She Did It Herself

Once upon a time there was a beautiful little girl named Princess Drewbie Tuesday. Now Princess Drewbie Tuesday was not an actual princess, but her beauty was noted throughout the land, particularly by her parents. Almost three years ago she was born not two days from a remarkable Tuesday when for twenty minutes the birds stopped chirping and the sky changed from crayon yellow to watercolor azure blue. From that point forward, the Princess’ father inexplicably began to add the sound “ee” to the endings of words when speaking with his daughter Drew. Ow-ee was an obvious choice. But so too arose words like out-ee, milk-ee, brush-ee and eventually Drew-bee itself. In these ways, the name Princess Drewbie Tuesday came to be. 

Now Princess Drewbie Tuesday was a good girl but was mischievous and charming as any other.  At any moment the Princess could procure four slippery kisses from just one. She could finagle strawberry shortcake as a dinner’s first course. By two, she had successfully negotiated the watching of YouTube videos of her own selection while flossing, and sleep with between three and seven stuffed animals not counting her rubber duckie. The Princess’ parents felt that being with Drewbie was much like the pulse continuum between pure joy and a mushroom cloud. One moment her mother could be reveling in Drewbie Tuesday’s command of three languages only to discover that Drewbie Tuesday had decided to declare to all white women on the subway, “Time out!” in English while stomping her right foot. Drewbie Tuesday’s mother’s only recourse that week was to stay north of 110th Street and be glad that the family lived in Harlem. Or, Drewbie Tuesday could be one third and happily on her way through a scrumptious meal of famous oxtail radish soup, rice with a sprinkling of red beans and personalized miniature sesame cucumbers only to spew out in staccato the three ugly words: “Chocolate”, “Ice-cream”, “Iwannit”.  This caused Drewbie’s grandmother real chest pain and her grandfather to pray. Perhaps most significantly, Princess Drewbie Tuesday said she cared deeply for the seven communal fish and three yellow snails in the 10-liter bubbly fish tank in her room, but truth was, she rarely fed them, admitting only the opposite. “Oh yes Daddy, the fish eat fully and regula-tory. I love them!” At this she would cock her head and bend her fingers in front of her chest to make a heart shape with her hands.

Drewbie Tuesday walked to school with her father. It was a time-held ritual, which took them up St. Nicholas Ave, past the EBT coffee shop, and through a dense green forest rumored to contain frogs, dwarves and discontent wizards. One day on the way to school, Drewbie Tuesday declared suddenly and spontaneously that she would henceforth walk to school by herself, “I’ll do it myself,” she said. At first, her Dad did not hear these fateful words. He had long become inured having heard the Princess declare them progressively through the years: Each time the candles on a family members’ birthday cake was to be lit-- “I’ll do it myself.” When Drewbie’s mom opened up a vast array of Amazon Prime packages with one of three kitchen knives-- “I’ll do it myself.” When before dance her father tried to get Alexa the speaker to play the clean version of Kiki Do you Love Me-- “I’ll do it myself.”  When he tried to strum She’ll be Coming around the Mountain on his two thousand dollar guitar to encourage Drewbie Tuesday to sing -- “I’ll do it myself!” Alas, like the weary traveler who has seen one too many brilliant green rice fields, “I’ll do it myself,” had fallen into the word smudge of water, pee-pee, poo-poo, I wannit, Bao bao, bath bomb, Nemo, carrots, pleeeease, and no—all of oxymoronic, great, and forgettable significance. In fact, it took Drewbie’s dad ten half strides to realize Princess Drewbie Tuesday was no longer walking alongside him. She had stopped walking right where she had made her declaration.

As usual, she meant it. Drewbie had the memory of a hundred year old smooth-necked turtle. Her father returned the ten half strides back to where Drewbie stood. There she demonstrated with two hands at the waist, her chest pushed out, her eyes squinted and her lower lip protruding. “Drewbie, why are you mad?” the Princess’ father asked.

 “Daddy, I’ll do it myself,” she said. She gestured with a quick unmistakable motion of her head for her father to return home.

How the simplest of a child’s movements had the power to destroy parents as if they were made of paper mache. Drewbie Tuesdays father being a large adult with adult logic of course protested—let it be noted for thirty minutes—but a terrible temper tantrum was brewing as was the song, “Mad, Mad, Mad, It helps to Say I’m Mad”. The possibility of more conflict on 114th street weighed. As if to quicken the crushing of an inferior heart, Princess Drewbie Tuesday added, “Dad!” then lunged with all her might at his lower hip. He was startled at such strength. With tears in his eyes, he began walking backwards in the direction he had been pushed, looking at Princess Drewbie Tuesday while she walked forwards on what was to become Drewbie’s first independent journey to school. She did not look back but did mutter, “Love you, Daddy. You have a good day,” just loud enough for him to hear some of it.

At the edge of the forest, Princess Drewbie Tuesday’s dark brown eyes widened as she stopped to understand the abrupt cool change of the wind’s direction and the sudden change of landscape with seriously green color scheme. What had she done? What was she feeling? Was it fear? Was it guilt? Was it longing? Drewbie could not be sure as she had yet to learn the vocabulary of regret. But, she did sense a faster rhythm in her chest and a delicate rim of sweat forming at her hairline, which she swiped at with the pads of her right index and middle fingers at the same time she wiped her nose with her sleeve. Her father had taught her ways to combat paralysis that did not involve him lifting her. She puffed out a lung full of resolve. She clenched her fists. She repeated to no one in particularly “I’ll do it myself. “ She went to her go to song Put One Foot in Front of the Other and stepped in. 

Put one foot in front of the other

And soon you’ll be walking ‘cross the floor.

Put one foot in front of the other

And soon you’ll be walking out the door

You never will get where you’re going

If you never get up on your feet

Come on, there a good tail wind blowing

A fast walking girl is hard to beat

From the stop-motion animated Christmas classic - Santa Claus is Coming to Town, Here's put One Foot in Front of the Other. Sung by the voice talents of Mickey Rooney and Keenan Wynn. No one did these animated classics better than Rankin-Bass !

By the song’s second refrain Princess Drewbie Tuesday was making serious headway. She was now skipping and hopping, twirling fast, and bellowing out the lyrics in a loose A-flat. It was a lovely lively tune that made it impossible to stay still or angry, even. She could have done this all day. Twirl until she landed in a tangled heap. Raised her eyes to the bright sky until it turned red and pink. Rotated her arms fast as if she were a new seagull attempting flight.

Princess Drewbie Tuesday was contemplating life’s advantages when in the left corner of her eye in consecutive cycles she noticed a squirrel. She stopped. The squirrel had a coffee brown sleek body, black bushy tail, startling white-tipped paws, and was looking right at her. What was even more interesting, the squirrel held what seemed to be a piece of chocolate. The Princess approached. She came closer then closer then closer. In this way, she confirmed the object was indeed chocolate. Not only this, the chocolate was in the shape of a perfect acorn. Not only this, the squirrel extended the perfect chocolate acorn out to her.  “Here you go,” the squirrel said, “Here you go,” the squirrel repeated.

 It was all she needed. Princess Drewbie Tuesday loved chocolate and being from Harlem was not afraid of strangers.  To boot, never had she met a squirrel that stayed still enough for constructive interaction.

“Oh,” she said, “kam sa ni da,” reverting to formal Korean gratitude.  She dipped her head down, closed her eyes and bowed.

By this time she was hovering over the very small squirrel with a piece of chocolate in acorn shape. She reached down, transferred the chocolate acorn nimbly to her left fingers and placed it quickly in her mouth lest the squirrel change its mind. Oh, what wonderful sweet succulent and tasty chocolate feeling. “I love it!” Princess declared. And at that instant, Princess Drewbie fell into a deep sleep, her knees buckling, her body following not unlike an undulating rock. She landed on an imperfect bed of leaves with a thump.

****

 The church bell tower clock struck 4:00.  Ding…Ding…Dong…Dong. At 4:30, Princess Drewbie Tuesday’s parents checked their watches. At 4:45 they worried. At 5:00 they fought. At 5:05, they were distraught. At 5:10 Drewbie Tuesday’s Dad was out the door running, retracing that morning’s steps, Drewbie Tuesday’s mom’s head out the window, crying out rhetorically to bring Princess Drewbie Tuesday back or else.

Unbeknownst to both of them and the horrors of the family-centered mind, Drewbie Tuesday was safe and asleep. The moment the chocolate touched her palate, causing a most unnatural slumber, the tiny squirrel transformed into a petite cyan-hued witch, whose tangled hair smelled of garbage, whose expression was pure frown, and whose skin was the texture of a frozen toads. Almost routinely and not too gently, she grabbed one of Drewbie Tuesday rumpled braids and pulled her off the leaf bed, across the ground, behind a large tree, through a door on the other side of it, and down a dimly lit hallway way to a non-descript Manhattan-style two bedroom apartment with two hanging pictures. A guest bedroom possessed an uninviting steel metal door with skeleton key lock . To that one, the witch threw Drewbie Tuesday, sealing her in it with a loud clank and two righty-tighty clicks.

Oh the Places We Will Go. Where there are no Wild Things.  All are welcome here.  Amelia, I’ll make a deal-with-ya. Don’t be so Curious Dreorge.  Random altered children’s book titles flitted through Drewbie’s father’s head as he ran like a disheveled mad man eight years less than his advancing age. So many things he regretted: The decision to let a not even three-year old travel to school solo.  Asking Princess Drewbie Tuesday so many questions while he brushed her teeth that morning.  The two strawberries and a double chocolate donut for breakfast.  The recently negotiated terms of the Princess’ night ritual. As he ran, the boundaries of road, street, corner liquor store and forest blurred. Microclimates— he didn’t give a hoot. He had become gazelle. He was mission accomplished. He was the anti-hero that would bring Drewbie Tuesday back home.

When out of the corner of his eyes at the two o’clock position he spied a most interesting site: A squirrel with coffee-brown sleek body, black tail and startling white-tipped paws looking right at him. What was even more interesting, the squirrel held what seemed to be a piece of chocolate. The father made a course correction and approached. He came closer. And closer. In this way, he confirmed the object was indeed chocolate. Not only this, the chocolate was in the shape of a perfect acorn. Not only this, the squirrel had yet to take a bite and was extending the chocolate acorn out to him.  “Here you go,” the squirrel said, “Here you go.”

Drewbie Tuesday’s father was not born yesterday and the squirrel’s actions enraged him. Did this squirrel think him stupid? Was a man in this contemporary world to be treated like a child? Worse, did his freckly complexion make him appear senile?  Sometimes you don’t need to know all the details. Something simply felt wrong. He trusted that talking squirrels with chocolate in the context of missing persons didn’t jive. “Oh thank you,” he said with the obsequiousness of a politician. He pretended with a turn of his jaw and slight of hand to put the entire chocolate acorn in his mouth, instead pocketing it in his sleeve—a novice magician’s trick! With that he melodramatically said “Oh my,” and crumpled to the ground as if in dangerous sleep.

This was getting too easy. With unconscious victim number two before her, the squirrel transformed miraculously into a petite cyan-hued witch. Her tangled hair still smelled of garbage, her expression still pure frown, her skin still the texture of frozen toads. She grabbed Drewbie Tuesday father by the arm, pulling him across the ground, behind the large tree, through the door on the other side of it, and down the hall to the Manhattan style apartment with two hanging pictures. It took Drewbie Tuesday’s father all the fortitude he possessed and use of the 4-7-8 meditation technique for him not to scream. There being only one guest bedroom, the witch thrust Drewbie Tuesday’s father in the same space as Drewbie Tuesday, sealing them both in it with a loud clank and two righty-tighty clicks.

Oh the joy. Oh the feeling of life’s singular moments. Drewbie Tuesday’s dad didn’t move until he heard the witch shuffle out the common area but he knew Drewbie Tuesday was safe with him because of the familiar lamb-like snore that filled the room and the goat-honey cream he could smell from her knuckles. “Drewbie, it’s me your daddy,” Drewbie Tuesday’s Dad whispered. “Drewbie, it’s me your daddy,” he repeated.

Like in the movies, he found her. He bent down to kiss Drewbie on the lips which were still moist with a hint of strawberry. Her breath was still fresh from the morning’s floss and brushing, which made him happy. Her cheeks were soft and warm like cotton balls. But Drew did not awake. Drewbie’s father confirmed that she had normal pulse and breathing rate (he was a practicing pediatrician). He put his hand on her chest and shook it gently. He started singing Hush Little Baby thinking this would cause her to yell, “No! I am a big girl.” But Princess Drewbie Tuesday stayed sleeping trapped in the witches’ chocolate acorn spell.

Oh the horror. Oh darn luck. A hex upon post-modern fairy tales. It didn’t help that the room was cluttered and cramped. Was that an Ikea Ponang bouncy chair? A stack of Readers Digests? Princess Drewbie Tuesday’s Dad was glad the room was too dark to decipher worse details. He was ok. “I am ok.” He told himself this. He had found his Princess. He had lived and worked abroad under worse conditions. Privilege unfairly but statistically means auspicious endings. Their family on all accounts was happy and lucky. He felt happy and lucky. The Princess’s mother, a theoretical queen, let him play basketball twice a week and go out as late as he wanted, so long as he was awake the following morning for child care duties. He felt right then irrational admiration and love at this degree of woman and management skill. One thing he never imagined was a forty-eight-year old man like himself running home from work each day to play with a small girl who liked to order him around. You do what you can. Then you let happen what’s going to happen. What’s the alternative? It really was like the book The Places We Will Go.

Was it minutes? Was it hours? Was it days?  The witch was hungry. She imagined a succulent snack of knee, even a finger or foot. Her mouth was so dirty, her meals didn’t require additional spices. She was racist and wondered if Asian-American flesh would taste differently. She took the steel rusty skeleton key from her velvet robe pocket. She turned the lock two lefty-loosey clicks and creaked upon the door. There where she left them was father and daughter she deduced from matching Peppa-Pig stickers on their sleeves. Perfect. Too bad for them she thought. She reached out for the young girl.

At that moment, Princess Drewbie Tuesday’s dad jumped up and grabbed the witch from behind, a yellow colored pencil at her ear. “Give me the anti-dote to the chocolate acorn or your brain is mush.” The witch was startled but quickly gathered herself. She had been around the forest so to speak for 200 years and the foiling of plans at this rate was statistical (Plus she had a resting heart rate of 22). She knew the extreme power of parental desperation. She looked down towards her pocket. In it was a dropper of green which Princess Drewbie Tuesday’s dad ordered her to administer to Drewbie’s lips. “And no funny business! Or your pencil will need to be sharpened!!”

With the same transformative power of chocolate, the green liquid, likely a sweet mint extract, upon touching Princess Drewbie Tuesday’s gums awakened her with a start. “What happened?” she asked blinking at her father who happened to have a petite cyanic witch in his arms, a yellow colored pencil at her ear. “Daddy? That’s not Mommy.”

No time for explanations. With a simultaneous swing of his arms, the Princess’ Dad grabbed his beautiful girl while hurling the witch towards the Ikea Ponang chair and Reader’s Digest stacks. He heard the sad cry of the witch hitting them as he pushed with his shoulder the metal door shut. He turned the lock with the skeleton key still in it. Click. Click. “Dad, I wanted to do that,” Princess Drewbie exclaimed.

Up the hallway, out the door, across the forest, down the street, past the EBT corner store to St. Nicholas Ave they ran—correction—Princess Drewbie Tuesday’s Dad ran, Princess Drewbie Tuesday in his arms, her chubby arms around his neck like a precious line of human pearls; her head tucked at his ear, strands of her long hair tickling and blinding him in wisps, or was it tears? It took an anti-climatic five minutes for the building elevator to descend then ascend to the 7th floor but at least it was working. Soon Princess Drewbie Tuesday was in her mother’s arms, then her grandmother’s arms, then her grandfather’s arms. Was it her birthday? What was the fuss? Who was that greenish-blue woman? Princess Drewbie Tuesday had so many questions.

Then, her shoes were off. Then she was in her grandmother’s kitchen. Then Drewbie Tuesday’s mother was asking if she was thirsty and wanted tasty apple cider in her favorite orange cup. Princess Drewbie Tuesday nodded in the affirmative as she was very thirsty but not before adding, “Toe-ma-toe”.

“Please?” reminded her mom.

“Please!” Princess Drewbie Tuesday shouted.  And sensing that in the process her cider might get diluted reminded, “Mommy, no water in my cider.” Her voice was steady and certain. She paused, “(In fact) I’ll do it myself!”