American Ruse

I wake up like a Richard Yates character. And then it gets worse, I read a pointless lead article on the Guardian website about American High School Proms. What the writer does not get about Britain is we don’t need this imported shite. The whole concept is wrong, unless you really want to ape your parents and your parents parents. I first visited America when I was 15 and found it reactionary and conservative and the whole prom thing sits well with those squeaky clean teenagers I met. And the funny thing is its all about denial.

Squeaky clean was doing drugs, was as depressed as hell, and was no great looker. But like all the best Hollywood movies, they had great dentistry and smiled like their lives depended on it. And Hollywood and Guardian Journalists would have you believe American teenagerdom is something to crave. Stephen King did actually satirise the whole thing and killed off everyone at the prom in Carrie. He exposed their petty, conservative, trivial and xenophobic outlook. Driving to the prom in your dad’s car; posing in an expensive dress; hey try that when your parents are poor you spoilt brat.

This is a true story, and it’s no High School Prom. It’s the feel good equivalent of squeezing a zit onto the mirror. Spot is a better word, but this is a bilingual post, so I’m including the Yankee lingo in with the English. Especially as this concerns two teenagers from across the pond, who never attend a Prom.

When I met the two people in question, High Ho Silver Lining was commonly played at English School Discos. It was an old song then, but for some reason DJs liked it, and played it. They also played Lady Marmalade by Labelle and Lo Rider by War, but mostly they played rubbish. They were your typical Wedding, Engagement and Twenty First DJ all rolled into one. My sister even went out with one of those horrible creatures, but that’s another story.

On the other side of the great divide. The Captain and Tennile sang Love Will Keep us together. The Hustle by Van McCoy played along with The Eagles and Ads for RC Cola. There was a chain restaurant called The Ponderosa, Square Meal Square Deal Ponderosa went the slogan. I played basketball in back yards, which were really gardens. I drank coke by the gallon and ate burgers, because I’d never tasted Burgers and thin French Fries. England was different back then, just Wimpy and Birds Eye.

The two Americans were siblings, the second generation of a large family. The first generation had a different father who was killed tragically when they were babies. Father number two was bad, as bad as you could get. An abuser of the first generation and a mean motherfucker to boot. He even walked with a limp, like a Movie villain. He was the one armed man who killed Dr Richard Kimball’s wife.

I will call the girl Mary Ellen and the boy Jim Bob. The Walton’s was a big TV Show back then, so I’m stealing two of the characters names.

Mary Ellen was a sweet thirteen year old. A fan of Nancy Drew Mysteries, like a member of the Scooby Doo Crew. Jim Bob was tall and played basketball. He was uncomplicated like many an American male. My sister corresponded with Mary Ellen; they were old fashioned pen pals. And because she was young and plain, and wore braces on her teeth. My fifteen year old self paid her zero attention.

I played basketball with Jim Bob and his brothers; or rather we shot hoops and talked loudly about nothing in particular. They ribbed me that Elton John was American, and they liked Heavy Rock. I enjoyed myself, and drank another gallon of coke. I had nothing in common with these severely shorn teenagers, but they were nice to me, even though I had long hair and funny clothes. English people in those days dressed like African Americans. Americans dressed like English Mods from the Sixties and wore their hair like Skinheads. Cool was not a word I would associate with these suburban teenagers.

America was supposed to be Kojak and Harry O, Frank Cannon Private Investigator and Petrochelli. It was supposed to be Groovy, but Bad was now the in-word over there, although it would take another decade and Michael Jackson to get known over here. And with all this culture shock happening, the real story never got told. The unmentionable alcoholic priest remained unmentionable. The man with the limp lurked at the side of photographs, on the family’s periphery.


A decade happened. America invented MTV; music was siphoned and videoed beyond recognition. The Regan Government funded death squads in South America and the Mujahideen in Afghanistan. Thatcher drooled over Pinochet, yuppies boomed and busted. I grew up and so did my American cousins. They visited on world tours, smuggled dope in their underwear. Mary Ellen stayed at home. She stopped writing in 1978, the year her brains fried and she entered the mental institution.


Mary Ellen was sixteen when she was found, tripping on the roof. She had climbed up through a skylight and sat, sneakers resting in the guttering, babbling. She had taken enough Acid to fell a giant redwood, it had her foaming at the mouth. When my cousins came over they said she had fried her brains, she was on Acid at fourteen and never came back. Her dad had abused her from a young age. The girl with the braces and Nancy Drew books, was also adept at giving a middle aged man blowjobs, and having her anus stretched until it bled. So she took too much Acid, and escaped to a mental institution.


Jim Bob fared better. He was no genius, but was good with his hands. He became a carpenter, and then a builder. He built those large wooden framed houses that are a feature of American suburbia. He had problems with girls, so had no date for the high school prom. But the eighties were kind to him; he made a ton of money and built himself a huge house. He built the coffin for dad, and attended the funeral along with his brothers and older sister. He sent cigarettes and candy to Mary Ellen, and visited her at weekends.


When his brothers and big sister moved away, Jim Bob stayed close to home. His house was in the neighbourhood, he was a dutiful son and attentive brother. He paid for sex at the local massage parlour, and subscribed to a cable porn channel. He remained blue collar, ate Sliders at White Castle and drank with friends from the fire department. He entered the nineties on an air punching high.

Mary Ellen was released to the care of her mother in 1994. She was on a cocktail of antipsychotic drugs and smoked like a trooper. I visited in 95, and took her out to buy cigarettes. Her weight had ballooned and her skin was bad, she was slow and had the personality of a ten year old girl. We sat on the ground outside the store and smoked a cigarette together. I sent her postcards for a couple of years, and included her name on Christmas cards to her mom.

Jim Bob was absent during my 95 visit; he was never mentioned.

Between the nineties and two thousand I had my own set of problems to deal with. I lost touch with Mary Ellen, and heard no news of Jim Bob. I received a letter one day in 2004 from their older sister. The sort of letter that should come with a black armband. She was clearing out Mary’s room and had found one of my old letters. And by chance the people at my old address had forwarded it on to me.


Mary Ellen had taken her final trip in 2004. She had ditched the antipsychotics and gradually became withdrawn and abusive. She climbed quietly through the skylight one September night, slipping on the wet roof. Her neck hit the old basketball hoop, and she was partially decapitated. She died instantly.

Jim Bob was also mentioned in the letter. He had sold his large house and was now travelling the US in a campervan. Big sister wrote her e-mail at the end of the letter, and I stayed in touch sporadically.


Last Christmas she sent me a card and letter. It was a catch up, listing the family’s doings. Mom was now in a home and the house sold. Her brothers were doing well; teaching school, selling real estate and vibrational equipment. She had visited Florida in the fall with her oldest niece. The niece was all grown up and had a husband of her own. She’d gotten over her problems with alcohol and drugs, and was expecting a baby.

She was going to call the baby Jim Bob, after her uncle. It was Jim Bob who had helped her through the drug and alcohol treatment. Jim Bob who had stood up to the Samoan dealer who came looking for her. He had chased the tattooed man down the street, waving his 12 gauge. Shouting crazy things like John Goodman in Barton Fink.

Jim Bob had upped sticks and headed south after that. His campervan was found close to Miami Beach; parked outside one of those stucco wedding cake buildings. The inside was a mess.

Miami Police had called the niece because her number was the most recent in his cell. And she had taken along her Aunt for support. The Police had not cleaned out the inside of Jim Bobs van. They left his brains on the windows and put-up bed; a red spray coated most of his effects. Niece and big sister later identified the body. His face was missing, but he wore the same faded Osh Kosh.


Jim Bob suffered from depression all his adult life. He never got over the abuse from his dad, or came to terms with his sexuality. He drank his business away, and sold his house to pay creditors. He travelled because he was ashamed of his failure. And he killed himself on a balmy night in Miami, after calling his niece to wish her well.


He had a portable CD player hooked to his ears, the MC5s American Ruse was on repeat.