The King of Arabia

         He still remembered that day, the day he realized his dream.

         “Ma, someday I’m going to be the king of the world!” But his mother only stared at his nine-year old face and made no expression. She had always been expressionless, and when he came into his teenage years, he would wonder if she had ever even loved him.

         “Son, what makes you think you can do that.” It wasn’t a question. It was more of a declaration of future failure.

         “Because I—I—I’ll be rich and famous and everyone will want to be my friend!” His mother once again did nothing. She did not even respond. She was already off in another place, trying to forget she had a son.

         Now, as he sits up against a wall, seeing but focusing neither on his tattered shoes nor the walking legs of the city, he realizes his mother never did love him. She had never spoken to him like his friends’ mothers, and she seldom initiated conversations with him. Many nights during his childhood she had never even come home. On those nights he had gone to bed hungry, just he does many times now.

         It is morning, and the sun has found a corridor through which to shine between tall office buildings. Its rays reflect off of glass and taxis and give the street a golden gleam. Further exemplifying the brightness of the street are the thousands of busy people walking on it. He sees these people, many with smiling faces, speaking on expensive cell phones to loved ones and friends, and feels pity.

         I wanted to be a king, and I am. I am the King of Arabia.

         He looks at the nearest intersection of his golden street with another. He sees the sign hanging from a traffic light post. “Arabia Ave.” reads the sign. I am the King of Arabia. He thinks of himself as a king. Every morning he wakes up in a golden street with thousands walking about. He believes the street is his golden palace and the people are his servants and knights. He sees his deplorable clothing and tells himself it is what a modest, friendly king would wear. He notices that one of his servants every now and then, just as a salute of respect, throw coins and bills at his feet. He also sees how the people stare at him as they walk by. They are jealous, he thinks. Last night had been eventful. One of his servants had insulted him, the king.

         His servant had asked, “Why do you believe you are king? Can’t you see what we are, you and me? We’re dirt poor! Scum! Bums! Hah! If you’re king, why do they never speak to you? Why do they stare at you?”

         “They respect my privacy, and no one would dare speak to me while I’m sitting on my throne. They stare because I am king, and it is normal to do so.”

         “You’re hopeless. What about food? Why is it never brought to you? Why can’t you see what we are?”

         “It is prepared for me and left in metallic bins. The bins are full of food, whatever I like to eat.”

         The servant got angry and exclaimed through gritted teeth, “Wake up! Life is hard enough out here. The last thing I need is some crazy buffoon who’s gone delusional on me!”

         “Why are you even speaking to me? I am king.”

         “You’re nothing. You would be a servant to a king’s servant.”

         The night had been without any moonlight, and in the darkness under the buildings in the palace street, hardly anything was visible. The king sought something, which he remembered the location of. He got up and began walking to it.

         “Hey, I’m sorry! Where are you going?” cried the servant.

         The king did not answer. He was emotionless. He found the alley a short distance away. He picked up the item, a wrench. He remembered seeing a construction servant leave it there the previous day. He walked slowly back to the disloyal subject and bashed his head. The servant had no inclination of any possible violence, and took the blow defenselessly. He crumpled to the sidewalk like a rag doll.

         The king dragged the body to the same alley and heaved it into a large dumpster. The dumpster, he remembered, was cleaned out every other day. The body would be gone by tomorrow, and his kingdom would once again be safe. He remembered doing the same to his mother. She, too, had disgraced his rule.

         I am the King of Arabia.