A few days ago, while watching television, I mused on how my king would react if he visited me. Being scientific by nature, I first addressed the question of how he would manage to do that. I discarded the notion of time travel since it poses dilemmas. For instance, there is the notorious “father paradox” where you go back in time and kill your father at birth (the kid probably deserved it). But then you could never have been born … which means you couldn’t have killed your father … so maybe you were born after all … but then … my head hurts.
No … time travel didn’t satisfy my quest. But there was another way my king could drop by, at least in spirit. A wizard like Merlin, of the Arthurian legend, might have granted the king a visit, as I said … in spirit.
The more I thought about that, the more real it became to me. Indeed, I wished mightily for such a visit. And somehow, through the dense, immense firmament of time and space, Merlin the Magician heard my plea and granted my wish. Consequently, starting as a hazy apparition, the king appeared to me in my living room, standing tall, broad-shouldered, handsome and as substantial as, say, my television set.
A wily wizard, Merlin had my king speak basic American English, enabling us to understand each other. He also made the king invisible to other folks, so they wouldn’t laugh themselves silly at the way he dressed: an outlandish, if royal, combination of purple satin, white ermine, gold-threaded sash and silver buckles … in other words, his casual attire.
The king’s invisibility had one drawback … as my wife watched me bow to thin air and proclaim “Welcome, Your Majesty.” She just shook her head, my weirdness confirming what she’d been saying for years … that I was crazy.
It’s too bad my wife couldn’t see the king. Otherwise, they’d have been able to converse. There is no doubt the king would’ve appreciated and admired her, finding she has a heart as big as the moon … and a temper to match.
I escorted the king from room to room in our home, showing off our cordless telephones, our computers (he seemed doubtful about what they did), our microwave oven, and so forth. None of those things elicited comment from him, although he looked askance at our lighting, probably wondering where I was hiding its candles.
Seeing him glance furtively at the lights, I reveled in turning on every light in our home. It was a childish thing to do, I know, but I’ve always been a show-off, the little boy in me taking center stage—a personality quirk my wife mildly adores, mildly abhors, for she learned long ago that I have the cultural grace and savoir faire of a chimpanzee.
Except for my king’s reaction to the home’s illumination, he mostly remained regally blasé, but in our master bathroom his eyes registered amazement, even wonder, at our many, large mirrors. I don’t wish to brag, but our master bath compares favorably with Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors.
My king wasn’t amazed by TV, saying he considered it a high-def version of Merlin’s crystal ball, but he expressed astonishment that I, a commoner, possessed such a device.
“Your Majesty, I’m not a privileged commoner, nor a special one. Most Fernley families own a TV, er crystal ball, often more than one.”
“Tell me, Peasant—‘ Peasant’ being his endearing name for me—just what is a Fernley?”
“It’s the name of the town I live in, Sire. Would you like a tour of Fernley?”
“Maybe some of it, Peasant; Merlin didn’t allot much time for this visit.”
“Then would Your Highness please follow me to our garage?”
“Very well, Peasant, but what, pray tell, is a garage?”
I struggled for a moment before figuring a way to explain “garage” to a medieval king. “Sire, a garage is a kind of stable.”
When I opened the door to our garage, I could tell the king was disappointed. He surely expected the “stable” to contain horses. But, being a king, he kept royal composure, and remained stoically silent while I helped him into our “horseless carriage” and explained that the law required us to buckle seat belts. I think that irritated him a little, since he was used to making all the laws where he came from.
Sign up to receive updates and the Friday File email notices.
Support local, independent news – contribute to The Fallon Post, your non-profit (501c3) online news source for all things Fallon.
The Fallon Post -- 1951 W. Williams #385, Fallon, Nevada 89406
Comment
Comments