A man works as a dishwasher.

One day, as he is rinsing the dishes, he finds something strange in the water. He takes it out and looks at it, but it appears to be invisible.

He collars a passing busboy.

Hey, what is this? he says to him.

The busboy takes it and feels it with his hands.

It’s a crown, he says, and gives a shrug.

Then he hands it back and walks away.

The man looks down at the invisible thing in his hands. A crown? he thinks. In my dishwater?

It doesn’t make sense. The man shakes his head, then sets the crown on the drying rack and goes back to work. When his shift is over, he forgets about it and goes home.

But the next day, the crown is in his dishwater again.

This again! thinks the man. Why is this here?

At first he’s angry, but then he gets an idea. He dries off the crown and puts it on his head. He spends some time getting used to the feeling. It’s kinda nice to wear a crown, he decides. It seems to make him work just a little bit harder. He even starts to whistle a little tune.

The days go by, and the man gets used to the crown. He’s never felt so good about himself. He actually starts to find himself looking forward to going to work. This is a new experience for him.

The only thing the man finds just a little sad is that no one but him is aware of his crown.

My crown is so nice, the man keeps thinking. I really wish it wasn’t quite so invisible.

Then one night at home, while watching TV, the man suddenly has a great idea. He takes off his crown and looks at it — or tries to — and then he goes out into the garage. He hunts around until he finds the paint cans, and then he sits down on the floor with a brush. He paints the crown a bright, bright yellow — the brightest yellow he has. It takes him a little time to paint it evenly, but it comes out nicely in the end.

The man sits there and looks at the crown in his hands. It is strange to see it so yellow. Actually, it is strange to see it at all. But in any case, the man finds it delightful.

He can’t wait to show it off at work.

But the thing is, the next day, the man never gets to work. He is surrounded as he walks down the street.

The King! The King! everyone is saying. Look everybody, it’s the King!

The man smiles and tries to act appropriately, but the people are swarming around him. They are yelling and yelling. He can hardly move. Everyone is talking to him.

Oh King, they are saying, please help us! We need money, and food, and housing! And more days off, and a nicer flag, and teachers and schools and tanks! We need a man to walk on the moon again! We need a better system of transit! We need bigger farms and a cure for cancer! No scratch that — a cure for death!

The man doesn’t know what to say to anyone. Mostly he just kind of nods. Pretty soon he’s in a long limousine with men wearing fancy suits. Everyone is talking very excitedly about things the man doesn’t understand. He keeps having to sign official-looking documents and pose for pictures and shake people’s hands.

Eventually the man is sitting on a throne in an immense room with tapestries on the walls, and rows of buglers are serenading him with big, loud, shiny horns.

It comes down to this: there is another country — some country somewhere — and they are about to attack. The men who swarm about the man’s throne swear up and down to this fact. These other countries — did I say it was just one? — are going to strike at any moment, and what is the King going to do about it? Will he, or will he not, unleash the bombs?

The King excuses himself and goes into the bathroom. He stands there, staring into the mirror.

How did I get to be King? he thinks. All I wanted was a little something more.

The man takes off his crown and looks at it. It is quite silly, actually, he now sees — the yellow paint is garishly bright, and much of it is flaking away. He reaches out and slowly turns on the tap, then holds the crown underneath, and quietly washes the paint away, scrubbing frantically with a paper towel to help speed up the process.

Finally, when the crown is no longer visible, the man turns to throw it in the trash. But then he stops, having suddenly noticed that there is nothing in his hand.

Visible or invisible — there’s nothing there.

The man turns and looks back at the sink.

The sink, too, he sees, is empty.

The crown must have melted away.

Outside, in the hall, the King’s retainers are waiting.

I’m sorry, the man says, with empty hands. I seem to have lost my crown, as you see. I’d like to help, but it looks like I can’t be King.

And in answer, the buglers all blow their bugles, and every man present — as one — produces from behind his back and holds out to the man a gleaming crown of solid gold.

Ben Loory lives in Los Angeles, in a house on top of a hill. His book Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day is currently seeking a home. He can be found on Facebook, if you need him. Or writing non-fiction at The Nervous Breakdown.