"You know, Mate, there are a lot of similarities between my life in London, and my present day circumstances, so to speak."

I heard you plain as day. What the hell are you talkin' about?"

My name is Gerald, Gerald Farnsworth the third, to be exact, primarily because both my father and grandfather were named Gerald. I ignored Billy-Joe's remark. I'd become used to the colloquial way that people in Georgia spoke, twisting the language and dropping consonants off words.

I remained puzzled by the endless repetition of an incident that occurred during my early days at the trailer park.

"I'll knock you up," I had said to Mrs. Simmons in response to her invitation for coffee. Mrs. Simmons was the first person I met when the taxi dropped me off at the gates to the trailer park Aunt Millie had called home for most of her life in America. Mrs. Simmons, an eighty year old widow, found my response hysterical. She told me she hadn't had an offer like that in fifty years. Really? Had no one called on the widow in all those decades? Americans are such a comical lot.


Billy Joe had ambled by, eyebrows raised, looking like something right out of one of Whistler's oil paintings. He didn't say much, but he offered me a lager, a beer he called it. I'd heard that Americans chilled their beverages, but Billy Joe, despite his stained overalls, seemed like a man of taste. He offered me my refreshment at room temperature and immediately became a kindred soul. I've never become used to this penchant of robbing the flavour of whiskey and beer with chilling and ice cubes.

It may have been the result of the bloke's inability to satisfy the electric company. Billy-Joe, though a man of integrity, was often late in meeting his obligations. Folks referred to our group as trailer trash, but I can assure you, these are very clean people, and they don't deserve the slander.

Of course, there are things that are better than my old life in England. The food, oh my Lord the food! I've become quite fond of southern fried chicken. I'm quite certain that boiled beef isn't an international delicacy, but I have to admit that my only acquaintance with fried food has, to date, been fish and chips. I was a little distressed to discover that in America they don't wrap their chips (okay, they call them fries, but they are essentially fried potatoes) in newspaper. I always felt the ink on the London times was the secret ingredient. The seamier the scandal on the front page the better the chips tasted. At any rate, a chip run always gave me the opportunity to quell my hunger and keep up to date on the latest and most sordid news from the House of Lords.

I've adjusted to this new culture, bringing my own malt vinegar to restaurants, but really it amazes me that Americans call these eateries diners. Dining in England is a formal affair with prescribed protocol. These 'diners' provide serviettes in chrome containers designed for convenience. They call them napkins. Billy-Joe calls them snot rags and always helps himself to a handful to see him through Flu season.

"I'm getting' the impression you want to do some jaw-slacking about merry old England. Am I right?" Billy-Joe heads into the trailer and comes back with two more beers. It seems he is willing to listen to my melancholy memories.

I hate to impose, but sometimes I miss the sound of English, even if it's my own voice. The people in Georgia speak a strange dialect. I'm told it varies by region--America is a very large country. I wish I had the means to explore this continent, but I left England a pauper, and I seem to be trapped here by a continuation of my paltry inheritance.

I should be grateful to Aunt Millie. She left me all her earthly assets, a trailer--such as it is--an aluminium shaped bullet that would embarrass a real felon--a prepaid hiatus to 'find myself.' Those were the words she used in her last will and testament. The barrister who handed me the documents almost spit at me in disgust. I accepted the keys to Auntie's home and my paltry inheritance with smug satisfaction and a touch of arrogance. One could easily surmise that the barrister was an administrator, but never an heir.

"Trailer trash," he spit out as he handed me the file. I had no idea as to his intent or meaning, thinking that I was commissioned to clean up Aunt Millie's waste. I was happy to do that for the old bird. She was a dear soul, my mother's sister, and she told me wild stories when I was a child. She only became Aunt Millie after she moved to America. Prior to the puddle jump, people referred to her as Millicent. But then she met this cowboy in Trafalgar Square... The family never liked to talk about her after her transatlantic flight. It's all about appearances, you know.

"As I was saying," I said to Billy-Joe, "there is a commonality to the American and British culture that I've unearthed since I took up residence in America."

"Sure, 'Govner,' I'm all ears," my mate said.

Of course I knew the rascal was patronizing me, but as my finances were running out, my inheritance diminished, I felt it was of utmost importance that I share my observations, before my tenure in America ended.

"Americans are offended by the classes, the structure of power and privilege. They're horribly rude, labelling your sort, denigrating your right to enjoy life. In the United Kingdom we don't do that sort of thing. We would never judge your lifestyle. I've found the insults of your neighbours repulsive and completely inappropriate. I'm offended on your behalf, William. I feel I must apologize for the audacity of your tormentors."

"Are you now?"

"Really, I am. You are a good man."

Billy-Joe spit out the wad of tobacco that he had been fondling in his left cheek. He grabbed the beer out of my hands before I got the last swig. "See here's the thing, Limey. The name's Billy-Joe. It's on my birth certificate. Don't try to pretty up my life with your fancy talk."

"I meant no offence."

"I know you didn't, Gerry, but here's the bottom line. They're hiring at the mill. I'll put in a good word for you if you promise to keep your high-fallutin' mouth shut. You got that? Or then again, you can go back to merry old England and have tea with Her Royal Highness. You up for getting your lily-white hands dirty?"

Billy-Joe didn't wait for my answer, but in the morning I was knocking on his trailer. I'd had time to think about it.

"Yes," I said. "I think I'd be honoured by your introduction to the management of the mill and feel quite certain that I could adjust to the demands placed upon me. "

Billy-Joe laughed. "Get used to calling me Boss. And while you're at it, maybe you should invest in some steel-toed boots."