“Are you a princess?” The speaker was a boy who couldn’t have been more than four, whose family was cashing out at my register. Children say many things to me at the register, things such as, “No,” when I ask if I can see their toy for a second to get the price, and “um, hold on a sec,” when I tell them I need another dollar. It’s sad to admit, but I can honestly say this is something I’ve always wanted to hear but never thought I would, like, “You’ve just won a million dollars!” or “You got a gnome AND a pith-helmet for your 21st birthday?” (Guess which one of these really happened.)
I do have somewhat of a background with insecurities around children, which probably feeds into it. In high school, I was one of four assistant directors for a local children’s production of Cinderella. In between the two performances, a five-year-old girl (who happened to be one of my favorite Pumpkins – all the little kids in this production were pumpkins) came up to me, and offered me a sticker, out of the blue (or out of the orange, as it were), proclaiming, “Here’s a sticker! Because you’re great!” I thanked her sincerely, then looked at the sticker and saw that it read “Natalie” while the giver’s name was Maya. But I didn’t care, because she’d told me, unprovoked, that I was great. And she was five, so she couldn’t lie. Touched, I watched her waddle away in her cumbersome fluffy pumpkin costume, right up to a second assistant director, saying, “Here’s a sticker! Because you’re beautiful!”
(When I later told my first boyfriend this story, he told me it was his favorite of all my stories because it summed me up perfectly.)
So when this little boy smiled at me charmingly, looked me right in the eye, and inquired whether I were royalty, part of me thought, “ha HA! Take that, Maya/Natalie! He not only thinks I’m beautiful, but enough to be a PRINCESS!” This is incredibly creepy now that I’ve written it out, even moreso because Maya-Natalie is probably a tween today, OMGing her way through the trials and tribulations of middle school. I smiled back at him and laughed in my best lilting, princessly way (well, more like a lady who pretends to be a princess at kids’ parties, anyway.) This probably scared the crap out of his mother and grandmother, who I tossed a glance at as I answered no, a glance that said, “where on earth would he get such a charming idea?” I think I expected them to say, “why, because you’re so beautiful and sweet!” or “Your voice and laughter are so melodic and winning, and isn’t that a cartoon bluebird I see perched upon your shoulder?” but they said nothing, and I realized that the boy was now pointing at the pins I have on my work apron. One is a giant, rhinestone pin of the word “Sparkle” (which, indeed, sparkles) that came free with a shipment we got in, which I now wear kind of as a joke. That was why he thought I was a princess; he probably thought that was my name. I thought he was asking me what it said, but then he pointed at the female clown face I have pinned near it (another pin I got for free and wear as a joke), asking me who that was. My name in sparkles AND a likeness of a jester –I must have looked like the real deal to him.
The little boy, in fitting with the fairytale theme, was buying a toy frog. Our friendship had been established, so I asked my new buddy if he liked frogs. He answered affirmatively, and I told him that I LOVE frogs and collect them (which is true. I do. But that’s something I only tell real friends… like the whole internet.) I handed him back the frog (he didn’t even get upset when I had to take it away for a second to look at the price – fine upstanding specimen of a kid, indeed!), and he grinned and shouted, “Ribbit! Ribbit, ribbit!” It would have been cute and charming had he not made it jump right onto my hip. His hand was under the apron by now, and that is a boundary. I can’t explain the sacredness of the apron within the confines of the store for me, but for whatever reason, I tend to view it as a customer forcefield. Let’s just say that anything under it is, for lack of better term, a VIP zone. As if that wasn’t enough, he was making it go north. The objective was probably my pins, but you honestly never know with little boys. And he thought I was a princess! “Do you think Kate Middleton would put up with this malarkey?” I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t, not only because he was five, but because I’d established a nice friendly repartee with him, and I couldn’t suddenly become the Miss Trunchbull of sexual harassment. I also couldn’t say what I was really thinking to his relatives, which was, “hey ladies, stop chatting and make your creepy little pervling take his Liliputian grubby paws off me!” So I did what I always do at work: I laughed, not melodically, but in that “I am attempting to veil my horror” way as I looked to his relatives for help. The grandmother realized just in time and reacted in a way that called to mind Broomhilda walking in on Robin Hood trying to undo Maid Marion’s chastity belt before they’re married (it’s from the Mel Brooks masterpiece (it is. Dave Chapelle is in it) Men In Tights, for those of you who aren’t complete nerds. I know that’s not how the real story happens. Or maybe it is. I haven’t read it, but I’m pretty sure there’s no Broomhilda. Eyes widening, almost slow motion darting across the other child in the stroller and her daughter, yelling “NOOO!” (not in slow motion, but still with an admirable fervor.) She grabbed his hand away, saying, “that’s not something we do. That’s not something we do to people we don’t know.” Good Grandma. Then, “You can do that to grandma, but not to strangers.” To wax present-day-Mayaly, WTF? “That’s not appropriate to do to young ladies, but feel free to grope grandma with your toy frog, young Norman. Now be a good boy and remember to make me a nice lamp pull out of your first victim’s lips someday.”
Do I really think this little boy will be the next Ed Gein? No. That was a joke. I think he’s more likely to become a very creative pick-up artist, spotting women in bars and asking them if they’re princesses, then pulling out a battered old squeaky frog toy. “’cause my friend here thinks so.” Then a sudden hop, bypassing the hip route entirely, to the opportune area, “So how about kissing him and turning him into a prince?”
- M. Vidler
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