Notes On Royalty

My parents used vague threats to keep us dutiful. They hinted that they had connections with gypsies and if we became bothersome those people might steal us away. There was no indication that mom and pop would try to get us back.

Gypsies weren't common in our neighborhood. Rumors placed them in the area but we couldn't identify them. We saw them in pictures: women in bright dresses wearing outrageous earrings — earrings that are now in style.

Maria Ouspenskaya was the quintessential gypsy. Her heavy accent was blown through a mouth not blessed with as many teeth as you or I had. She moved around in a wagon pulled by a horse that seemed to know he was hauling a lousy burden. The gypsy wagon looked authentic to us kids but older movie goers probably recognized it as being built by Studebaker.

"My son," she would say to Lon Chaney, the younger. No one, on or off the silver screen could muster so much melancholy in one sentence. Even so, she was a wicked gypsy.

At Halloween little girls would make-up like gypsies, not the Ouspenskaya ilk, but more like Rita Hayworth. Actresses fictionalized their characters to suit the imagination of amateur historians and in more recent times the chubby Shelly Winters set yet another perception of yet another genre in "King of the Gypsies."

There were kings to be sure. The annual crowning in a remote dell would be reported by newspapers, somewhere away from the society pages. King of the hobos was covered as well in the leftover section of the news. Queens of the May got more prominence in newsy stuff about all-girl colleges but their reigns were but for an afternoon while gypsy kings and hobo kings got adulation from a wide scattering of followers. The May Queens would be sure to do better in the long run.

Victor Hugo and Rudolph Freml created gypsy heroines that were admirable. The closest view I ever got of their women never approached those types. The ones I saw in real life sat in front of their shops on the boardwalk in Wildwood and at fairgrounds. They read palms and tarots and gazed into glass balls and fortunes would be revealed at an introductory fee of twenty-five cents. If they were good they could escalate the price and their clients would be intimidated into parting with a few dollars more. They were all named Olga or something else that sounded Russian.

I like to think of gypsies as Romanians, all of them. They all belonged to the Orthodox Church. Maybe they got too offensive to the hoi polloi and they were dispersed. Wherever they go, their credentials are validated only if they know their king and pay homage.

Those cute threats by my parents to invite gypsies in to steal me away to their camps were the first inclinations of prejudice that I was exposed to. It was abstract. Some people harp on differences that define groupings as villainous: of blacks, of Catholics, of Jews, of Italians, of Chinese, of Indians (which ever you prefer), of Jehovah's Witnesses None were as exotic as gypsies whose kings were crowned in those camps recognized by women in ugly jewelry, men mustached, dirty children everywhere, barking curs and Studebaker wagons. The women read fortunes, their kids picked pockets, they were murderers all.

European kings are cheered by their common folk when they ride by. The people hang portraits of them in their homes. Every man a king: every home a castle. But you'll never get into the palace for tea and it's a sure bet the king won't stop over for supper or a glass of beer. All those hellos and waves from the royal coach are vacant and the commoners' care for his king is unlikely to be met in kind.

Hobo kings are equals of May Queens. The girls have better ornaments to wear at coronation time. It's all equal the next day: no realm, no court, no place for heirs. Maybe hobo kings should marry May Queens. The dowries would legitimize any asking for a king's ransom. Women are said to be better handlers of money. Their distribution of funds wouldn't go to wine and sterno and the ingredients of stews and that would herald the doom of hoboism. Either way, these kings and queens in separate crownings or united are poor charades compared to the doings of heads of ruling houses.

Who hasn't dreamed of being a king? The older orders are out of reach: those of Solomon and David. The newer ones are restricted although many people have charts that prove they are descended from Charlemagne. Not so many of them are patient enough to wait in line.

When I was a boy I had a chance. I didn't have enough information and thought gypsies were pick-pockets and tarot readers like Olga or whatever her name was. If my parents were explicit and mentioned that gypsies were monarchists, I might have sat by the gutter and waited for a caravan of wooden Studebakers. But they were vague, content with giving out no information except the gypsies would steal me away with whatever other naughty boys they spied. I'm too old now and if I sit by the curb I'll go unnoticed. I'd have a better chance getting in the long line to inherit Charlemagne's crown.