The Luncheon
I’m gonna wave.
Don’t.
What if she waves first?
She never waves. Is that what you’re wearing?
Stop looking at me like that. This shirt was expensive, and it matches my pants.
You can’t wear those jeans.
These aren’t jeans. They’re a special corduroy, like velvet.
I heard the Deputy Mayor on the radio this morning. He said he wasn’t invited to today’s lunch.
Maybe the Queen just wants to be around regular people.
I doubt it — especially those who don’t know how to dress properly. You must have something decent in your closet.
I don’t, and the letter with my invitation says I can wear a day dress, national dress or lounge suit. I don’t have a day dress, and who knows what a national dress is?
A lounge suit is what men wear. Let me look in your closet for something.
There’s nothing in there that’s gonna fit me.
Might be from too much chocolate.
Or your nightly roast dinners.
They’ll be lots of people there today, and most will be surprised to see you. Don’t make it worse for yourself by showing up in those pants.
Close my closet. I’m wearing this.
What about this green dress? It’s a little dusty and needs an iron, but it’s a helluva lot better than those pants.
I don’t like it and don’t have time to iron. I need to leave here in ten minutes, and I haven’t memorized the instructions yet.
What instructions? Read them to me.
It says if I’m introduced to Her Majesty The Queen or His Royal Highness, The Duke of Edinburgh, I need to curtsy, and I must greet her as ‘Your Majesty,’ but just once. After that, I say ‘Ma’am’ (as in Pam), and I can’t say ‘you.’ If her husband speaks to me, I address him as ‘Your Royal Highness’ and then as ‘Sir.’
Why isn’t he the King?
You really don’t know?
I don’t.
I’ll lend you a book about the monarchy.
What about the curtsy? Do I bend down to the floor?
Oh Jeez. Don’t bend. Just look at the floor and squat once.
Will you be here when I get home?
Of course, I will. I want to hear all about it.
I bet you do, especially about the food. The menu says we’ll be dining on Supreme Akaroa Salmon, lightly baked, resting on a bed of spring vegetables.
That fake British accent of yours is awful. Don’t try it on the Queen.
I won’t, but I’m going to take her picture. We’re not supposed to, but I bought a camera last year in Seattle, and it’s so tiny no one will notice.
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Did you get a picture of the Queen?
No, the guard at the door took my camera. But I got this royal name tag. Look here on the back. They wrote my name in bright blue ink and put a gold seal next to it.
So they did. How was lunch?
Late. The Queen and her husband didn’t show up on time, and no one eats until the Queen sits. That’s what the man next to me said. We could drink, though. He’d had five glasses of wine by the time they announced the Queen’s arrival. I tried to help him stand, but he was wobbly and had to sit back down.
Who was he?
A Director of a national arts organization – I can’t recall which one. He’s from Ireland and doesn’t like the Queen, and he only came for the wine.
How was the food?
It was weird-looking but good tasting. You were right about my pants, though. When the Irish guy saw them, he laughed and said only a Yank would wear jeans to dine with the Queen of England.
Told you so.
That wasn’t the worst of it. When he squeezed a piece of yellow squash over his baked salmon, everyone at the table did the same thing. I thought it was English etiquette, so I joined in. I didn’t catch the joke until they all laughed.
You should’ve known better. You’ve never seen me squeeze squash over fish. Lemon is the only thing I use.
Well, you’re a New Zealander.
And Scottish.
Yeah, yeah.
Did the Queen give a speech?
I don’t know. I went outside after the prank.
You could’ve laughed it off.
It wasn’t funny.
I think it’s funny. You Americans just can’t take a joke.
So what?
Well, it’s kept you from seeing the Queen.
No, it didn’t. I was still outside when the front doors opened, and the Queen and her husband walked out. She looked at me, so I waved.
END
The Luncheon, by J.A. Wright (2023)