Another children's tale

TIMMY Rothodendron lived on Ruppert Square in a great big townhouse. It had four stories—one two three four. Timmy slept all the way up on the fourth floor, where he had his own ladder reaching all the way up to a porthole that led to the roof. Sometimes he climbed up it just to stick his head out and survey his surroundings, like he wasn't in his home at all, but actually, an ancient submarine.

Timmy Rothodendron went to school a block away, and even though he was only seven years old, his mom and dad, who were very busy doing very busy things, trusted him to walk there himself. Timmy was a very independent child. "Remember, take your first left then your first right," his mom always said, "and you can't miss it." "And don't talk to strangers," said his dad. Sometimes Timmy saw one of his neighbors, but they weren't strangers, so Timmy would give them a high-five.

One particular Tuesday morning, Timmy didn't feel like going to school. His mom had just made him breakfast—consisting of Timmy's little plate, piled high high high with bacon—and a glass of orange juice on the side. "Mom," Timmy said, crunching into a bite of crispy, crispy bacon, "I don't feel like going to school today." "But it's Tuesday!" his mom said. "Tuesday is always your favorite day of school." "I know," said Timmy, who, thinking of his favorite day, couldn't stop from smiling. "But maybe, I figured, I could just go to the park, instead, and play with my friends." "But Timmy," said his mom, "all your friends will be at school." Hm, Timmy reasoned. I guess my mom's right. "Maybe I could play with myself?" Timmy asked. Already he was imagining swinging across the monkey bars at Ruppert Park, which were low enough that he could swing on them while still keeping his feet on the ground. Timmy felt safest with his feet on the ground, so that if he fell, he wouldn't get a concussion. "Don't get a concussion!" his dad always warned him. "No!" his mom said. "You must go to school. All boys and all girls and all children go to school. Every day—especially Tuesday!" "Now," his mom said, "I have to go to work. Just like you, going to school. Remember, take your first left then your first right, and you can't miss it. I love you, Timmy—and have a great Tuesday!"

As Timmy Rothodendron was munching his bacon, though, another plan formed itself in his mind. What if instead of taking his first left, then his first right, he first went right, then left? He remembered one time, his dad was walking him to school, and they went first right, then left, so that Timmy's dad could stop at the supermarket. After the supermarket, they went to school. So it seemed to him just as likely that he would arrive at school by going right, as well as to the left. Maybe this morning, Timmy could go that way, instead, and have it both ways: go to school, and go right.

Timmy Rothodendron was already dressed for school in his school clothes, which included a blue blazer, a red tie, a white Oxford collar shirt, and light brown pants, call khakis. His belt was also brown, but it was a darker brown.

He left his house, wearing his school clothes.

When he stepped outside of his big brownstone building, he walked down the stairs of the stoop, and turned right.

Pretty soon, Timmy started to get worried. At the end of the block, was the park the next left, or the next right? And then after that, was it to the left or the right again? Timmy was so lost, he started to cry.

Fortunately, he looked up, and remembered where he was. Right across from him was a big brown building.

"There's that big building where Dr. Longstring works!" thought Timmy. "I've been there before."

Timmy climbed up the stoop, and rung the doorbell.

"Hello?" said Dr. Longstring—but he couldn't see Timmy.

Timmy was too short for the camera to see.

"Hello?" Dr. Longstring said again.

"Down here!" shouted Timmy.

"Oh," said Dr. Longstring. "I see."

But he didn't see. It was just in a manner of speaking.

"Well, who are you?"

"I'm Timmy Rothodendron, I'm Timothy Rothodendron's son."

"Oh, Timmy," Dr. Longstring said, surprised. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

"No," said Timmy.

"Humph. Well OK. Come in then."

Dr. Longstring buzzed open the door and Timmy opened it with all his might, and tried to walk in—but he wasn't fast enough, and his might gave out, and the door closed again.

"Yes?" said Dr. Longstring over the intercom again. Timmy had buzzed him once again. "Hello? Who's there?"

"It's me again."

"Oh, Timmy! Yes, yes, come in!"

Timmy pulled and pulled with all his might, and this time, got in safe.

Up and up he huffed—past the first floor, where there was an apartment, with a grandma guarding her door, holding a cat—past the second floor, where there was a florist's shop, selling big, big red bouquets of roses and big, big yellow bouquets of sunflowers—past the third floor, where there was a butcher's shop—the butcher had turned vegetarian, and now all he sold were vegetable dumplings. "Hi Timmy," said the butcher. He recognized Timmy from when Timmy had come here before, with his dad. "Hi Steve," said Timmy. Timmy gave Steve a high-five.

Finally, Timmy Rothodendron made it—the fourth floor. On the door was a sign. Timmy couldn't read—he wasn't old enough yet—but if he could, he would have known it said, "DR. LONGSTRING — EAR, NOSE, THROAT."

"Hey, Timmy," said Dr. Longstring, who was waiting at the door.

"Hi Dr. Longstring."

Timmy promptly gave Dr. Longstring a high-five.

"What are you doing here on a Tuesday? Shouldn't you be at school? I thought you loved Tuesdays."

Because he was at a doctor's office, Timmy said, "Because I'm sick."

"Oh! Well what appears to be the problem?"

"Hmm," Timmy said, thinking. "I'm just sick."

"OK," said Dr. Longstring, "come with me."

Timmy followed Dr. Longstring down the stairs—back down past the butcher's shop, with vegetable dumplings hanging in its window—"Hi Timmy!" "Hi Steve!"

Back down past the flower shop, and its beautiful red and yellow bouquets of flowers.

Back down past the first floor, with the old lady and her cat. "Meow," said the cat.

Dr. Longstring took Timmy around the block, to a building Timmy didn't recognize. Dr. Longstring buzzed one of the buzzers, and the door opened up.

"Timmy?"

Timmy was surprised to see who it was—it was his dad!

"Timmy came to my office to see me," said Dr. Longstring. "He said he wasn't feeling well. Now Timmy," Dr. Longstring said to Timmy. "Seeing as you're not feeling well, I'm going to give you a prescription."

He winked at Timmy's dad.

"Now, this is very important. I want you to eat one of these every morning, so you won't feel too sick for school."

He gave a box to Timmy's dad that looked a lot like a box of Megan's Mega Mint candies—Timmy's favorite.

"I'm leaving these with your dad. You'll make sure he takes them, won't you?"

"I sure will," said Timmy's dad, and with that, Dr. Longstring was off.

"Alright Timmy," his dad said. "Take one of these, and let's finally head off to school."

The next morning, and the next morning after that, Timmy took his medicine every day.

"Dad, what's a prescription?"

"A prescription is a medicine a doctor gives you. It's very important to listen to what a doctor says."

On Saturday, there was no school, but Timmy still took his prescription from Dr. Longstring. "Dad!" Timmy yelled upon waking up every morning. "I need you to get in here! I need to take my medicine!"

Every day, Timmy took his prescription, just like he was supposed to.

Then, one day, Timmy woke up, and yelled, "Dad! I need to take my medicine!"

Timmy's dad came to the door. "But Timmy, there's no more left. We took the last one yesterday."

Timmy was inconsolable.

"Timmy, stop crying! It's OK!"

Timmy's mom came to his room.

"Timmy, Timmy, oh Timmy—why are you crying?"

"It's because of my medicine. If I don't take it, I'm going to get very, very sick."

"What makes you think that?" asked Timmy's mom.

"Dr. Longstring said!"

"But Timmy, you're absolutely fine!" said Timmy's mother, laughing. "Why don't you try not taking it today, and see how you feel?"

"I won't! I won't! You're not a doctor!"

"Sometimes, even adults fib. Sometimes even doctors!"

"I don't believe you!"

Timmy's mom was very worried about him. So she went to Dr. Longstring's office to ask for his help.

"Timmy's prescription? Why, that was just a box of Megan's Mega Mint candies!"

"I know, but Timmy trusts you because you're a doctor. Do you think you wouldn't mind telling him he doesn't need it anymore?"

"Of course."

The doctor followed Timmy's mom back home, and went straight to Timmy's room—to talk with his patient.

"Now Timmy," said Dr. Longstring. "I'm calling in on you because I hear you've completed your round of prescriptions, and I wanted to make sure the medicine had its effect. I'm going to run a series of tests on you just to be sure."

And indeed, Dr. Longstring ran a series of tests—feeling Timmy's heartbeat, checking his hair for lice, striking his knee with a hammer, to see if he kicked...

"Well, it looks like you're all cured. Whatever illness it was that you once had in the past, it is my professional opinion that now you are perfectly healthy!"

Much to Mr. and Mrs. Rothodendron's surprise, and Dr. Longstring's, Timmy was still just as distraught as before.

"But Doctor," cried Timmy, "I don't feel any different! How can I be any better if I still feel exactly the same?"

"I'm beginning to wonder, Timmy... maybe I misdiagnosed you the first time—maybe I was wrong!"

"But you weren't!" said Timmy. "I need my old prescription back!"

"Hm," said the doctor. He had an idea.

Dr. Longstring talked with Timmy's parents in the other room, then he said goodbye and headed back home for the evening.

"Goodbye Timmy," said Dr. Longstring.

"Goodbye, Dr. Longstring," said Timmy, his voice still chocked with emotion.

Timmy's mom and dad came back in the room.

"Timmy!" said Mrs. Rothodendron.

"Guess what?" asked Mr. Rothodendron.

"We're going to the park!"

"Even though it's dark out!"

"Have you ever swung on the monkey bars in the dark?"

Timmy was conflicted. If he was too sick for school without his medicine, wasn't he too sick to go to the park? After all, a doctor has diagnosed him himself!

On the other hand, Timmy never had swung on the monkey bars in the dark...

TIMMY Rothodendron became the envy of the neighborhood that evening as the very first kid to swing on the monkey bars in the dark.

And the very next day, he was cured.

THE END