Conscious Unroyaling

Some ten years ago I stood in the summer morning’s heat at the start line of yet another road race. This was not an ordinary race as it was sponsored by Achilles, a group that promotes and helps disabled athletes. I had earned a spot at the front as I was guiding a disabled athlete through the course, something I had done for other races and four New York City marathons. To my surprise there was a swell of squeals from the larger-than-average crowd and I felt a slight bump, normal at a race start as runners jostle for position. Turning around, next to me was a not-well-disguised undercover cop whose protective charge was a mere ten feet way. It was Prince Harry.

Many of the athletes in front of us were disabled military veterans whose loss of one or more limbs was in plain sight. While most were American service members, His Royal Highness has a special affinity for those wounded in combat, and he worked his way around the disabled participants. Being Prince Harry, everyone knew who he was. Being somebody who cared, he wouldn’t just lean over and introduce himself, he would squat down to eye level to greet the wheelchair and push cycle participants. This wasn’t just another stop on an endless tour, this was time with his band of brothers. One could say he was born for this role; but make no mistake—he was genuine, compassionate, and caring.

What a difference a decade makes.

In what should be a time of pleasant iambic pentameter for the Duke and Duchess of Sussex has turned into a turgid As Megxit Turns soap opera. There’s certainly a time and place to take a step back and out of the limelight, like Uncle Andrew’s recent disappearance. Then again, that prince somehow failed to end his association with a convicted pedophile, so staying out of sight was probably the better plan than having the masses chase him down with pitchforks. And while brother William gets the crown, he also inherited his grandfather’s receding hairline. No bad comb overs for this royal—to the razor he went and lost the hair battle while winning the dignity war.

Unlike Henry V, this Prince Harry is not looking to make a heroic stand against the French or anybody else for that matter. Apparently he is concerned about his mental health, and his wife complains that nobody is asking how she is feeling after having a baby. Thus they “intend to step back as ‘senior’ members of the Royal Family and work to become financially independent, while continuing to fully support Her Majesty The Queen.” If I had to guess, Her Majesty would give slightly different advice, like see a therapist and pop some Prozac. It’s not like they have to wait in line at the local National Health clinic.

We now face the prophecy of the St. Crispin’s Day speech coming alarmingly true, with Shakespeare’s monarch proclaiming, “That he which hath no stomach to this fight/Let him depart; his passport shall be made/And crowns for convoy put into his purse;” So it’s off to Canada for our main cabin couple to figure out how to be “financially independent,” with a collective hope they don’t fall into the celebrity-merchandising trap. Imagine if Lady Gwyneth of Goop directed their quest for treasure with lines of “Sussex Sex Toys” or “Windsor Wick Candles” (all organic, of course). Maybe Meghan could go back to Northwestern and earn an MBA and help guide their budding business empire. One of the University’s colors is royal purple, after all.

There will be no muse of fire, swelling scene, or warlike Harry to end this sad tale. The House of Windsor will survive, bruised but maybe better off with the redheaded spawn across the ocean and closer to the rebellious colonies that seem to fit his temperament. Maybe the Sussex Three will live happily ever after, but they shouldn’t bank on keeping any mantle space open for The Queen’s Christmas Card.

© 2020 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Thirty Bucks

“Wanna buy a pizza?”

That refrain haunted my boarding school dorm every Saturday night of my senior year. Chase the pie whisperer was hawking the goods to raise money for the baseball team’s spring training trip to Florida. The weekend hustle was in the great American tradition of hard work, taking advantage of a captive audience, and promoting ill-defined social benefits. In this case our teenage hunger was assuaged and the team made a noticeable improvement in turning double plays.

New York City has always been a center of hustle. Whether it is people moving quickly, talking even faster, or a combination of both to sell some kind of ware, hard work and a willingness to pound the pavement was admired. When rain comes, a mysterious fleet of people appear at subway entrances to sell cheap umbrellas. When the sun returns, like woodland spirits at dawn, they disappear. I’m pretty sure they are also the same guys who sell green hats for St. Patrick’s Day and red, white, and blue gear for Fourth of July. Now these folks may not be future moguls, but everyone has a kind word for saving your suit from a soaking or providing instant gear for a holiday.

Then came the drama of the $30 New Year’s Eve pizza.

When a million people come together in Times Square to count down the New Year, all manner of things can happen. In the 80’s it was mostly muggings, stabbings, and an occasional shooting. In the Disney-like atmosphere of today, the talk is mostly about security and what kind of adult diaper people wear standing for 12 hours until the ball drops. Into this morass of opportunity waded the Domino’s pizza guy. With a store just off Times Square, he had a constant supply of pizzas and, literally, a million hungry mouths to feed. And as James Earl Jones’s character in Field of Dreams predicted, people were willing to hand over their money without even thinking. In this case, it was $30 for a pie. New York City, a legal (and tasty) product, and people with cash to burn. The man was set up for a nice pay day and be seen as a model entrepreneur.

So you would think.

“Price Gouging!” “Greed!” “How Could He?” Those are some of the printable headlines. In our modern nanny-state city, this fine man was decried as a war profiteer. I’m not saying he was feeding the masses with loaves and fishes, but he wasn’t the Judas of pizza either. Want a real rip off? Try the old man day-drinking bar that slaps a New Year’s sign on the door proclaiming an 8:00 PM-Midnight open bar for a mere $100 bucks. Trust me, neither the value nor the booze will be top shelf.

Beyond Domino guy’s foresight, there is something else that should elevate him to the street vendor hall of fame. How did he get to walk around the pens of people in the first place? Dubbing itself as “one of the safest places on earth,” the news outlets endlessly repeated the requirements for entry into Times Square, the army of cops protecting the area, and the “once entered you cannot leave or move anywhere” mantra. Apparently this guy has the skills of an Ocean’s Eleven safe cracker or warm pizza is some kind of sci-fi cloaking device.

Not as swift was our twit Mayor De Blasio who tweeted in part, “…I’m sorry this corporate chain exploited you—stick it to them by patronizing one of fantastic LOCAL pizzerias.” OK then, where were the LOCAL pizzerias that night? There are plenty around Times Square, and they all deliver. Knocking a man for hustling is even more insulting coming from a guy who has never done a full day’s work, honest or otherwise, in his life. Even worse, De Blasio proudly eats a street slice…with a knife and fork. Not very LOCAL.

So the start of 2020 looked bleak for New York until I scanned the headlines in the Daily News. “Man snatches woman off Bronx subway train, later beaten by good Sam[aritan]s.” Now that’s my LOCAL town.

© 2020 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.