I closed the book and tossed it on the floor. It landed with a light thud on a stack of magazines and newspapers.  Pushing my glasses up over my eyebrows, I leaned my head back and rubbed my eyes and then breathed out a long restful sigh.  I was coming to the close of another fascinating read of the heinous experimentation on mentally ill patients by the medical establishment in the early 1900’s.  I find it incredibly interesting how humankind can soar to such lofty heights of selfless charity and paradoxically plunge to the depths of soulless depravity.  Having spent the better part of thirty years as a social worker at a major inner-city hospital and then in the prison system of California I’ve pretty much seen it all when it comes to loss of one’s mental faculties, personal dignity, and one’s very soul. 

It was an evening in mid-summer and I had completed yet another of my days.   If my “schedule” holds nothing out of the ordinary it is my custom to start my day just before noon and end somewhere around three the following morning.  Being retired allows me to create a routine which defies synchronization with clocks or the culture – but with my own circadian rhythm.  Not being naturally drawn to people, I find this schedule most accommodating to my personality – one in which I couldn’t maintain during my working years.    There is something about the quiet isolation of the late evening which gives me a sense of peace that I do not sense during the daytime.   It is there where my mind slows and my thinking becomes clearer. There I am in complete control – just the way I like it.

As I sat preparing to head upstairs to bed the thought, “This has been a helluva year!” reverberated in my mind. I laid my head back against the chair, slipped my fingers up under my glasses and massaged my eyes.  

– ⌘ –

It was the beginning of another ordinary day. I was just finishing my breakfast with my cat Miki when the doorbell rang.  “Who the hell’s ringing the damn doorbell?!” With a high level of agitation, I rose from my chair, walked to the door and peered through the peephole.   I opened the door cautiously. There, standing before me, was a very official looking young man.  He wore something in between a suit and a uniform. His attire was immaculate, tailored and pressed – as if it were poured onto him. A small insignia was embroidered on the pocket of his blazer. He is wearing a homburg that looked as if it were placed carefully atop his head by another person so as not to displace a single one of his hairs.  His presence was genteel almost effeminate while at the same time exuding respect if not a type of rigid authority.

In the most exacting Queen’s English he inquired, “Hello sir.  May I speak to Mr. Richard Ceyzyk?”

“I am he.” I responded.

“I have a package of great and timely importance for you Mr. Ceyzyk.  Would you please provide your signature to receive it?” He replied.

In one hand, he held out an envelope to me. In the other, an uncapped Mont Blanc pen. Admittedly, I was in a bit of a stupor – I accepted the pen, scrawled my signature on the document he offered.  Before I had an opportunity to utter a word, he nodded cordially, smiled affectedly, retrieved his pen, and handed me the envelope he was carrying. He then pivoted on his heel, military style, and returned to his car.  He entered his car and departed without another word.  He backed his black sedan carefully down the driveway and as the car straightened out in the street I noticed a gold insignia on the driver’s door.  Although I could not read the text on it I could clearly make out two olive branches in the form of a laurel wreath encompassing the keep of a castle, which flew a flag and – above the flag was a jeweled crown.  The image was regal and I was left with a sense I had seen it before.

For a moment, I stood rapt in the open doorway.  My mind blanked by the utter banality and exquisite uniqueness of the preceding three minutes. Moments later I came to and noticed I had returned to my recliner.  I sat staring at the envelope I had just received which was now laying on my lap.  I picked it up and began rotating it back to front – again and again – noticing the envelopes’ size, weight and quality.  I slid my open palm across the surface of the envelope noticing the softness of the paper – rich and smooth like chamois.  The front of the envelope was embossed with the same insignia as that on the courier’s blazer and car.  It too was gilt in gold.  I was left wondering what was happening – something special was taking place – something surreal – something… bizarre.  Was I allowing myself to be so impressed by a performance that I was unwittingly being sucked into something very elaborate and sinister?

To the left of the embossed insignia was written in fine calligraphy:

The Royal House of Windsor

This certainly had not traveled through the U.S. Postal Service. I flipped the envelope over and began to open it as I would any piece of mail. Then suddenly I stopped, thinking, “Get a knife… a sharp knife!”  Rising, I moved into the kitchen and withdrew a knife from the drawer.  I sat down at the kitchen table and began carefully removing a crimson wax seal which had been placed on the leaf of the envelope.  Done. I carefully placed the wax medallion aside.

Opening the envelope’s leaf and reaching in, I withdrew a thin leather folio. Opening it revealed a letter covered by parchment.  Lifting the parchment slowly from the top I read.

On this Fifteenth Day of July

in the year of Our Lord Two-Thousand and Ten

Mr. Ceyzyk –

You are hereby notified of your forthcoming inheritance as the sole surviving heir of the Prince of Wales, James Francis Edward Stuart (1688–1766) and Princess Maria Klementyna Sobieska (1702–1735). 

The Ministry of Royal Ancestry has recently discovered the familial line of Princess Maria Klementyna Sobieska has ended with you, her last surviving male heir. Her treasury has been held in perpetuity and must be disbursed immediately.  The Crown is greatly pleased to announce this to you and wishes you to respond with all expediency.

From receipt of this notice you have sixty-days to begin the process of acquiring your inheritance.

In the service of and at the royal charge of His Majesty the King, I, Sir Alistair Gordon, await your call with eager anticipation.

Leaning back in the chair I slowly closed the folio.  Paused and breathed out an airy, “BULLSHIT!”

I flung the folio across the table and it lodged under a growing pile of circulars, newspapers and other junk mail.

I looked down at my cat, Miki, rubbing her face against the leg of the chair. “I feel like some ice cream!  How ‘bout you? You want some ice cream?” 

– ⌘ –

A week or so later the mound of junk mail on the table became an irritation to my wife, Lynda, and in the process of sifting through it to see if there was anything of value she discovered the folio I had discarded.

“Mr. Richard!” she called out to me playfully

I pitched a response down the stairs, “What?!”  The volume of my voice startled Miki and she bolted down the hallway away from me and went directly to her hiding place under our bed.  I made my way down the stairs and entered the kitchen.

Coming around the corner, Lynda held up the folio and said questioningly, “What’s this?” 

I didn’t answer.

“Huh?” She continued questioningly.

“Nothing! It’s junk!”

“It doesn’t look like junk mail. When did it come?”  she said as she observantly turned the folio in her hands “You know. It doesn’t look like junk.  When did it arrive?”

Emphasizing each syllable, I replied, “What–did–I–say? It’s junk – just throw it out!” stepping backward from the sink where I was refilling the Britta I partially stepped on Miki and did a stutter step as she skittered off into the living room and took a single leap to her favorite spot on the back of the couch.  Whereas I spit out petulantly, “Shit! Miki! … Lynda. Not now. I’m not interested in it alright? Ho-lee hell Lynd!”

Completely unphased by protestation she leaned casually against the doorjamb to the kitchen she opened the folio and replied, “Whoa! This is fancy!”  She licked her finger and gently touched the writing.  “This is hand lettered! The ink is smearing… it isn’t a mass mailing Rich.”

She began to read the letter, her eyes widened while her jaw slackened.

With her voice rising in pitch and volume with each word she said, “Why are you so sure this is junk mail?  This looks too legit to be junk!” 

“C’mon Lynd… You think I’m the effin’ heir of the Prince of Wales!”

Scanning the letter, she replied, “It says all you have to do is call this Sir Whatshisface… Sir Alistair Gordon.  What have you got to…”

Cutting her off mid-sentence I ratcheted, “Ugggh! Where’s my damn phone!”  

– ⌘ –

When I whizzed the polio across the table a week earlier I hadn’t considered what Lynda’s reaction would be when she found it. I had never won an argument with her – especially when my method was to completely ignore her and physically leave her presence.  Although not technically a win I was consoled by the absence enough that I regarded it as one.

I sat down again and begrudgingly tapped out the number written on the letter.  I began sucking my teeth, an idiosyncratic response I’ve had all my life when I am angry, being challenged to act against my will or when I was drunk – or so I hear.  The latter reason generally ended poorly for both me and some other poor soul who was unlucky enough to be present when I was drinking.  I’m not an angry drunk per se – but when pushed while under the influence I was committed to seeing other’s blood on the ground with mine.  In this particular situation and at my age, I would rather have been drunk.  In the space between dialing the number and hearing the answer at the other end I automatically prepared myself to draw some blood… the scam artist on the other side of the line was going to feel the white-hot tip of my razor-sharp intellect.  It wouldn’t be business as usual for them.

The phone rang that annoying European ring. Bblarrrrrrrring. Once. Blarrrrrrrring. Twice. I’m thinking, “If some damn Kenyan answers this phone I’m gonna…”

“Hello, Ministry of Royal Ancestry, Evette speaking.  How may I help you?”

A soft feminine voice with a wonderfully disarming English accent answered I was completely taken off guard and my disdainful thoughts were extinguished.

The voice was definitely not Kenyan. Taken aback, I tried to quickly compose myself.  However, not before the sultry voice repeated…

“Hello, Ministry of Royal Ancestry, Evette speaking.  How may I help you?” She repeated her greeting with a lithe, questioning air.

“Yes, this is Richard Ceyzyk, I…”

“Oh! Yes! Yes! Mr. Ceyzyk!  Oh! I am so happy you’ve phoned! Am I pronouncing your name correctly? Pardon me if I am not. My research has shown it may also be pronounced “cha zek.”

“Yes, you are. It’s fine.  I’m… I’m calling…” I replied hurriedly.

“Yes of course. Yes. You wish to speak with Sir Alistair Gordon, yes. I’ll ring him straight away.  He’s already asked if you’d phoned this morning.”  She replied excitedly.

“Thank you.” I replied reflexively.

A short, silent pause ensued followed by;

“Hello? Mr. Ceyzyk? This is Alistair Gordon, director of Her Majesty’s Royal Ancestry.” He responded. Upon hearing his voice I immediately formed a mental image of associating him with David Niven.

Hoping to take charge of the conversation and slow it down at the same time I increased the volume and depth of my voice and I replied “Yes, Hello.  I am calling with regard to…” 

“Yes. Yes. Of course, the Disbursement of Inheritance letter you received on July 15.”  He responded.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Well, sir. I was beginning to think you might not call.  I have only heard of this type of situation happening once before in my thirty-five years of service.  Sadly, that individual failed to reply and their inheritance was absorbed by the Crown. Quite sad really – thinking of the historical significance as well as the monetary value of the inheritance – it would simply have been life-changing for the heir in question.  Quite a pity, too, that the wishes of our patriarch and their ancestors were not fulfilled after nearly three centuries.”

Upon hearing that I added a chuckle to my teeth-sucking repertoire… the arrival of the chuckle signals danger – my hands begin to perspire and my heart rate increases. Perhaps it is what a cobra experiences in that split second before it strikes.

Noticing the shift in my tone Alistair responded inquisitively, “Forgive me Mr. Ceyzyk. Do you find something amusing?”

“Yes, you bastard, as a matter of fact I do.  Just what the hell sort of fool do you take me for?  I will inform you that I’m having this call traced as we speak.  I’ll hand it to you – you certainly are creating an elaborate game to make this all look legit.  I see this number appears to be connecting to the U.K. – easy enough – to digitally reroute a call.  Whatever kind of scam you’re running you need to know you’re messing with the wrong sumbitch! I wasn’t born at night and certainly not last night! I know all about Nigerian call centers that pull frauds on unsuspecting people all over the world. But in about thirty minutes from now you’ll be personally introduced to a representative of the FBI or Interpol.”  I replied heatedly.

“Oh… Be assured Mr. Ceyzyk there’s no call for alarm nor need to become defensive.  This is the Ministry of Royal Ancestry and this is quite a serious – and I must say – an honorable and auspicious occasion.  I can empathize with, what must be, an overwhelming sense of disbelief.  However, it has taken us years to identify you as the literal and sole surviving male heir in the line of Princess Maria Klementyna Sobieska.  Her wish was to bequeath her royal dowry to the last male in her bloodline in honor of the love of her life the Prince of Wales – which she said after his untimely death, “He was truly the first and only man I ever loved.  When he died. I died.” I am both honored and extremely happy to personally announce this good news to you – I might say that I am… well in a word blessed to share such good news with you.  Now. Mr. Ceyzyk. I’m certain you understand how meticulous we Brits are at maintaining our long and storied history.  In addition, on a much baser level –you must realize – the act of giving extremely large sums of money, property and priceless artifacts to random Americans is not one of our British cultural values.  Had you waited just three more days the Princess’ dowry would have been absorbed by Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.”  Alistair ended

I sucked my teeth and said, “Other than this folio and your obvious accent, what proof do I have that this is a legitimate state of affairs?”

Alistair replied, “Sir, I am truly at a loss. I can only offer the assurance of Her Majesty, the authenticity of the British Empire and that of the British people themselves.  Other than that, sir, I haven’t a thing to offer.”

I noted his voice had lost the exuberance it began with.  As if you had just told a child a long-awaited trip to Disneyland had suddenly been canceled and without reason.

Regardless, I had had enough of the charade.  So, without as much as a, “So long…” I simply hung up.

– ⌘ –

On the other side of the Atlantic a gray-haired man with an athletic build in his mid-sixties sat in a high-backed, oxblood, leather chair.  He stared expressionless at the desk in front of him.  In his left hand, he held a telephone receiver to his ear, which emitted a continuous, un-modulated tone.  Before him lay an open leather-bound folio where neat stacks of official forms were displayed.  To the left lay a receipt, signed; Richard Ceyzyk, dated; August 5, 2010. To the right lay another document entitled “affidavit of Disbursement Proceedings” at the bottom of the document read “Action taken by heir:” followed by a line on which Alistair had written just one word – “Declined.”

– ⌘ –

Sitting on the edge of my bed I ran my hands through my hair and scratched my scalp. I reached for my glasses on the nightstand.  I opened the arms and guided them onto my ears.  I grabbed my cane which was leaning where the corner of the mattress and nightstand met. Placing the cane between my legs I clasped both of my hands over its crook and rose slowly to my feet.  Standing’s a bitch since my auto accident nearly a year ago shattered my right femur and turned it into dust. It’s painful as hell to stand and simply agonizing to walk – but between laying still in one position for eight hours and getting up and moving around I always opt for moving – even with the pain.  While sleeping I don’t tend to move – changing position during the night precipitates an intense cascade of pain that dowses my entire body and once awake it’s a living nightmare trying to fall back asleep – drugs or no drugs.  However, not moving leaves me incredibly stiff and it takes several minutes to finally get into a position where I can move somewhat freely.

I shuffled the few feet from my bed to the bathroom and began the slow, monotonous process of reconstructing myself for the day.  First, I open an array of medicines for diabetes, hypertension, arrhythmia, arthritis, pain, gout, migraines, neuralgia, etc. After showering I begin the application of various lotions after which I’m so damned tired I simply want to crawl back into bed and I’ve yet to begin the awkward process of dressing myself.  The process or should I say the performance of dressing requires the use of all of my available surroundings – the walls, the countertop, the bed, the door knob to prop and support myself – I don’t so much stand as I’m always in the process of falling in a desired direction.  No structure is out of play to help me get dressed or keep me from finally falling. I use my cane as an extension of my arms – sliding socks and shoes across the floor bringing them closer to me. Batting them around to face the right direction. I’m like an elderly member of Cirque du Convalescence and my goal is not to fall and break a hip. 

The distance from my bed to the shower and back is no more than ten feet but it takes over an hour to get ready each day. I am never in much of a hurry and I really don’t care how long it takes however, but I certainly miss moving about effortlessly and painlessly.

Right after the accident I had an escalator chair installed on the stairway to make my way to bed possible.  I slept in the living room until it was installed and I absolutely hated it.  Although I detest using the “eldervator” that pokey elevator that I had to have installed in the stairway. But I choke back my pride every day to be able to sleep in my own bedroom which is upstairs. I endure the excruciatingly slow ride with all the things I need for the day stacked haphazardly on my lap.  I exit at the main floor of the house and begin my routine of making something to eat, feeding the cats, shuffling out to check the mailbox.  Before long I’m back in my chair and I’m becoming engrossed in another interesting book.

– ⌘ –

It was the beginning of another ordinary day.  I settled into my chair and clicked on the television with the intent of watching some auto racing I DVR’d a week before.  As I scrolled through the channels I happened to land on the BBC news – I feel the British do a very nice job at delivering the news in an accurate and non-opinionated manner. Not like the circus sideshow acts we call news here in the U.S.  An inset graphic to the upper left of the news anchor displayed an insignia which caught my attention and I immediately stopped my channel surfing. I’d seen that insignia before.  The anchor was interviewing a very distinguished looking man who had sounded and looked somewhat like… David Niven.  A graphic faded up below his image identifying him as Sir Alastair Gordon with the title following below that as Director of Her Majesty’s Royal Ancestry.  The anchor inquired, “Sir Alastair thank you for joining us this afternoon.  Would you please share with our viewers what may have prompted this American to reject such a magnanimous offer from the Crown?”

Gordon began his reply, “Glad to be with you today Sarah – This day has been quite anticlimactic – a day that could have rounded off my many years of service to the Crown.  I would love to be able to give you a clear reason for his rejection however, I haven’t the foggiest of clues as to why he would reject what was his rightful inheritance and in addition deny the Princess’ dying wish.  I had a chance to speak with him recently and he was, let’s just say, incredibly skeptical of what we were offering to him. As you might assume – we go through to extreme lengths to share our messages with people we wish to inform.  The good news is just too important not to be taken seriously. And yet, during the call he became rather irate with me – going so far as to suggest the offer was a scam being conjured up in some Nigerian call center….”

The audio trailed off into a low hum and was overtaken by an ever-increasing ringing in my ears.  I could literally hear the sound of my heart beating – propelling the blood which was coursing through the veins in my neck. I felt pressure begin to rapidly increase behind my eyes and I began to perspire.  Even as I sat the room began to spin and I felt faint so as to make me think I might fall out of my chair. My hands grew cold, sweaty and then numb. The remote I held dropped straight to the floor ejecting a single AAA battery and sending it whirling across the tiled floor until it came to rest near Miki laying by the steps to the kitchen.