My Father the King, Part 2

My Father the King Part 1 ended with a judge placing my father in a foster home. They were a nice couple who had a little girl of whom my father grew quite fond. The best part of his new life was being able to go to school. (I mentioned he was a scholar, right?) However, the state was going stop paying for his foster care on his sixteenth birthday, and that fell months before the end of his senior year and graduation. Therefore, his foster parents explained as kindly as possible that once he turned sixteen, he would have to drop out of school and get a job to help with the household expenses. They wanted him to stay with them, to be part of their family. They just didn’t want to feed him without reimbursement. He begged them to let him remain in school, promising he would work hard after graduation to pay them back for the months of missed child support. But alas, no, that was not possible. So once again, he ran away. This time he was on the streets, sixteen years old, with nowhere to stay and no means of support. What’s a paupered prince to do under these circumstances? That’s easy. Lie about your age and your job training. The first job he got was soldering wires inside radios. This was in the days when there were tubes and wires and other mysteries inside big boxes with knobs outside for volume and tuning. “How old are you?,” he was asked. “I’m 18,” he lied. “Have you ever installed radio wiring before?” “Yes, sir,” he lied again. So he got the job, stared over the shoulder of the man sitting next to him, and copied what his neighbor did. Within a day, my father knew how to run wires from one tube to another inside radios. (This came in handy several years later when he was a cavalryman in the Army stationed on top of a mountain on Oahu. They were on bivouac and his commanding officer told them they’d be out of radio range, but my father said he could solve that problem. He attached one end of a spool of wire to the inside of their radio and then threw the spool off the side of the mountain. The wire acted as an antenna. They had radio contact. It was a miracle. The Captain immediately made my father the Radioman of the unit, which meant he didn’t have to ride a mule anymore. Everybody was happy.) I don’t know how he fed or housed himself before he got his first week’s pay. Either he convinced someone to rent him space in a room with a bed and bought bagels on credit, or he slept in the park and went hungry. He never said. Take your pick. What he did say was once he had a regular payday he found a way to buy a suit. He figured if he was going to make anything of himself in life he’d need to dress for success. Now we begin to see the prince emerging from the pauper. Of course, he had no money for clothes, but that didn’t stop him. He walked into a shop that looked respectable and told the tailor he needed a suit, shoes, shirts, the whole works, in order to advance in life. He explained how much he earned each week, what went for rent and food, and what was left over for clothes: a nickel. Five cents. He promised he’d show up every Friday evening with his nickel payment, or more if he got a raise, until everything was paid off. Further, once he was in the clear, he would continue to buy all his clothes from this shop while he still lived in New York. Who could say no to an offer like that? Not the tailor. I can’t tell you how long it took my father to pay off his first purchase, but it was a point of honor that as soon as he got paid, he went straight to the tailor with his weekly deposit. This impressed the shop owner so much he was happy to repeat the process over and over as long as my father wished. This was one of those teaching stories he told me, so I would know how to be honest, keep my promise, pay my bills on time, and survive in case I decided to run away from home with the clothes on my back. Despite the suits, changing his name, serving in the Army, and marrying my mother, Daddy still had not reached Kingship. He had to sell produce, shoes, and chickens before he got anywhere close to Princely status. First he started with the cars. They had to be Cadillacs. Every year, the newest model. His truck may have reeked of chicken poop, but his sedan smelled like royalty. He’d buy a car, drive it awhile, stop into the dealership to see what was new, and drive out with the latest model. Even when we were bankrupt, he still drove a Cadillac, an old one, which was a little banged up because he was a terrible driver, but he knew in his bones he was a Cadillac kind of guy. It drove my mother crazy. Once he became an attorney, it was again a matter of the right business suit. The problem was that my father had my back. I don’t mean he protected me; I mean his back was crooked, worse than mine. There was no way he could try on a jacket and walk out the door. Everything had to be altered, and I mean altered a lot. Eventually, he gave up with the altering and had his suits custom made. Ma went with to help select the fabric because he was profoundly color blind. I tagged along once. It was paradise. Bolt after bolt of luscious woolens were laid upon a table for us to feel and admire. I have no memory of the colors. That’s because I have no color memory. Also, it turned out that both Ma and I shared the same form of color blindness. So no doubt it was the tailor who deftly chose the right fabrics because, at long last, Daddy looked Princely. The final step was to regain his throne. He and my mother were now able to travel beyond Las Vegas. Europe beckoned. Was it France? Germany? Italy? I don’t know. They were staying for a week or more in a hotel somewhere in Europe and on their first night they were too tired to go out to dinner so they decided to eat at the hotel’s restaurant. Once they were seated, they discovered the chair hurt my father’s back. My mother asked if they could bring him a different chair. She noticed one in the foyer, a relic from the days when the hotel was a palace. Wooden, velvet padded arms, tall padded back, intricate carvings. That chair. Bring him that chair. It took two waiters to lift the beast and carry it to my parents’ table but they managed it despite the odd looks from the other diners. As with the three bears, this chair was just right. My father was comfortable and they enjoyed a delicious meal. Daddy was a ridiculously big tipper. It came from the days when he only had a nickel to his name. On this night, he left a particularly ridiculous tip because of the furniture hauling. The next night, my parents were not quite sure where they should go for dinner. On their way out the lobby, the maitre d' rushed to them and ushered them toward the dining room, saying “Won’t you please dine here tonight, Mr. M…? We have your Chair ready for you.” Sure enough, the waiters had hauled the Big Palatial Chair from the foyer and had it ready and waiting for my parents at the same table as the night before. What with some bowing and scraping, my folks were led to their table, again rousing the curiosity of the other diners. The second meal was every bit as delicious and the tip was every bit as ridiculous. From that night on until they left for home, my parents dined at their hotel. The staff made sure to let them know before they went out for the day that their table and Chair would be ready whenever my parents were hungry. My folks talked it over and decided it was nicer to come home and be treated like royalty. Besides, the food was really good. By the end of their stay, the rumors that had spread among the other guests were satisfactorily answered. Who was this mysterious, well-dressed man being escorted by obsequious waiters every evening to that monstrosity of a chair? Aha! The truth was out! He was a descendant of the royalty whose ancestors had lived in this used-to-be palace. And the thing on which he was sitting? That had been their throne. My father, the King. Recognized at last.