Sweet Prince by Ian Ashby

I’ve been collecting Hot Wheels since I was a little boy. I would read the model numbers aloud, squinting through the glint of the shiny undercarriage. I’d trace the cars around the intertwined roads of the town themed carpet my mom bought at the Burlington Coat Factory over on McKnight. The joy of opening a new car on that polyester city seems immeasurable to a collector like me. But Lamborghinis? Now we’re talking about art on wheels. The yellow lambo was like a glowing orb my eyes just jumped to, even here on my bedroom floor.

During meals I would sit in our kitchen and stare at the three squares of the calendar with the words “Monaco gig” written across them, painting a picture I knew was too good to be true. Monaco, to me, sounded more like a planet in a Star Trek episode than a city in the south of France. The week leading up to the trip was filled with some stories I just didn’t believe. My parents spoke of duets between the neon race cars and the Mediterranean’s endless waves. Street vendors with things worth buying, gifts worth giving. I wanted to blink and be there, to see if the stories were true, to bring back a story of my own. Now, the reason we were going to Monaco in the first place was special as well. My mother’s vocal quartet had been invited by Prince Albert himself to sing in the courtyard for the whole palace to enjoy. My parents had performed for royalty in Germany, Russia, Thailand, and stateside for Hillary Clinton at a fundraiser once. I could tell my mom was nervous for this particular gig, triple checking her gowns, rustling the dry cleaners plastic covers into the early morning.

We weren’t always preparing for trips overseas. Most days I was a kid, Kim and Jay’s son, a power hitter who used his baby fat to his advantage, a young jazz lover who showed promise on the drums, and most importantly, I was The Thing from Fantastic Four in the 2nd grade portion of the halloween parade mere weeks before our Monaco trip. I remember Ms. Lynskey, my

 teacher that year, commenting on my gloves which were the best part of the costume. Every time you punched them together a little speaker on the wrist would shout, “It’s clobberin’ time,” getting nods of affirmation from my friends and teachers.

Finally, the day of our trip to Monaco was upon us. I got through the first half of the school day without looking at the clock, a theme anytime my parents scheduled the earlier flight. I always packed light, especially now that mom didn’t make me wear that blue “swim shirt” that was basically a children’s life vest if we are being completely honest. I had two types of outfits really, gig day, or off day. This meant my luggage contained a lot of golf shirts, blazers, and unfortunate track suits also purchased at Burlington Coat Factory, and of course, a couple Hot Wheels.

“Ian! We’re going to be late!”, Dad’s voice echoed up the stairwell. I was silent for a moment, lost in thought, then shouted, “I am deciding which car to bring, this is important!” He groaned and zipped up another suitcase. I did it. I grabbed the yellow Lambo. I had never traveled with it before, in hopes of keeping it as safe as possible underneath my bed in its Tupperware case. I gripped it tightly all the way through security. I almost convinced the TSA agent to let me take it through the metal detector but her promise to keep it safe seemed sincere. I unclenched my fist, noticing the small exhaust pipes had etched circles in my palm. I found comfort imagining how I could run its wheels across my Dad’s shirt on the arm rest next to me once we got on the plane. I remember taking off as I always would close my eyes and think to myself, “Please get us there”, believing someone or something would grant my wish.

I woke up to the classic “Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to Nice.” I shuffled around in my seat and noticed my body felt a little fresher than when I had fallen asleep, but decided it was either the amazing eclair I had, or just a good nap. The last time I was in Paris I tried escargot for the first time and absolutely loved it! Of course my dad joked that I should “have some snail with that butter” but I knew I could taste everything, snail and all. I wondered what kind of things they ate in Monaco. “They probably eat a lot of caviar at the Prince’s palace don’t they?” I asked my mom as we waited for the plane to clear out. “Probably off of the hoods of their

 Lamborghini’s” my dad added with a chuckle. “I guess we’ll wait and see for ourselves,” mom said, handing me my small blue duffle bag that went with me on every trip.

I ran the yellow lambo along the edges of the metal baggage carousel. We had to wait for the flight from Munich to gather their luggage before our bags came through. Back and forth, the wheels slid beneath my hand, my own reflection looking back at me in the metal. The buzzer sounded from atop the carousel and began to glow a dim red. I patiently waited for our bags about ten steps from the taxi window my parents waived at me from. It was my duty to gather the luggage on trips like this. My parents often had a lot of promoters and drivers to meet on an extensive travel day, so I took it upon myself to gather luggage when I saw fit. I quickly realized that we were in a rather special spot on the globe when two or three people in a row passed me with what seemed to be an entourage of assistants, each holding a different piece of designer luggage.

It was soon made clear to me that my parents were not hoping to catch a taxi to our hotel, but in reality had to call the number that my mom’s agent was given by the royal family themselves. A black Mercedes van pulled up next to the airport no more than five minutes after the call was placed. The driver stepped out and introduced himself as Toby. “Nice car,” he said with a wink. I gripped the yellow lambo even tighter and smiled, handing him my suitcase. We pulled out of the airport and got on one of the main highways. I read signs for Monaco and admired the alps from afar. Pittsburgh had plenty of hills and bridges, but this was a much different landscape altogether.

Once we got off the highway, I knew we had to be in Monaco. “Wow it’s like a postcard!” I said in awe. It was a view that just looked, how should I put this, expensive? The colorful building’s windows shined brightly, the Mediterranean’s sliver of blue seemed so perfect from this point of view, all of which framed by the most beautiful cars I had ever seen. Bentleys, Mercedes, Porsche, you name it, they were driving by me, escorting us to the heart of Monaco. “Now this is my kind of trip,” I said, putting my arms around my parents in the backseat of the

 van. The hotel was exactly three blocks from the royal palace. I know this, because I asked the concierge at the front desk. I couldn’t wait to see what the front gate would be like. A real prince, with a palace and everything! Would he greet me at the door? A personal tour of the palace perhaps? I could hardly contain my excitement.

I was a bit jet lagged, so I believe I either fell asleep watching “Like Mike” or “Sharkboy and Lavagirl” on my portable DVD player in my fresh hotel robe and sheets. The next morning was a bit frantic, as I think my mom slept in a little and was worried about being late to sound check at the palace. I knew she would be fine but she always got nervous when she didn’t need to be. My dad, on the other hand, was the definition of “cool as a cucumber,” steaming my mother’s dress as he whistled his trombone backgrounds. My dad is known as a bit of a renaissance man to his friends, especially within the music industry. His ability to perform on the world’s biggest stages as a producer, trombonist, percussionist, and arranger, helped make him one of my inspirations in life. I think he was so calm this time because it wasn’t his name on the banners around the palace. He met my mom at Ithaca college in the jazz choir, the group my mom credits as her inspiration to pursue a career in vocal jazz. My father is a couple years younger than my mom and had transferred from Berklee to start his sophomore year around the time they met. Apparently, they quickly had a connection centered around music, and eventually moved to New York City with the rest of their friends to pursue a career in live jazz that still provides our family lasting memories today. They moved there as friends and left as husband and wife with a little one on the way. Me! My parents always tell each other “I’m so proud of you” partly because they are so talented now and always, but I can sense my dad often reflects back on those hours in the Ithaca practice rooms reading etudes and practicing piano together. In Monaco, he was excited more than anything, proud of his wife and glad he was able to share the experience with his son.

His arm was around me the whole ride to the palace. We pointed out sports cars, keeping a tally of our favorite brands. My mom was in the front seat headphones on, CD player in hand,

 going over her music once more. We approached what looked like a terracotta roofed toll booth at what I assumed was the entrance to the Palace. The guard held a large rifle in his right hand, the bayonet mere inches from his white helmet. He leaned to speak with our driver Toby, resting his weapon on the roof. I was so mesmerized by this foreign soldier, that I completely missed the bits of French that led to the guard raising the last line of defense. A horizontal striped pole which reminded me more of a barbershop than a palace. I wasn’t impressed at first. I’m sorry! A city with more Bentleys than bicycles seemed like it would have its own space palace by now. Instead, the outside of the palace looked rather humble in all honesty. Half of the structure looked like a classic scene of the past, in a castle-like stance, with flags sprouting at the top of gray stone points. The other half a creamy beige with deep blue windows reflecting the sky and sea.

The guards at the main door opened each side of the entrance slowly and succinctly. Security quickly became the focus of my mother, the rest of her quartet, and of course my dad and I who were now towards the back of the line. “Arrêt” the guard said with an outstretched hand, patting me down while another guard waved the metal detector over my body. The detector let out a startling whine over my left pocket. Sweat began to bead, falling down my forehead with pace. I racked my brain for what could possibly be in my pocket. Suddenly, it hit me, the yellow lambo. I hadn’t let it get out of my sight since we left our cul-de-sac in Pittsburgh. Now, it could prove to be why I don’t get to hear the show or enjoy the palace, ruining the trip all together. I tried to think on my feet saying “Je suis désolé” with an obvious American accent. It felt as if I was speaking underwater, guards inching closer yelling in French to empty my pockets. I would have crumpled to the floor if my dad hadn’t stepped in and whispered “show them the car” in my ear. I pulled the car slowly out of my pocket and said with the clearest diction I could muster “Lamborghini.”

The guards smiled in unison, gesturing towards the courtyard for refreshments. My dad put his arm on my shoulder, shielding me from messing anything else up. I felt horrible causing so

 much stress at the entrance and didn’t want anything getting in my mom’s way. This was a big show but the more I looked, the more the courtyard turned into something out of a movie set. I was captivated watching the palace staff transform the courtyard into a city of large white tents all facing the main stage where my mom and her colleagues would be standing in a couple hours. Pitching a tent isn’t horribly difficult but when the central pole is 35 feet high, it takes some maneuvering to create the proper shape for the prince's roof. I watched the team give a series of specific calls to each other pertaining to the amounts of steps left or right needed to balance the structures. They almost sounded like yells, but after hearing them across the courtyard I realized it was a system. It was working too, as ten huge tents had gone up in a matter of minutes. Then came the trays of fresh seafood, fruit platters, buckets of ice and champagne, and believe it or not my guess turned out to be correct, as a large dish of caviar occupied a spot amongst the endless buffett. My dad marked off his position downstage, where he’d play his solo, then walk back a few steps to accompany the group on percussion. He settled to play from stage right, with a perfect view to the soundboard where I sat with Stemple. He was our sound man and had become a great friend to me throughout my childhood. Sometimes he’d even let me run soundcheck, or at least let me believe I was. He’d say “Round em’ Up!” meaning I had to get on the mic and ask each of the voices to sing a few bars to get a proper level on their mic. “Mom, sing please” then she’d begin to sing, often surprised by how loud the monitors were, giving the classic look of uncertainty I knew as the “please fix the problem Stemple” look. I’d then lean over the mic and say “Thanks mom sounding great, uncle Peter you’re up next” Peter is my godfather. He’s the kindest soul I’ve ever met, constantly conducting choirs of the belly laughs anywhere he goes. It also doesn’t hurt that his voice is like velvet. A smooth baritone sound that rounds out the group with ease. After Darmon, the tenor, and Lauren, the alto, it’s on to my dad’s mic test. He puts his horn to his mouth and begins to caress everyone within earshot. My dad has a sound on the trombone that many actually mistake for a different instrument all together. He’s been mistaken for a euphonium or french

 horn player on certain recordings. This is mostly due to his gentle articulation on the instrument that many trombonists simply cannot achieve unless playing at a very soft volume. My dad finds this unmistakeable flow from one one note to the next, in any setting. The palace only got a glimpse of these masterful musicians' talents during soundcheck and I could tell they were excited for the real deal.

After an hour of dominoes with my parents, I got my suit on in the dressing room. I felt as if I was about to walk out to a fashion runway with the models I saw at the airport earlier, but I knew it was the sparkling apple juice talking. In terms of my outfit, it was either my navy blue sport coat with a white golf shirt underneath or my gray sport coat with a white shirt, either way I was feeling good in those clothes, that’s for sure. No matter how straight it was, my dad adjusted my tie and gave me one last look over. I hugged my mom for good luck and headed out to the door of the dressing room only to stop dead in my tracks a few steps away. The dressing room was on the other side of the palace and I had walked here with a royal guard and my parents. Getting back to the courtyard wasn’t actually as bad as I thought it would be. It also gave me a chance to look around. I remember walking past what I believed to be the throne room. A black curtain served as the backdrop behind a maroon embroidered gold seat that seemed like Prince Albert's type of spot, centered between five red velvet seats on either side. I admired the murals on the ceiling and imagined myself atop the throne for a while. Next was the kitchen, complete with cooks flying past me seeming to spring from pan to pan. Aprons trailed behind them as they handed their creations to the waiters. A chef noticed me staring at the caos from the corner of the room. He walked over to me and handed me a fresh strawberry that almost filled my palm. Before I bit into it, the lights flickered on and off a few times in the courtyard, signaling the main events were about to begin. Relieved that I could finally see the main courtyard out the window of the kitchen, I thanked the chef and plotted my route back to the sound board.

“You look great!” Stemple always told me no matter what I was wearing on gig day. It was his way of calming me down because he knew I got nervous for my parents' performances even

 though I would just be sitting here at the soundboard, or so I thought. The show began with no hiccups. My mom sang her solo piece beautifully, receiving many ooo’s and ahh’s like she always did after hitting a high note with what seemed to be little to no effort. After a few songs, I heard my mother make an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Prince Albert II!” Her remark was welcomed with roaring applause. I tried to stand up on my stool to get a good look at him but his bodyguards blocked him and he was on the far side of the courtyard making his way to the central tent that was slightly bigger than the rest. There was a table of desserts about forty yards behind the prince’s tent. I decided I could use another eclair and really wanted to scope out what the prince looked like while selecting my pastry, so I headed over after a heartfelt ballad from the quartet. So far, all I knew was he had glasses and dark hair, average height and build, and was seated at a table full of very disguised looking men and women.

After making up a few funny names and trying to guess which country the prince’s buddies were from, I noticed I had eaten a lot of the newly discovered miniature eclairs that I decided should be illegal. I really needed a drink. With cup in hand, I noticed a cart ten paces closer to the royal tent equipped with five tanks of the most vibrantly colored juices I had ever seen. I was fixated on the liquid gold I thought was orange juice that turned out to be the most delicious mango juice I had ever tasted. Blown away by the first juice, I decided to try the deep purple concoction next. It turned out to be pomegranate juice which shocked my taste buds in the best way possible. Out of the blue, I felt a hand grab my collar and turn me around to face them. It was one of the royal chefs and he had a strong open mouthed frown that I knew was about to spew the most anger filled broken English I could think of. “The prince’s juice, no drink! No drink!” He yelled emphatically. “Je suis désolé,” I said as quickly as I could over and over. I closed my eyes tightly as he yelled “No drink!” one last time, louder than all of his remarks combined. This got the attention of Prince Albert.

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