – said goodbye.
I descended two flights of stairs, walked through the common front door, which shut behind me with a muffled clunk, and began the walk of shame down the road. I was 18. Horny as hell. And I’d blown it.
Fifty meters down the street, I stopped. Thoughts racing, I spun around and went back. But at the front door, I was met with six or seven bells. It was the early hours of the morning, and I had no idea which one was hers. You know the saying: a man has two brains – one in his head and one in his pants – but only enough blood to run one at a time. From here on in, the second brain took over.
I walked around the building looking for a back door. Surely there was one. My “thinking” was: I’ll surprise her, walk up the stairs, and… well, you get the idea. I found a door and, excited, I entered. It was pitch black.
I passed through another door, thinking it was the hallway. Then I heard the rustle of bed sheets. I froze. I had walked into a stranger’s bedroom – in the land where everyone has a gun. The person started to scream. I screamed. Then someone else in the room sat up and started screaming too.
There we were – three strangers, in a dark room, all screaming our heads off.
Fight or flight kicked in. Flight it was. I turned and bolted, blindly ran through two doors, out into the night, sprinted down the street, and ducked behind a parked car, panting, heart pounding.
A minute or two later, two police cars came screaming up to the house. Officers jumped out and started running around. They were looking for an axe-wielding maniac. And then I made my pièce de résistance of stupidity: I decided to explain. Yes, I decided to walk up and tell the nice American policemen the truth.
This was not the UK. These were not your friendly British bobbies. Why I thought that was both incredibly stupid and oddly noble. I could’ve just walked off, whistling. I was 100 meters away and out of their sight. But no – I walked right up to a cop waiting by his car and said, “You’re probably looking for someone who mistakenly walked into the wrong apartment. Sorry – that was me.”
Next thing I knew, I was spread-eagled against the cop car. I pleaded my case. They eventually found the girl from the date. She confirmed my story. I was allowed to stand up properly again. The last thing I remember: that girl, standing on the veranda in her pyjamas, about 30 meters away, nodding her head in my direction while talking to the police.
I never spoke to her again. That’s how I learned the meaning of embarrassment. And that was just the first few weeks in the USA.
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We headed to New Orleans next, and I worked in the French Quarter, soaking up the jazz and blues.
On the way, I broke my ankle, which meant hitchhiking with crutches and a guitar. We were a sight – and yet someone picked us up. An Elvis impersonator, no less! He even stopped so I could play guitar while he sang Elvis songs. Magic.
Because of my ankle, I couldn’t work in the usual way in New Orleans – so I sold my body to science. I answered an ad in the paper and ended up in a line of men, mostly street people. For many of them, this was one of the few ways to earn cash.
I spent six days in a hospital where they were testing IV saline bags. Yep, just the bags. For six hours a day, we had saline dripping into our arms. I figured out a way to shorten the time: I’d sneak off to the toilet, disconnect the drip, squirt the saline into the loo, then reconnect the tube. I told the monitors that my veins were just really efficient.
I met some dodgy characters in there. Heard some scary stories. Come payday, I was so amped that I took the money and ran – literally. $200 in hand, I didn’t hang around. I’d heard too many stories to feel safe.
Later, I hung out with some of the street people in New Orleans. In the “Land of the Free,” they seemed to be the only truly free ones. Everyone else was a slave to the USA’s extreme capitalist way of life. But the cost of their freedom? Living on the street. Pilfering restaurant bins. Americans throw away 80% of their food. There’s a full three-course meal in every dumpster.
Eventually, I got a job at Cisco’s Café, right at the start of Bourbon Street – smack in the heart of the French Quarter. I was a busboy – below a waiter. Take the meals out, bring the dirty plates back. That’s it.
The portion sizes were absurd. Mountains of food. Size matters in America – just look at their stomachs. I scraped kilos of uneaten food into the bin every night. It was disgusting waste.
I got to know a whole bunch of gay people in New Orleans. I hadn’t really met any before. It was cool. I ended up hanging out with a local crowd where I was the minority – hetero. Good to observe from a distance.
I took my first tab of LSD. Fantastic. Got thrown out of a strip club – long story, and not for the reason you might think.
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We traveled from New Orleans to L.A. to deliver a car. Rodeo Drive – the most expensive street in America. We passed through the Grand Canyon en route. What a hole! A quick side trip to Mexico, and then – home.
Back to green England. So green compared to the U.S.
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My thoughts on the USA? It was a great idea, once. But now it’s highly dysfunctional for most of its people. It’s 2025, and Trump is redefining the meaning of dysfunctional – it’s capitalism on steroids.
The land of milk and honey only works if you have money.
I was shocked at how insular Americans were. One guy even thought the UK was part of the USA. Honestly, he might have had a point.
It was a great sojourn, but I know now – I’d never want to live there.
The land of milk and honey… where the milk has turned sour, and the honey is full of ants.