by Paul Rudnick
“So,” I asked, as we dug in, “do you have to run every decision past your grandmother?”
“She would like me to. She’s always been overprotective, and I understand her position. With our parents gone, she was all Gerald and I had. She wants to be certain that in all matters, we present a united front. I love her dearly, and I also admire her. She never whines or feels sorry for herself, even with all the constant criticism, from Parliament and the media and what she calls ‘all those people at their computers who’ve decided they have something to add.’”
“Jesus. It’s like she thinks she’s the Queen of England.”
“Fine. The time has come. Just do it. Let it out. All of your royalty jokes. As if I’ve never heard them before. I’ll give you five minutes to exhaust yourself, and then I’ll dissect America.”
It was a challenge: should I act as if none of these terrible jokes had ever crossed my mind and I was above all that?
“When you play checkers, do you say, ‘King me’? Do people ever comment, ‘That Edgar, he’s a prince of a guy’? When you listen to Prince songs, do you tell yourself, ‘He’s good but he’s not a real prince’? When you watch Disney movies, do you admit that all of the princes seem gay? Do you take any responsiblity for that? When Snow White sings ‘Someday my prince will come’ do you giggle? Have you ever said ‘Yaass, Queen’ to your grandmother? Do you think ‘Royal Flush’ sounds like a premium toilet paper? When Leonardo DiCaprio yells ‘I’m the king of the world’ in Titanic, do you always mutter, ‘I don’t think so’? In America, Prince is a popular dog’s name—if someone yelled, ‘Here, Prince! Here, boy!’ would you turn around?”
“Time’s up. Is American cheese redundant? When you sing ‘God Bless America’ do you secretly add, ‘and no other countries’? Is there a reason why all American tourists wear cargo shorts on airplanes, and everywhere else? Does your entire country have a fear of clothing that doesn’t resemble oversize T-shirts, leggings or prewashed blue jeans with stretch? Did your Congress declare using a napkin illegal? Does everyone in the American South share a single pair of ill-fitting dentures? Is the real American dream a recliner with a heated massage function and a built-in beer tap? Was there truly a need for the return of American Idol? Are your nation’s greatest achievements AstroTurf used indoors, water parks with safari adventure themes, and those ride-on scooters that perfectly healthy people use for travelling from the blackjack tables to the slot machines in Las Vegas?”
For a moment I wondered if I should be horribly offended by Edgar’s unjust stereotypes. But he had a point. “Yes,” I replied.
“But why are you laughing?” asked Edgar. “After I’ve just savaged your homeland in the crudest possible manner?”
“I’m laughing because your mouth is covered with Hostess Yodel cake crumbs and cream filling.”
James stepped in instantly, with a premoistened wipe, confiding, “Sometimes we change His Highness’s shirt five times a day.”
“I think we need to walk,” said Edgar. “At least a bit.”
We stood up and headed toward a nearby pond. And while they were silent and maintained a respectful distance, I was acutely conscious of the security guys keeping a protective cordon around us and monitoring all passersby. James had packed up the hamper without a wasted gesture and trailed us by a few yards.
“Does it ever bother you?” I asked. “Or do you not even notice it?”
“What?”
“Your team. The surveillance. The fact that we’re out in nature, and having a great time, but we’re never really alone?”
Edgar sighed. “Of course. But you must understand, security is necessary, and I’m extremely grateful to the men and women who protect me. Because this isn’t about me as an individual—they’re protecting a symbol and an institution. And so if my freedom is curtailed, I mustn’t complain. And James isn’t merely an employee, but a treasured friend, with only my best interests at heart—he’s raised me. And all of this, it’s a situation I’ve experienced since birth, so it’s simply—my life.”
We’d been walking for some time and Edgar had only grown more earnest, laboring to convince himself as well as me.
“So,” I said, “do you really believe all that?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you believe that you’re some delicate artifact, a rare orchid or a Fabergé egg that gets placed gently into a velvet-lined trunk and carried through the streets under armed guard?”
“You really are, what was that American word?”
“An asshole?”
“No.”
“A nasty little brat?”
“Getting warmer . . .”
“The voice of truth and reason?”
“No—a douchewad. That’s the word.”
We’d left the park and were heading west, through the city. I retrieved a membership card from my wallet to unlock a Citi Bike from a nearby stand.
“What are you doing?”
“These are Citi Bikes, and I’m using my membership to get a bike for each of us. Come on. You can ride a bike, can’t you? Prince Powderpuff?”
“Of course I can ride a bike. But where would we go?”
“I need to show you something. It’ll change your life. Right now.”
“But we mustn’t, James will have my head, and the team—”
“It’s just for a few minutes. A temporary prison break. Over the wall.”
“I can’t. Really.”
“Chickenshit. Which is another American word. It means you.”
“I am not—any form of chicken! I served in the military for two years! I’ve piloted medivac helicopters in Afghanistan!”
“Then come on, soldier,” I said, handing him his bike.
“Your Highness!” James called out from half a block away.
“You’re a dreadful influence!”
“I put that on my tax return.”
For a second Edgar debated between duty and mischief, or as I liked to call it, me. I’d already straddled my bike, and as I pedaled across the West Side Highway, Edgar was right behind me. We picked up speed and made it across many lanes of traffic just as the light changed, stranding a fuming James and the security team, who were busily trying to unlock bikes of their own, without any luck; they could defuse a bomb or take down a squad of kidnappers, but New York transportation was a very different challenge, and I bet none of them had MetroCards either.
“This is so beautiful,” said Edgar as we cruised along the bike path beside the river. It was a gorgeous April day, and the view stretched for miles, bounded by trees and grass and not-too-fussy flower beds; sometimes New York gets it just right.
“See over there, across the Hudson? That’s New Jersey, where I grew up.”
“It’s like the White Cliffs of Dover.”
“With Walmarts.”
We pedaled faster and faster, reaching a speed that allowed intervals of effortless gliding, and I could see Edgar relax; he was so tightly wound that each micro-moment of surrender became visible, like an enhanced video of a flower blooming or a baby chick hatching and blinking at the world. Edgar was still ridiculously handsome, but his smile was becoming more genuine and less professional.
Two bike messengers, a man and a woman, pulled up beside us. They were true New York athletes, in customized spandex and ragged leather, with battered canvas bags slung across their backs. I’ve always admired these messengers, in their Mad Max couture, as they swerve in and out of traffic, outraging drivers, terrifying pedestrians and laughing at gridlock, young enough so that being underpaid and sexy becomes a fabulous drug.
This pair didn’t seem to recognize Edgar and would never admit it if they did. They pulled even with us and nodded, or their neon goggles and aerodynamic praying mantis helmets nodded, at the path ahead.
“Oh, it’s on!” said Edga
r, and the four of us started racing, leaning over our handlebars. Edgar was fiercely competitive, because he had to spend most of his time being selfless and polite. I could barely keep up, but Edgar cutting loose gave me rocket fuel, along with awarding myself a few thousand extra cardio points.
While Edgar was an experienced cyclist, he was no match for the messengers, who outpaced us, laughed and waved as they headed back across the highway.
“Good God,” said Edgar, as he stretched out his arms and turned his face to the sun, drunk on thinking about nothing but fresh air.
“We’re here,” I said, because we’d hit lower Manhattan, right across from not just my favorite vista but my favorite anything: the Statue of Liberty, who seemed almost within reach.
“She’s magnificent,” Edgar said as we dismounted and walked our bikes to the railing.
“When I was little I thought she was real and that she waded through the river and stood there every day, to welcome the world to America.”
“And while I know she was a gift from the French,” said Edgar, “I’ve always felt there was something terribly English about her. Something utterly dignified but with a touch of wickedness around the eyes. Very Helen Mirren. She’s alluring.”
Edgar faced me and I felt breathless and so turned on and like crying, all at the same time—it was an unexpected tremor, as if introducing my cherished landmark to a crown prince was way too much emotional activity for one lunch hour. I could tell Edgar was feeling the same thing, because he was bending toward me, only he paused, as if some inner alarm had been triggered. He stepped back, leaving me helpless and confused and hurt.
“What? What is it?”
“I . . . I need to be cautious.”
“Why? You’re out, you’re single, who cares?”
“I know, and I so wish I could, I wish I could stop remembering everything that’s been drummed into me, except—look around. What do you see?”
“People. Tourists. Nannies with strollers.”
“And they’re all pretending not to recognise me. And they all have phones.”
“I get it. Pictures. Which they can sell. Of Prince Edgar and some guy from New Jersey. It might seem a little trashy. A little, what’s that word? Common. And I understand. Your life is very different from mine. And I don’t envy you. But thanks for the picnic and the bike ride and I guess—I was about to say I’ll see you, but I bet I won’t. This was all, I don’t know, a footnote. A bubble.”
I walked my bike to a nearby rack, and as I was locking it back into place, I felt a hand on my shoulder, which in New York is usually a signal to scream for help, but before I knew it I’d been spun around and I was surrendering to a shockingly passionate kiss and two wonderfully strong arms embracing me and a moment of such pure happiness that it made me stop being a person and turn into an essence, into a paint chip or a fragrance strip labeled “Pure Happiness,” into something that all the stories and products and sequined T-shirts are based on.
Don’t do it, I told myself, don’t faint and don’t be such a pushover and don’t ever stop kissing him, and don’t try to remember every detail of this moment so I can describe it to Adam and Louise and my sister—something I really didn’t need to worry about, because I’d never forget it, and then, before I could even begin to stop my brain and other parts of my body from bursting, it was over, and Edgar’s face was a foot away from mine and he was grinning triumphantly.
“What did you call me? Chickenshit?”
“Your Highness?” said James, who was standing a few yards off along with the security team, as if they were five powerfully built bridesmaids in matching dark suits, white shirts and narrow black neckties. They’d found us so quickly, and it occurred to me that Edgar was probably equipped with a chip or wire that enabled a royal tracking device. This was a dismaying possibility but with a definite logic; our kiss had most likely already been noted, logged and reviewed. I hadn’t just been kissing a person but, as Edgar had mentioned earlier, “a symbol and an institution.” This would take some getting used to. I felt like I’d been caught shoplifting at Cartier or Bergdorf’s by store detectives.
“I need to see you again,” said Edgar. “I’ve got an embassy reception tonight—it will most likely be endless and dreary, but would you like to attend? I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve made that sound especially appealing.”
“I would love to go, but I’ve got a rehearsal dinner for my sister’s wedding.”
“Which will undoubtedly be joyous. I’m leaving the States on Sunday. Will tomorrow be at all possible?”
“Shit shit shit. No, I mean, not shit, it’s going to be really great, but that’s the wedding, in Piscataway.”
“Might I come? As your date?”
CHAPTER 10
Okay. Okay. The crown prince of England had just asked if he could be my plus-one at Temple Beth Israel in Piscataway, New Jersey, for Abby’s wedding. This shit was getting real.
“Okay,” I said, “but before I say yes, I need you to know what you’ll be getting yourself into.”
“I’m certain it will be delightful.”
“Have you ever been to Piscataway?”
“Is that a real place?”
“It’s a suburb, and it’s very nice, it’s fine, but I need to warn you: if my sister sees you, she’s going to explode. And I don’t mean, oh, she’ll be impressed, or she’ll fangirl all over you, or she’ll get pissed that you’re upstaging her big day. I love her and I know her, and I know how she feels about celebrities, let alone royalty. Have you ever seen footage of like, the birth of the cosmos or an avalanche swallowing an entire Swiss village or a van filled with crash test dummies hitting a brick wall at a hundred and fifty miles an hour?”
“And those things are like your sister?”
“Those things are jealous of my sister.”
* * *
The next morning we took a huge, shiny, black SUV along the Jersey Turnpike, with Edgar and I in the back seat and James up front beside the driver. “And now we’re passing a metropolis called Secaucus,” said James, noting an exit ramp.
“Secaucus is a really great town,” I told him. “Even if years ago it was filled with hog rendering farms and there was a big sign reading ‘The Pig Capital.’”
“James,” said Edgar, before James could say a word.
Everyone peered out at the acres of swampy landfill belonging to another community.
“Isn’t this marvelous,” James commented. “It’s like one of those dystopian films which teenagers so enjoy, where much of civilization has been destroyed. And that sign said we’re in a city called Elizabeth, which is undoubtedly named after one of our most beloved monarchs. And you’ve memorialised her with piles of rotting truck tires, the rusted shells of abandoned vehicles, lakes of iridescent green sludge and a rather pungent odor. May I ask, and only from curiosity, at this wedding—will there be zombies?”
“James!” said Edgar.
“I’m so very sorry,” said James, “that was rude and uncalled for. But—zombies?”
“It depends,” I said, “on which table you’re sitting at.”
We reached Piscataway in a little over an hour and pulled into the parking lot of the temple where I’d been bar mitzvahed, a large brick building with a soaring A-framed chapel and those sort of modern stained glass windows that resemble expensive crafts projects.
“I went to Hebrew school here for about ten minutes because my parents wanted me to appreciate my heritage, but then I told them, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to regular school and then another school.”
“Is your family deeply religious?”
“I’d say we have a chatty relationship with God and appreciate a decent buffet.”
We were late, and as we left the SUV, a second van pulled up and the security team emerged, fanning out to investigate entrances and exits.
“This is so exciting,” said Edgar, “I’ve been to more than my share of weddings, but they’ve always involved cathedrals and processionals and shrieking choirs. This feels so much more, what’s that expression, user-friendly.”
I almost ran, escaping across the parking lot and past the 7-Eleven and over the many lawns to my childhood home, where I could hide in my old room for the rest of my life, clutching Paddington Bear and gorging on ice-cream bars and Tootsie Pops, in hopes that no one would ever find me. Stop it, I scolded myself. This is your family and you love them and if they embarrass you until you wish you were dead, well, so be it. Shut up. You’re an adult. Gay up. Maybe there’ll be a freak tornado.
“Just remember I warned you,” I told Edgar as we moved through the lobby and into the synagogue.
The room was packed with women wearing everything from lacy pastel sheaths with matching coats to skintight bandage dresses to more subdued silk pantsuits with simple jewelry; growing up, I had loved to watch my always perfectly dressed mom sizing up our more flashy relatives, studying their plunging necklines (revealing tattoos of butterflies or roses) and wobbly spike heels while murmuring, “I wish someone could explain that.”
The men mostly wore dark business suits or pressed jeans, blazers and open-neck shirts, and the squirming children and ostentatiously bored teenagers had on whatever compromises their parents had agreed to: “I don’t care, I’m sick of arguing about it, wear whatever you like, I’ll just tell everyone you’re a heroin addict.”
While I’d offered my services, Abby hadn’t asked me to oversee her wedding: “Because I don’t want you to have to work and worry about everything. I want you there as my guest and as my brother and to deliver your sacred cosmic gay blessing.” I’d been grateful for this gesture, but now I had a whole new level of anxiety to deal with.