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  An Anytime story for children

  by Michael Wenberg

  Copyright 2011 Michael C. Wenberg

  www.michaelwenberg.com

  Oops

  An Anytime story for children

  by Michael Wenberg

  Most people thought Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith had three perfectly good names. Four if you counted Smith.

  But nobody had ever bothered to ask what Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith thought about her many names. If they had, they would have discovered that she liked Smith, but the other three? Ick.

  Altogether, she was convinced they made her sound like somebody’s grandma. One by one, they were perfect. . .for an overweight cat, or a small yippy dog with a fancy collar.

  They were absolutely wrong for a six-year-old girl.

  So one morning in early November, Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith decided to do something about it. Rather than try to convince her parents to change all three names all at once, she decided to try something easier. She’d come up with a nickname. For that, she wouldn’t need anyone’s permission.

  Of course, the trick would be to find the perfect one. And for that, she knew she could use help.

  Before she headed out the door, she left a note stuck to the front refrigerator:

  Dear Mommy,

  I am going to find a nickname. I will be back for lunch.

  Love,

  You Know Who Smith

  Her first stop was Bert Fink, the doorman of the apartment building where Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith lived with her mom and dad.

  “Hello, Mr. Fink,” she said.

  “Hello Miss Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith,” Bert Fink replied, touching his cap.

  “I'm looking for a nickname. Can you help?”

  “Yeah,” Bert Fink said. “Don't get stuck with Stinky, or Monkeyface, or Goofball.”

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith giggled.

  “On the other hand, Pinky's a good one,” Bert Fink said, smoothing the front of his bright blue coat. “That's what we called my little sister when she was about your size. How about that?”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Fink,” she said politely, “I don't think so.” She didn’t want to hurt Mr. Fink’s feelings so she kept quiet about hating the color pink (along with purple and olive green).

  “That's all right,” Bert Fink said. “Ya gotta find one that's just right. Say, where's your mother?”

  “Upstairs. But I left a note.”

  “Why don't you wait here while I give her a buzz?” Bert Fink turned around to make the call. It took just a moment. But when he was done, Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith had already gone.

  At Cruz's International News and Fine Tobacco, just down the sidewalk from her apartment building, Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith used American Sign Language to say hello to her friend, Mr. Cruz. Sign language was something she was just beginning to learn in school. “Hello” was the first and only word she knew.

  “Hello,” Mr. Cruz signed back.

  “I'm looking for a nickname,” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith said. “Do you have any ideas?”

  As she talked, Mr. Cruz watched her mouth very closely. Even though he couldn’t hear, he could tell what she was saying by the shape of her mouth as she said each word. When she was finished, Mr. Cruz put a finger up to his forehead and thought for a moment. Then his eyes widened. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a sunflower seed.

  “Sunflower?”

  Mr. Cruz stuck his thumb in the air and nodded.

  “It's pretty,” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith said, “but not for me, I think I'll keep looking.”

  Mr. Cruz smiled, and then popped the sunflower seed into his mouth.

  “What are you buying, Missy?” Mrs. Kornblatt said as Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith pushed through the front door of Kornblatt's Kosher Meats and Deli.

  “Nothing today,” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith said, “I'm looking for a nickname.”

  “Well, imagine that,” Mrs. Kornblatt said, slapping the countertop, “nicknames just happen to be on sale today. Three for a nickel.”

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith frowned. “But I didn't bring any money.”

  “Ach, that's all right,” Mrs. Kornblatt said with a wave of her hand. “For you, they're free. But first, I have a problem. Too many pickles. Do you know anyone who might be able to help me out?”

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith nodded and giggled.

  “Ready?” Mrs. Kornblatt said a moment later. “What about Pickle? It has a nice ring to it. It’s also easy to remember.”

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith thought for a moment, and then shook her head. She took a bite from the huge pickle Mrs. Kornblatt had given her.

  “Well, it was worth a try since you love pickles so much. How about Penny, then? You know, short for Penelope. . .”

  “Ick.”

  “So you're going to be picky?”

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith wiped pickle juice from her chin and nodded.

  “Okay, here's my last idea,” Mrs. Kornblatt said. “Any more and I'll have to charge you. How about Mickey, after my all time favorite baseball player, Mickey Mantle?”

  “I do like baseball,” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith said. “What team does he play for?”

  “Did play, you mean,” Mrs. Kornblatt said with a sigh. “It was the Yankees, of course.”

  Now it was Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith's turn to sigh. “I'm sorry, but I'm a Cubs fan, like my mom and dad.”

  “Oh, you poor child,” Mrs. Kornblatt laughed. “Good luck.”

  As it turned out, Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith didn’t have any better luck at any of the other places she tried.

  At Mimi's Flower Shop, Mimi suggested Daisy, and then Aster, and finally Rose.

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith smelled a bunch of pale pink roses, and shook her head. “I love all those flowers,” she said, “but not for a nickname.”

  At Pete's Shoe Repair, Pete stroked his gray beard as he listened to her request.

  “I'm sorry, I can't help,” he said firmly.

  “Why not?” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith said with surprise.

  “Nicknames aren't somethin' you can find, Miss Smith,” Pete said mysteriously, “they're somethin' that finds you. . .”

  “Oh,” was all Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith could think to say, as she backed out of the shop.

  Next door to Pete's, Mrs. Lee was getting her restaurant ready for lunch.

  “So you need a nickname?” she said as she stirred a huge steaming pot that filled the restaurant with the most wonderful smells.

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith licked her lips and nodded, wondering if Mrs. Lee would let her taste what she was cooking.

  “I think I would call you, Mee,” she said, staring hard at Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith.

  “It's pretty,” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith said.

  “It's Korean,” Mrs. Lee said. “It means, beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith repeated, her face turning red with embarrassment. “Oh, that's not me at all. Thanks just the same.”

  “But maybe someday,” Mrs. Lee said softly, as she watched Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith leave.

  “I guess I'm just stuck,” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith sighed. She couldn’t think of anyone else to ask for help, as she trudged along the sidewalk towards home. In fact, she was feeling so gloomy she didn't notice the shopping cart filled with plastic garbage bags parked right in the middle of the sidewalk. Not until she bumped into its side. The cart teetered for a moment, and then tipped over, bags scattering.

  “Why don't you watch where you're goin',” snapped a woman dressed in a winter coat, a frazzle of gray hair peeking out from
beneath her stocking cap. She darted out of the nearby doorway.

  “I'm. . .I'm sorry,” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith stammered. She helped the woman tip the cart back on its wheels and then scrambled to pick up the bags.

  “Careful there, Missy,” the woman said roughly. “Might not look like much to you, but everything I own in the entire world is in them bags.”

  Even before she had bumped into the cart, Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith had been feeling terrible. Now she was feeling even worse. Tears began to run down her face.

  “Oh, now, none of that,” said the woman, her voice softening. She handed Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith a handkerchief. “You sure you're not hurt?”

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith nodded.

  “Coulda fooled me,” the woman said. “Now why don't you wipe your nose and tell old Agnes what's really wrong. Lord knows I know trouble when I see it and your face says trouble with a capital T.”

  “It's nothing,” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith sniffed. “It's just, it's just. . . it'll sound dumb.”

  “Try me anyways,” Agnes said.

  “Well, you see, my name is Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith and. . .”

  “I see your problem already,” Agnes cackled, “them names are a mouthful. . .”

  “That's right!” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith said with a flash of anger. “And I decided to find a nickname, and fix things once and for all, and. . .and. . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “No luck?” the woman finished for her.

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith nodded.

  “I know somethin' about no luck, too. That's why you were paying more attention to the cracks in the sidewalk than what was right in front of your nose?”

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith nodded again.

  “Mind if I give it a try?”

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith shrugged. “I suppose it can't hurt.”

  “Say your names again,” Agnes ordered, “slowly.”

  “Olympia - Octavia - Penelope – Smith.”

  “Olympia - Octavia - Penelope - Smith,” Agnes repeated to herself. “Let me see. . . Oh, Oh, Pee. . .” and then, suddenly, she kicked the side of her cart with her booted foot. “I've got one,” she laughed. “It's perfect.”

  “OLYMPIA OCTAVIA PENELOPE SMITH.” The faint cry drifted down the street.

  “That’s my mom,” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith said. “I gotta go.”

  “You don't want to hear it?”

  “I'm sorry I bumped into your cart, Agnes” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith said hurriedly. “Goodbye.”

  “Oops,” Agnes said.

  “What?” Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith paused.

  “How about ‘Oops’?” Agnes repeated.

  Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith stood motionless in the center of the sidewalk, people swirling around her like fish in a stream. “Oops,” she said to herself, and then again, more loudly. “OOPS!”

  It was short, easy to remember, and it was impossible to say without smiling.

  It was absolutely perfect.

  “OLYMPIA OCTAVIA PENELOPE SMITH!” Her mom’s call was louder this time.

  “You better skedaddle before your mom gets angry,” Agnes said, leaning into her heavy cart to get it moving.

  But before she could take a step, Olympia Octavia Penelope Smith surprised the old woman with a fierce hug. “I love it. Thank you!”

  And then she was off, racing down the sidewalk to tell her mom about her new, unforgettable, one-of-a-kind, nickname. . .

  OOPS.

  The End

  About the Author

  MICHAEL WENBERG lives just up the road from the Point No Point lighthouse on Washington State’s Puget Sound. In addition to working in technology, he’s the former CEO of the Walla Walla Symphony. He enjoys backpacking, hiking and kayaking the waters of Puget Sound with his wife, Sandy, and their dog, Gracie. Michael’s nickname when he was six-years-old was “Mickey.”

  Discover other books by Michael Wenberg

  Connect with Michael Wenberg online

  You can find Wenberg online at www.michaelwenberg.com, or contact him at [email protected].