Casper & Ferdinand

Alas, this is not the name of a recent Merchant Ivory release, nor of a storybook ghost and his Portuguese explorer friend. No, these are the names of two small boys who happened to be attending the “Story Hour” at a café on the Upper East Side recently. Coincidentally, it was the same day and the same café where I happened to be enjoying a cup of coffee. I had arrived at the café around 9:45, having put in a long walk looking for the place, and had just sat down with my steaming coffee and opened my laptop. Cold Play was crooning inoffensively on the speakers, and all around gentle students and freelancers were softly clicking away, savoring the free wi-fi.

Little did I know that in mere minutes Story Hour would begin (apparently announced to the entire Metropolitan area at a frequency that only parents and small children can pick up), and New York’s Most Fertile (NYMF) and their bundled offspring would be charging the door. Around 10:15, the café staff went into gear, moving furniture, tossing down colorful blankets, and pouring apple juice into what looked like hundreds of plastic medicine cups. Around 10:30 the front door jangled: an imposing woman with curly hair and an ear-popping voice (The Story-teller, I would learn) strode in, issuing commands: “Let’s have that sofa a little to the left! Where’s my marionette?” Ten minutes later the place was brimming with mothers, nannies, massive strollers and fat toddlers barreling around like drunken sailors. I debated whether to stick it out or run (factors: my coffee was still hot and served in such a nice glass mug, and I had overheard someone said the whole thing would be over in an hour).

Amid my indecision, café employees were shepherding the children and their caretakers into a line, so that the lucky pre-schoolers could receive juice and nametags, and enjoy pointless conversation with the employee distributing said provisions (“And how was your New Year’s Eve, Olaf?” Shuffle, shuffle of snowboots. “I don't know!!”) The front of the line was, of course, inches from where I sat, ruefully staring at my computer screen. And if you’re wondering if I’ve forgotten about the two boys in the title of this post, well here they are: smartly dressed in corduroys, the identical twins of a tall woman in a fur coat. They stepped to the front of the line, and pen poised, the employee asked their names. Their mother placed a bejeweled, proprietary hand atop one of their heads, and trilled--so loudly that I’m sure people in New Jersey could hear-- “Casper and Ferdinand!”

I keep mentally reliving this moment (my brain has important work to do, I tell you), and each time her response is more embellished. Now I’m seeing her in a tiara, tossing back her head and replying, “Why, these lads?! They are none other than Caspah and Fah-dinand!” By tomorrow, she'll probably have some guys with horns on hand to toot as she says their names. And soon red carpets and waving flags will fill the café and all of us humble café patrons will be barred from the free wi-fi and the tempting baked goods until we pay our homage to the young princes... Casper and Ferdinand.

“Alrighty,” says the employee, pen in hand. “Is that Casper with a “K”?

"No," she sniffed. "A 'C'."