Prince Charming

A St. Louis Story of the 1970s

I flipped on the light, and glimpsed a cockroach running for cover across the kitchen countertop. They were stealthy bastards, my cockroaches, fleet of foot, and able to subsist on the meager leavings of a man who never cooked, and seldom ate in the kitchen, or anywhere else in his shabby, depressing, hovel of an apartment (if one could legitimately call “two rooms w/shared bath” an apartment) at the top of the stairs, in what had been the attic of an old house of no distinction on West Pine Street in St. Louis. I lived there because I could hardly afford even such a wretched place, and could certainly not afford anyplace better.

I lit a cigarette and poured coffee into my mug. The window fan whirred, blowing stale air out and sucking air almost as stale in. A train whistle shrieked  in the distance. Pain had replaced the alcohol euphoria of last night – tiny diamond-tipped daggers piercing my head – and my soul too.

Every night I heard my neighbor (the one I shared the bathroom with) snoring through the thin walls, and every morning I saw his splashback around the rim of the shared toilet. Early on I learned to take care of toilet business at the library where I worked, and showering at the gym. I hated living in the place, but I had to live somewhere, and it would not be forever. Someday my Prince would come and take me away from all the seaminess. I knew he would. I knew it. I just didn’t know when.

Over the years there had been a number of candidates for the Prince part. I tried out almost every half-way handsome guy I tricked with for the part, and over the years there had been quite a few of those. Not an excessive number, but quite a few. I usually didn’t tell them they were trying out, but they were. So far, none had been up to the role – for the long haul. Because I anticipated a very long haul indeed – a lifetime.

Busses passed, cars passed, people passed on the street outside my window.  I hardly noticed them. I sipped my coffee and puffed my cigarette. Possible-Prince-Charming of the night before had gone. There would be no long haul with him. I’d already forgotten his name.

A slip of paper with his number lay on the table where he’d dropped it as he left. I picked it up and read it: Ron – 642-4699. At least I could call him by name the next time I saw him at the bar – if I remembered it. I was pretty sure I’d never dial the number.

It doesn’t have to be love every time; not every trick has to be Prince Charming. Sometimes it’s just hot sex – or even tepid sex – and that’s OK. But even hot, hot sex wasn’t really what I wanted. That ended with the orgasm, and then what? A slip of paper dropped on the table? Not enough. Not nearly enough.

My midnight reveries began with beautiful scenes – strong, handsome men in tights and tunics, dancing to exotic, curling music in settings of gold and silver. That was where I was meant to be. That was where I’d find Prince Charming, or at least where Prince Charming would take me once I found him. Everything is beautiful in reverie.

But soon enough the silver tarnished, and the fool’s gold disappeared. The monsters entered. It wasn’t the tricks who were the monsters. They were just the partners who couldn’t quite execute the steps, manage the lifts – weren’t quite up to the part I’d choreographed for them in my dreams. The monsters were other things: loneliness, fear, Fuseli nightmares coming from I didn’t know where – but there none the less.

I heard my neighbor beyond the wall. I heard his mug clink against his sink; I thought I heard the strike of his first match of the day, lighting his first cigarette. That’s how thin the walls were.

I didn’t know him, never would, didn’t want to. He was a man of 40, 50, 60? Who could tell? And, sad to say, who cared? I had nothing against him – except that there he was, still living in his wretched “apartment” at the top of the stairs in a house of no distinction – shared toilet, thin walls, snoring neighbors, cockroaches. Surely he  hadn’t intended to still be there at 40, 50, 60, but there he still was.

Had he dreamt of Prince Charming in his youth too? If he had, such dreams must be long past for him now. When had he stopped dreaming them, I wondered? When had he accepted that for him the gold and silver scenes would never come - become resigned to the monster of still being in such a place at 40, 50, 60? Such numbers, and such monsters, were almost (but no longer quite) inconceivable to me.

I stubbed out my cigarette in the saucer I used for an ashtray, and stuffed my folded work clothes into my backpack for the bicycle ride to the gym. Breakfast would be a muffin and a banana I’d pick up at Holmes Lounge on the way; my roaches would be disappointed once again.

As I headed to the flimsy door of my apartment (it closed and locked, but didn’t keep out the dim hall light, and wouldn’t have kept out any intruder who wanted in), I glanced at the peeling wallpaper and the water stain from the leaking roof. I would mention them again to the landlord, though I didn’t know why. To make myself feel like I had agency, perhaps. I knew from past mentions that they would not be fixed.

But it didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be there long. I knew I wouldn’t. And when I brought back Prince Charming, it would be dark, so he wouldn’t see the stains. He wouldn’t care even if he saw them. For me and Prince Charming together it would be gold and silver wherever we went. The music would be exotic and curling, and we’d dance the steps exactly right the first try. I knew we would. I just didn’t know when.