The Visitation

Several days ago, I received a phone call on the office line from a guy with a noble English accent, telling me that he was calling to arrange a visit by Her Majesty, the Queen of England. As he explained it, her Royal Highness had been surfing the net and had found my blog. She was interested to see the place for herself and to meet the DFM. Would I be so kind as to entertain a non-state visit on Friday? Oh, and could we keep this among our selves – no media, please? She would be traveling under the name “Mrs. Windsor.”

“Sure. Come by anytime between 8am to 4:30pm. I’m usually in the FEMA trailer.”

As I put the phone back in it's cradle, I was convinced someone was playing a joke on me. thought, “F*cking Bill and his st*pid pranks!” And promptly forgot about it.

It was not until Rajid buzzed me on the squawk box that it occurred to me that maybe it had not been one of Bill’s stupid pranks. The Queen and her entourage were at the gate, being detained by the new intern who was checking for valid dump stickers.

I shouted into the intercom, “It’s OK Raj, let them in.”

The crew, as usual was sitting around the break area. Lardass was eating the last of the day-old donuts and like a Labrador retriever was blissfully licking jelly off his filthy paw.

Bill, who had actually shown up for work today was dressed in his huntsman garb, which he often wore when working at the saddle and bridle recycle area.  Bill, ever the equestrian, was earnestly trying to persuade an uninterested Clooney that they should use Llamas instead of horses to make Glue. Clooney who was working on the daily crossword pretended to be half listening. Every few minutes he would look up and say, “Really?”

I need to get them out of the trailer fast. “Hey Dumpf*cks” I shouted to get their attention. “I need a volunteer…”

Within thirty seconds the room was cleared and I was sitting alone at my desk, awaiting my distinguished visitor’s arrival. Shortly I heard the opening and closing of car doors and a firm knock knock knock on the door of the trailer.

Ordinarily I would have shouted “It’s open.” But I felt like I should be more mannerly, so I got up and went to the door. I opened it to see a big secret service type, grim of face and wide eyes. He brushed past me to check out the room and yelled “OK” back to the limo.
A guy in a black suit and wearing dark sunglasses who was standing protectively by the door of the limo, opened the car door. A likeness of Helen Mirren - the British actress - emerged, wearing a head scarf and brand new blue jeans. She had a broad grin as she looked around, apparently satisfied that the surroundings were just as she expected.

“Mister DFM, I presume.” She held out her hand. I don’t hold much with bowing to royals or politicians, so I just grabbed her hand and shook it vigorously. Her bodyguard, clearly uneasy with this level of personal contact with his charge, put his hand on my shoulder, about to push me away.
“It’s OK Henry,” she said to him without breaking eye contact with me, still broadcasting that practiced queenly smile, “…when in Rome…don't you know.” He withdrew his protective hand.

I wasn’t sure how to address her. I certainly was not going to go around calling her your majesty.

“Welcome to the dump, Mrs. Windsor. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” I can trot out a few affectations of my own when needed. I bade her sit in the best guest chair and offered a cup of tea.

“Do you have any - beer?” She whispered the word beer.

“I went to the cooler and got a couple of Sierra Nevada's.” You guys can help yourselves, I said to the body guards. They nodded but made no other movement. On duty, I figured.

As we swigged our beers from the bottle (Mrs. Windsor declined my offer of a chilled glass from the freezer) she revealed the purpose of her secret visit.

“Tony requested that I help him out on a bit of bother. It seems we have some need of a recycle expert who has demonstrated a high degree of discretion.”

Tony? Soprano? Jesus I thought, This is getting weird.

She gave me that regal smile again, and pointed the top of her bottle at me to ensure that there was no doubt about whom we she was speaking when she used the term ‘recycle expert.’

“It seems that we have some…well – may I be frank?” She assumed a conspiratorial demeanor, scooting her chair closer and speaking in a whisper, as if she did not want the bodyguards to hear.

“By all means.” I suppressed the old retort – you be Frank and I’ll be Earnest -- and nodded.

“ Well, it seems we (and I am referring to the collective pronoun, not the regal usage) have some … bodies…human remains, you know…that need to be …well, they need to just disappear, if you gather my meaning. Tony – our outgoing PM – would really like to tidy things up before he retires. I thought perhaps you might be able to help us. Mums the word, of course.”

I nodded again. “Of course. My staff is completely reliable when it comes to keeping secrets - especially when there is significant cash involved." I hesitated for a moment to make sure the seedling of the bribe-money idea was sufficiently rooted. She nodded her understanding, and I continued. "We have just the place. North Forty.” I pointed proudly to the framed photo on the wall of the enormous compost mountain that we called the ‘north forty’
“The bones of many unfortunate lost souls and more than a few road-killed moose are there interred,” I intoned gravely. “Er, how many ‘items’ do you have?”

“Oh, I am not sure. From Tony’s info I would guess several hundred. He calls them ‘the results of zealous interror-gation.’ Get it? In-Terror-gation?” She chuckled.

“So let me get this straight. You have a couple of hundred bodies that need to be buried, without anyone knowing anything.”

She burped the word “Correct, ” and gave me a Mona Lisa smile. I was duly impressed.