The Queen of Queens

Any bar in Queens. Dimly lit. Dean Martin on the jukebox. Cardboard shamrocks with nicknames scrawled in black magic marker taped all up and down the mirror. Vague scent of urine cakes lingering among the clouds of cigarette smoke.

And at the far end of the bar, perched on his barstool, is the Queen of Queens, sipping from a glass of red wine among the swarthy Budweiser drinkers, thrifty old pensioners still too tasteful for Pabst Blue Ribbon. He's wearing a tan windbreaker, a green Kangol cap, a starched white dress shirt, gray slacks with an elastic waist band, white tube socks and black Rockport walkers. No jewelry. The Queen may not tell you his given name, as he was raised in an age when his proclivities encouraged anonymity. He is from somewhere in Eastern Europe, fought in WWII (on which side, he will be coy and evasive about) and has lived in an apartment down the block for the past 50 years.

The Queen's manners are impeccable. He tips his cap to men and women alike and is held in high regard by the regulars. They all know of his proclivities, yet have lived long enough and stumbled from the bar drunk enough times to know these things are ultimately irrelevant. He is a kind man who understands loneliness, and they respect this. No one ever calls him unsavory names to his face, as doing so would be as brash as throwing a wine glass into a fireplace. Something about the Queen's demeanor suggests he has been there before many times, and is far beyond the moral sting such accusations may cause. If there is violence at the bar, and there is on rare occasions, it will be the result of lesser men allowing cheap liquor to arouse their insecurities.

There is a sadness about the Queen, but not unlike the sadness of us all when we drink alone. He is old, but we are all old to someone. His proclivities? What do they mean now? If you talk to him long enough, he will mournfully say, in his thick Slavic accent, something like, "My proclivities are no longer proclivities." Boys? Men? Who knows? The Queen isn't telling, but he may tell you, "I'm too old to get a hard-on, so what does all that mean anymore?" Viagra? He laughs. "I would rather not have a heart attack and drop dead with the finest erection of my life. That would be somehow...tragic."

The Queen rules in silence and self-deprecation. He is like a dear old uncle to many of the regulars, even the hard ones. They are regulars because of seasoned drinkers like him, old souls who will lend a shoulder to cry on, whatever the problem, real or imagined. Strangers have confessed to him. Friends have unloaded regrets. And they are all slowly carried away on a river of alcohol and vague memories on the cloudy morning after.

The same thing happens every night, round about the fifth glass of wine. The conversation, with whomever, could be about anything. With a lifetime of sorrow behind him, the Queen is like a time bomb of broken dreams. And they only explode at this time. A young construction worker sits with him, complaining of his wife. He asks the Queen, unknowing of his proclivities, if he has any children. The Queen gazes at himself in the mirror. And then the tears come. Not sobs, but small emissions. The young man, recognizing he has stumbled down the wrong path, apologizes profusely, putting his arm around the Queen's slumped shoulder and ordering a free round.

The tears stop after a few moments. The regulars look at each other knowingly: he's crying again. Happens every night, like the news on the tv over the bar. The Queen is weeping, film at 11. Could be over anything. The free rounds, as if by magic, multiply. As regulars pass the Queen between conversations and restrooms, they pause to pat him on the back or to reassuringly shake his hand over his shoulder.

And this is how the Queen leaves it every night, ahead of the game. He puts down a generous tip on the bar, honks his nose and bids farewell. The crowd always changes around then anyway, from the old men and after-work crowd to the younger kids, looking for more than memories. They're rank amateurs, as the regulars will dourly inform you, but he's nice to them anyway. That is what he has learned in all these years. This is no burden. As he departs, one of the old-timers looks up from his bottle of Bud and mutters, "Step on his toe, I'm telling you, or he'll float away."

And he does. Into the cold Queens night as the sound of the lonely crowd fades down the street, and the bartender brushes the vultures from his free rounds.