I am holding my the Teddy Bear attired as a British Bobby in one hand as if it were a football. Twice Baker has already yelped out think fast and swatted in my direction hoping to pry the fluffy caricature from my grip and twice he has failed. Because of the fire at Windsor last November our tour has conceded early. Josh inhabitants of Bus s stating that we have more than ample time once we reach the hotel to polish and perfect our skit. Buses # 2 and #3 have already lumbered out of the parking lot. John Major is ushering the remnants of Bus #4 although they are a healthy distant behind us.
We are regrouping before we leave. We are at the upper ward. Ahead the Royal standard is still flapping overhead indicating that the Queen is in fart-sniffing proximity. Vivian is counting heads. We are ready to leave. Spencer apparently is juggling three pairs of socks a girl from Daisy's group purchased as souvenirs. Josh is looking at his watch and says we are meeting the moment we get to the hotel no questions asked.
For the first time all day Vivian holds up her umbrella. She is making sure all four groups are accounted four before we leave.Frank McNulty and his wife are next to the gate overlooking the concourse of the Upper Ward. Two British Guards are in front of them on the opposite side of the fence.
Mrs. McNulty looks almost exactly like her husband only wearing a wig. She is smiling. She is saying Vivian. Vivian.
"Vivian, they say the Queen is scheduled to come out. They said we can take pictures as long as we stay on the this side of the fence."
At the word the Queen everyone becomes agog. Several girls in Daisy's group begin to squeal in a monotone casually reserved for New Kids on the Block. There is disbelief. I look behind and notice that Mark's group with John Major is still straggling into the Upper ward.
Someone yells look, there she is.
What looks like twin black porches begin to zip out of the concourse. No one is saying anything. There is a pause. Whoever is in that car is close enough that they could catch a football if I chucked. There is a shock of seagull blue. We are squinting to see who is in back of the porches. The windows are not tinted.
It is Vivian who proclaims.
"Yes that's her," Vivian states.
That's Her Majesty.
That's our Queen.
Almost involuntarily I take out my camera and, in a fusillade of snaps, begin to assassinate the Queen with my lens. Everyone is pointing, flailing their arms out in the direction of the vehicle, the prow of the Santa Maria pointing in the direction of a new land.
Through the window I can see that she is waving at us. Suddenly I am Pro-Plutocratic British monarch. We are snapping pictures at the twin porches. The person in the back of the second porche is waving at us.
Vivian is smiling in a way I swear I can see the auras that crazy-vegetarian Greta is purportedly always talking about. Tour guide bus lady number two looks down as if she about ready to cry. Everyone is lost in a spontaneous chorus of plastic snaps. Trevor makes a little fist and pumps it up and down as if he just hit a game-winning three pointer at the buzzer. Sir Charles stands next to me and smiles in a close-lips way exuding enlightenment in an almost Buddhist fashion. Both Just and Chris have their mouths agape. Spencer is flexing his arms and pointing, pantomiming, “That was the Queen” and then pressing the back of his hand into his forehead as if he is wearing a tiara and ready to faint. Several of the girls’ in daisy’s cadre cup their lips and laugh at him.
I turn to Charles and ask him if he can believe what we just witnessed. He swipes his head back in a single swipe of what passes as astonishment before smiling again.
Above us on top of a battlement is flag is slowly being lowered as if in some kind of ceremony.
When I look at Vivian I see tears.
Everyone is pointing as if trying to make out the dust splattered from her vehicle. Behind us Mark’s tour seems to have caught up. He is walking to the side and alone, with his hands in his pockets. His tour guide is talking as if through a megaphone giving instructions before a five-k. Without worrying that I am impeding into the conversation I walk up to Mark.
“You guys just missed it by like seconds. The Queen. She just skirted past. And she waved to us. We saw her palm acknowledged us.”
The expression stitched on Mark’s face looks like an adult trying to sound impressed when a four-finger year old moppet tells him how much money he has saved up.
“No way.” Mark says, with just a splash of facetiousness.
“Yeah, you missed her. They are lowering the flag now. You can see it overhead. She waved at us.”
Vivian is again pointing with her umbrella at the top of the battlement as the flag is being lowered.
It is overwhelming.
We have seen the Queen.
On the way back from Windsor everyone is looking at me holding the teddy bear like I won via a parochial grade school cheese and sausage fundraiser. Jim informs me that finally I have something that will perform my every sexual wish in bed. The closer we get to the street light bustle of London, cyclopoid upside-down traffic light the more I begin to hurt. This trip is passing me over. This trip is disintegrating into the subatomic soil of yesterday way to soon.
Again all the other Buses have beat us back to the Gloucester.
The moment I enter the hotel I stake the side stairs sprinting two at a time until I get to the room.
There is no way she is going to believe whose hand just waved in my direction.
She asks who.
I tell her that I have to see her in person.
I tell Harmony to meet me outside the elevators on her floor in fifteen minutes.
I tell her that I have a gift just for her.
Harmony is excited.
She tells me that she can't wait.
She tells me that she will be there.
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