by Paul Rudnick
“Just this once,” Dr. Vatshul warned the kids, most of whom started hoarding, and I didn’t blame them.
“These are prescription,” Edgar protested.
“And now,” asked Dr. Vatshul, “would we like His Highness to tell us a story?”
“Something about cookies and starships and magic?” Edgar suggested.
“Who’s that?” said a little girl in a wheelchair, with three limbs in fiberglass casts, using an unfettered arm to point to me. “Who’s the cookie man?”
“That is my friend Carter Ogden,” said Edgar, “who’s one of our helpers today. He’s come all the way from America.”
Some of the kids were impressed by this; others not a bit.
“Is he your boyfriend?” asked the little girl.
“Is he your kissy friend?” asked an even younger child, with a dinosaur sticker on her cheek.
“Your Highness . . .” Dr. Vatshul began.
“He’s my very good friend, and he plans all sorts of parties and events, so he’s especially happy to be here amidst all of these balloons.”
I nodded vigorously, gung ho but mute.
“Can he tell us a story?” demanded a boy whose head was bandaged and immobilized by a halo of screws and steel rods.
As Dr. Vatshul looked uncertain and Edgar looked at me, the children chanted, “CARTER! CARTER! CARTER!”
“Let’s ask him,” said Edgar. “Carter, how about a story?”
I was stricken—I didn’t want to hog the spotlight, but I couldn’t be rude either, especially not to a roomful of hospitalized kids, one of whom shouted, “We want the boyfriend! Make him talk!”
I was remembering a period of over a year when Abby, at fourteen, had been diagnosed with leukemia and received a bone marrow transplant from a donor matched through an online service. She’d been bedridden and dragged from one specialist to the next as my terrified parents had struggled to keep her spirits up. I was twelve; I’d been scared and weirdly fascinated by Abby’s gaunt appearance, the pain she was in and the fact that she might die. Asking about any of this was off-limits.
I’d felt invisible and guilty because I hadn’t been a possible donor, and I’d searched for a means of helping her feel better that no one else had thought of, and of not just being in the way. I’d decided that what Abby needed was to continue our gown hunt, so I’d canvassed the waiting rooms for bridal magazines and emailed her sketches, along with YouTube videos of the latest wedding ceremony dance routines. My parents had been wary, but their children were headstrong, and during our wedding sessions Abby ignored the IV tubes and the bruises and the nausea from the follow-up chemotherapy, especially when the nurses posted their own wedding albums.
That was when Abby and I had bonded forever, and when her wedding gown had become a symbol of renewed good health and a life with a future. That’s also when I started to intuit the significance of event planning and celebrations; these occasions, and the fuss, sometimes mean much more than someone’s depleted savings account and a rented inflatable bounce house or backyard-size carousel.
Abby had fully recovered, and the ordeal inspired her own career path; she’d experienced firsthand what seriously ill kids go through and was set on helping them. She believes that sick kids are frustrated by lies, pity and gloom: “A sick kid wants to know that their illness isn’t their whole life. A sick kid wants someone who listens, and maybe music and a few troll dolls with hot pink hair they can comb.” Although, being Abby, when her own hair had fallen out, she’d sheared her troll dolls as well, as I scissored off the fingertips of surgical gloves to make doll-size turbans.
Which meant that I wanted to entertain the kids from St. Garvin’s, without coming off like some condescending rainbow jerk.
“I’d be happy to tell a story,” I offered. “If that’s okay with everyone?”
Edgar smiled with a slightly appalled anticipation, and Dr. Vatshul held up his hands in surrender—the children were in charge.
“Okay,” I began, “so, once upon a time—wait, is that too corny?”
The children shook their heads no, that was fine.
“Good, here we go, so once upon a time there was a handsome prince—can anyone point to a handsome prince?”
The kids laughed and pointed to Edgar, who waved his hands no but finally acknowledged the accolade.
“And one morning the prince decided that he needed to help the whole world.”
“Excuse me,” said one of the parents, a mom in a peach-colored sweater set and a bowl haircut. “Is this going to become a political statement in any way? Because that wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Not at all,” said Edgar, “it’s just going to be a delightful story, isn’t that so, Carter?”
I wasn’t sure how helping the world necessarily tumbled into politics, but I said, “Of course. So the prince set off to help people, and his first stop was in a far-off land called America. And while he was there, do you know who he met?”
“An American!” shouted one of the kids.
“A pony! A talking pony!”
“Spider-Man!”
“Yes, that’s absolutely right, he met Spider-Man, and they became good friends. And one day, while the prince and Spider-Man were flying around in their magical help-mobile—”
“What’s a help-mobile?”
“Is it like an ambulance?”
“Is it like a Prius?”
“Do you have a help-mobile?”
“A help-mobile is a cross between a helicopter,” I ventured, “like the prince flew when he was a brave soldier, and the Batmobile if it could fly.”
The children looked at each other, unsure, until one boy asked, “Wouldn’t that be the Batplane?”
“Totally different. Ask your mums and dads.”
“And can’t Spider-Man already fly?”
“Spider-Man can swoop around using his web, which is great, but it’s not technically flying.”
“No, it’s not, Devin,” the little girl with the dinosaur sticker told the boy. I loved that little girl.
“So they were flying around,” I went on, “and helping people—”
“With groceries?”
“And doctors’ appointments?”
“And finding Dad’s car in the parking lot?”
“All of those things! Such good ideas!”
“Did Wonder Woman help them?”
“Was Spider-Man the prince’s boyfriend?”
“Just asking,” said another parent, a man in a windbreaker and khakis, “do we really need any references to Spider-Man’s sex life?”
“Spider-Man and the prince were just good friends.”
As I said this I felt a twinge of disappointment in myself: Had I just scurried past the creation of a heroic gay couple? Or would that be getting way too PC? There have been more and more LGBTQ superheroes in comic books, although only a few have made the super-leap into movies or cable shows. I considered telling the kids about my great-aunt Miriam’s favorite superhero, Doctor Strange, although she’d fretted, “I’m not sure if he’s Jewish, or if that’s really a good name for a doctor. But if he took my insurance I’d love him.”
“And then one day,” I continued, “Spider-Man and the prince were flying over a schoolyard, and they saw a little girl with blue hair and green skin. And even though she was really smart and her skin and her hair looked great together, she was being bullied by some of the other kids because she could fly. Because sometimes when you’re different, other people don’t always understand. And one of the other kids, a mean little boy who wished he could fly, he grabbed one of the little girl’s wings and bent it.”
The children gasped.
“And the little girl tried to be brave, but when she went to fly, she couldn’t. So the prince and Spider-Man had to do something. But if they were goin
g to get the little girl to just the right doctors, the help-mobile wasn’t fast enough. So the prince whistled, and do you know what appeared?”
“Iron Man!”
“An Uber!”
“Two trillion billion butterflies!”
“A dragon!”
“A dragon! That’s right! A pink and purple striped dragon with huge wings. And what do you think the dragon’s name was?”
“Dragonmaster!”
“Superdragon!”
“Optimus Prime!”
“Berniece!”
“Yes! The dragon’s name was Berniece! After her mum. And while Berniece looked scary, she was actually really nice and traveled around the world educating people about dragon culture and the inaccuracies in Game of Thrones. And the prince and Spider-Man carried the little girl onto Berniece’s back, with Berniece’s full consent, and they held the little girl so she’d feel safe.
“And the dragon flew thousands of miles to find the very best wing-fixing specialist in the whole world, and do you know who he was? Dr. Vatshul, right here at St. Garvin’s Hospital for Children and Bent Wings! And soon the little girl was feeling better, and she was able to fly all around London, with Berniece beside her. And the little girl thanked the prince and Spider-Man, but they said, ‘We were just helpers. The real heroes are Dr. Vatshul and all of the amazing health care workers here at St. Garvin’s!’”
The kids and parents and staff members clapped and cheered, led by a very pleased Edgar, who put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Dr. Vatshul was pretending a professional distance, but I could tell he was tickled.
And then the adorable little girl with the fiberglass casts asked, “Did the prince and Spider-Man get married? Like my Uncle Bob and Uncle Baxter?”
This little girl had a tenacious, very specific look on her face that reminded me of Abby in her hospital bed when she’d forced me to choose between a looser bouquet of lilacs and freesia, as opposed to something more formal with roses and lilies in a lace sleeve. She’d explained, “And you have to answer, because the first bouquet’s saying, ‘Hi, I’m a trailing-ribbons-in-my-hair, barefoot, lute-playing New Hampshire meadow bride,’ while the other one says, ‘I’m a traditional Park Avenue bride with an ironclad prenup who means business.’ Pick!”
“I think they should get married!” the little girl proclaimed. “And they should get presents!”
She’d clearly undergone more than one procedure and was signed up for many months of physical therapy. She’d most likely been in some horrific accident and wanted not just my answer, but proof of romance and joy and an exultant ceremony far from the hospital’s sterile sameness.
I didn’t think, or I decided not to think. I had to make that little girl grin, and support her hopefulness, which I saw as my own, and if this meant a dreamy gay wedding, that’s what I’d contribute. That’s what I do for a living. That’s what Ruth Ginsburg had legalized when she’d voted in favor of marriage equality on the Supreme Court. I had a vision of that little girl, Ruth and me in the hallowed Charlie’s Angels justice-seeking trio-of-hot-babes pose.
“Yes,” I told the room, “the prince and Spider-Man got married, but their ceremony and reception were a benefit to buy defibrillators and patient monitors for St. Garvin’s. And then they teamed up with the Flash, Ant-Man and Captain Marvel to plant the beautiful garden right outside these windows, and they filled the cafeteria with treats that didn’t taste like hospital food at all!”
These details, especially the last one, prompted the kids’ loudest ovation yet. I looked at Edgar, who seemed stunned but happy, which was the best possible effect I could have on him.
Within the next fifteen minutes the following headlines were blasted across social media, in many languages, all over the world:
ROYAL COMPANION SAYS PRINCE EDGAR HAS SEX WITH SUPERHERO
AMERICAN WHOEVER-HE-IS TELLS KIDS SPIDER-MAN IS QUEER
PRINCE EDDIE INVOLVED WITH SPIDER-MAN AND ASSOCIATE EVENT IDIOT
QUEER TAKEOVER OF LONDON CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL CONDEMNED BY AMERICAN PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE
COPYRIGHT ACTION BEING CONSIDERED AGAINST ROYAL BOYFRIEND SMUTMEISTER
LEAGUE OF CHRISTIAN MOMS INSISTS SPIDER-MAN ONLY DATES PIOUS WOMEN
PALACE MUST RESPOND: WILL PRINCE EDGAR RETURN TO REHAB?
CANCEL CARTER OGDICK
There were also photoshopped images of Edgar and Spider-Man having sex, a cartoon of me breathing fire onto children, and an animated video of Edgar and Spider-Man, naked and riding a winged unicorn while sprinkling glitter onto the Tower of London.
Adam sent me a spreadsheet dividing the millions of tweets into the following categories: American Homo Tells Sick Kids Porn Story, Royal Family Asunder, Prince Edgar Should Never Be King, Batman Issues Statement Claiming “I Always Knew,” Queen Catherine to Meet with Prime Minister Over Gay Sexgate, and Carter Ogden Shut the Hell Up.
My mom texted me thirty-eight times with variations on “I know you meant well. Call me. Oy.”
My dad emailed me, “Is Spider-Man the fellow who swings from buildings on some sort of webbing, which isn’t scientifically possible?”
Abby texted me, “I know what you were going for and it’s good you brought cookies.”
Louise posted a photo of herself wearing a T-shirt reading “Free Carter Ogden!”
DuShawn started selling tank tops on eBay airbrushed with the word “SPIDER-QUEER” in rainbow stripes and vowed to use any proceeds for my defense fund.
“What in God’s name were you thinking?” Edgar yelled at me back in my room at the palace. I’d never seen Edgar this furious before. He’d been anxious and apprehensive and agitated, but he’d never yelled. I hate yelling. In my family we just simmer and slam doors and make extra appointments with our therapists to discuss our fear of conflict.
“Gay Spider-Man? To sick children? With the press in the room? What did you think was going to happen?”
I’d had major fights with Callum, but they’d been strategic, with me acting ultracontrolled and insisting I wasn’t hurt, I was just puzzled that any human being could be so evil, causing Callum to run through all the gestures he’d learned doing TV shows, like “I Give Up!” or “My Brain Is On Fire!” or, finally, “Sinking To My Knees In Anguish Because I Just Found My Wife’s Body On Law & Order: SVU!”
“I’m sorry,” I pleaded. “I know, I’m an insensitive, self-involved American pea brain and I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you! But in my defense, those kids liked the story, and I was just trying to—I don’t know—some of those parents were being so snitty and homophobic, and I was thinking, ‘Well, what story do I wish I’d heard when I was a kid?’ and come on, I did make you Spider-Man’s husband, which is seriously hot!”
Edgar’s face grew contorted and bright red and as he came toward me I was positive he was going to kill me and that I wouldn’t scream or struggle, but accept my fate, and I was sure Edgar would ask James to shove my body down a laundry chute and then dump it in the Thames, and when I never came home my friends and family would be a little sad but secretly relieved that they didn’t have to deal with me.
Edgar kept getting closer and he couldn’t even form coherent sentences as he spouted, “You demented douchewipe embarrassment to the entire LGBTQ-plus Jewish communities all over the world . . .”
That was when he grabbed me and started kissing me and before I knew it we were having our most incredible sex yet, all over the bedroom and the dressing area and the bathroom, and when James tapped on the door and asked if we’d be joining Her Majesty for dinner, Edgar yelled, “After we finish fucking!”
A few minutes later, as we lay at a contorted angle to each other, naked on the bed, Edgar stared at the ceiling and said, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“But do you want to know something even worse?” I asked, also studyi
ng the ceiling, as if it might collapse and solve everything, or open a portal to another dimension where I hadn’t done anything blameworthy.
“What?” Edgar asked. “Tell me what’s worse.”
“Not only have I shamed the royal family for all eternity, and forced my mother to have to explain everything to all my other relatives, and been canceled by people in countries I’ve never even heard of—in fact, places that might’ve declared themselves countries just so their newly formed governments could cancel me—but this year . . . I’m turning thirty.”
I’d been aggressively ignoring this birthday for the past five years, not just because I’d be ancient but because it loomed as a deadline: I would be thirty years old and have accomplished nothing. I would be thirty years old without a boyfriend. I would be thirty years old and I’d start to gain the ten pounds that I’d read accumulate with every decade of a person’s life after thirty. I’d be a thirty-year-old associate event terminal loser and I’d have to accept that this was my life.
“So what?” said Edgar. “I’m turning thirty as well.”
“I know,” I said. “We have the same birthday. January twenty-second.”
“We do? Why haven’t you told me this?”
“I don’t know, maybe I was saving it. Maybe it seems weird, as if we’re related. Maybe if things were going well, I thought we could celebrate together. Or maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe the fact that we share a birthday makes me hate you.”
“Why the hell do you hate me?”
“Because first of all, you look great and you’re only getting more handsome, so fuck you. And second, you don’t have to worry and punish yourself and climb over the railing of a bridge at midnight on January twenty-first. Because you already have—your life. You’ve got this incredible job where they can’t fire you.”
“I beg to differ—”
“I know, you could abdicate or whatever, but basically you’re like the pope or a Supreme Court justice or a seventy-eight-year-old soap opera star—being royal is a lifetime appointment. You know who you are. The world knows who you are. And sure, there are speed bumps, like for example, meeting me, but still: You’re there. You’re you. You’ve made it. So turning thirty means nothing.”