Oreo (12 page)

She slept fitfully, awakened during the wee hours by the cat-purrs that the Does affected
for snores, the thuds and howls of muggers and muggees, the simpering of police in drag.
Some time later, Oreo heard what must have been the reputedly beauteous band of female
rapists who, according to the underside of Oreo’s bottom sheet, had been terrorizing
Riverside Park for three weeks. At about 4
A.M.
they dragged yet another victim into some
nearby bushes (“If you can’t get it up, we take it off”). Before the ravishingly ravishing
ravishers ravished him, the man offered several limp excuses. It was all Oreo could do to
keep from cracking up over his piteous protests that he was too afraid that he would not be
able to get a hard-on to get a hard-on, that he wasn’t usually like this, and could he come
back on Tuesday instead. “Now, let’s not run off half-cocked,” said the obvious leader of
the band. The man offered to substitute sucking for fucking. The leader castigated him.
“Hell, no! My
dog
could do that. Besides; we’re not in this for pleasure. We’re out
to teach you fathering mother-jumpers a lesson. Now, which is it—up or off?” Oreo turned
over and went back to sleep.

Oreo washed, brushed her teeth, and fluffed out her afro in the park
john, then ate the delicatessen leftovers. Moe and Flo were still sleeping. Three minikin
feet were sticking through the flap of their teeny tent. Oreo assumed that the other foot
was inside. Joe’s feet were nowhere to be seen. He must be off playing somewhere, she
guessed.

Oreo picked up her walking stick and went for a stroll to wake herself up and prepare for
the new day. She had been walking for only a few minutes, when she heard yelps and
whimpering in the bushes to her right. She thought at first that it might be the rape victim
of the night before, but these noises were less animalistic than his had been. She crept
silently in the direction of the sounds of distress. She parted the bushes. Her irises
contracted in disbelief. There was little Joe Doe, laughing and playing happily with a dog.
He had an eccentric sense of humor. The human-sounding yelps and whimpers came from a
sad-faced Chihuahua. Joe had tied the dog to two sprung saplings and was about to chop the
retaining rope with his boy scout ax. Oreo rushed over and grabbed the ax from him. She
hated to see the little brat having fun. She untied the grateful Chihuahua, who went
nickering away on spidery legs, making a detour around—or, rather, through—the two halves of
the corpse of a Pekingese. Oreo
thought
it was a Pekingese. It was either that or
oat smut. Without a word, Oreo grabbed Joe by the wrist and dragged him after her.

“Where are we going, gypsy?”

Oreo did not answer.

“I hate dogs. And dog whistles. And dog biscuits.”

Oreo did not answer.

“Why do I have to have midgets for parents? Even if they were regular-size short people, it
would be okay. But, no, they have to go and be midgets—and
short
midgets at that!
I’m only eight and already I’m taller than they are. It’s not fair!”

Oreo did not answer.

“They make me sick with their rhymes. I have to have
some
fun!”

Oreo did not answer. She kept dragging Joe behind her until she found what she had been
looking for, a playground full of kids. Oreo rounded up ten of them. She explained what she
wanted them to do. She offered them a nickel apiece if they did a good job. They held out
for a dime. She hesitated, then agreed.

When they were ready, Oreo found a good seat on a swing and watched. The ten children split
up into two groups, five on each side. The kids started their game with relish,
screaming and yelling for blood. The game was tug-of-war. The “rope” was Joe’s body.

In a few seconds, Joe began to yelp and whimper the way the Chihuahua had. “I’ll do
anything you ask!” he yelled to Oreo.

Oreo tried to stop the game. The kids wanted to go on. Oreo hadn’t gotten her money’s worth
yet, they said. Joe had been faking, they said. They hadn’t gotten to the best part, the
tearing asunder, they said. They gave Joe one more yank for the pot before Oreo rescued him.
Each side claimed victory. Oreo examined Joe’s arms with her keen eyes. One limb was an
eighth of an inch longer than it had been, one only a sixteenth. Oreo, wincing at the
expense, gave an extra dime to the winning side.

“Big deal—two cents apiece,” the winners grumbled as they went off. The losers gazed
longingly at Joe’s short arm. In a few minutes, all the children were playing hopskotch,
jumping rope, sliding the slides, sawing and seeing on the seesaw, a tableau of
innocence.

Oreo took Joe aside. “Now you know how it feels. You promise you’ll never do that to a dog
again?”

“What about cats?”

“No cats.”

“Squirrels?”

Oreo hesitated. She held no big brief for squirrels. They were sort of scrocky-looking.
Finally she said, “No, absolutely not. No living things whatsoever.”

Joe was downcast.

“And about your parents—you should be grateful they’re not giants like my mother and
father.”

Joe was fascinated. “Really?”

“When Moe and Flo spank you, what does it feel like?”

“Butterfly kisses,” Joe admitted.

“Imagine what it feels like to get a
potch
from a giant. One shot and you’ve had it. My last spanking was when I was six. I still have the marks.”

“Let me see?” Joe asked gleefully.

“You see my skin? I used to be white. This is a bruise.”

Joe’s eyes popped. “You gotta be kidding.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Yeah.”

“So what. Be nice or I’ll kill you.”

By the time they got back to the campsite, Oreo had convinced Joe that his parents were
seed pearls beyond price and that if he tortured any more animals she would find him and
throw him to the children. Oreo’s catalog of the abuses he would suffer at the hands of
underage Torquemadas made him hysterical. She had to calm him down before Moe and Flo saw
him.

Oreo was happy. It had been a productive morning. She had evened the score with Joe for his
medley of gypsy tunes—especially “Zigeuner” and “Golden Earrings”—thereby upholding her
motto:
Nemo me impune lacessit
. And she was able to cross “The great divide” off
her list.

Boxes — Corrugated & Fibre

Boxes — Metal

Boxes — Paper

Boxes — Specialty & Fancy

Boxes — Wooden

Oreo had looked under all these headings in the yellow pages before she found a Jacob
Schwartz who made boxes. She was glad Jacob—if this was the right Jacob—had not called his
company the Reliance Box Co. or Best Boxes, Inc., or New York Box, Ltd. She knew beforehand
that even if Jacob’s name was listed, she would not find it until last, after she had looked
under all the other headings. This always happened to her. She tried some
kopdrayenish
on kismet by not going in order. She skipped from “Corrugated” to
“Wooden” to “Paper” to “Metal.” It did not work. That was exactly what kismet—a smart
cookie—expected her to do. Jacob was under the last heading: “Specialty & Fancy.” A
small box told about his boxes:

Oreo liked Jacob’s motto almost as much as she liked that of Chaim
Epstein & Daughter, Inc.: “A Box Is a Box Is a Box But—Don’t Mention—We’re
Menshen
.”

Oreo looked at shoes and tried to guess what their wearers were like
before she glanced up for confirmation. She guessed wrong on a pair of calf-hugging white
boots. They were on a wall-eyed teenager with a lordotic slouch—obviously a failed drum
majorette—and not on a Hadassah lady with a blue rinse, a type among whom such boots had
been
de rigueur
for several seasons. She got the vacationing prostitute in the
Grecian sandals (orange) that laced up to her zorch (exposed); the eleven-year-old tomboy
with high-topped Pro-Keds; the black queen with liberation pumps by Gucci (red for the blood
of black people, black for their race, and green for the money Gucci was making from this
style); the barefoot heroin addict who had painted his feet shoe black; the waif in waif
shoes; the wingéd bedroom slippers of a ninety-year-old employee of the Hermes Messenger
Service.

Other than this diversion and seeing types of boxes that she hadn’t known existed (a box
for leftover french fries; a fake jewel box for real jewelry inside a real jewel box for
fake jewelry; a box that could be used as an extra room for the growing family, a maid’s
room, or a guest room—a stock item popular with building contractors all over the country),
Oreo’s trip was wasted. Jacob was in Miami at the Fontainebleau (‘‘Fountain Blue,” said his
French secretary, perfecting her American accent).

Oreo had learned her lesson: don’t go when you can call. She called Equity. She called
AFTRA. She called SAG. They all told her the same thing, more or less.

The less part:

Did she want the Sam Schwartz who had to change his name because there was already a Sam
Schwartz on their roster or the other Sam Schwartz?

The other Sam Schwartz.

That would be Sam Schwartz, right?

Right. Would Equity-AFTRA-SAG give out his number, please?

Sorry. Can’t divulge that information. Call his agent.

Would Equity-AFTRA-SAG give out his agent’s number?

Sorry. Don’t have that information.

What about the Sam Schwartz that changed his name?

That would be Scott Scott.

Kept his initials, eh?

What?

Nothing. And, of course, Equity-AFTRA-SAG can’t give out his number either, right?

The more part:

“Is it a job?” the woman on the line said, lowering her voice.

“Yes,” Oreo lied. “Mike Nichols is talking about a two-picture deal.”

“Okay, here’s the number. Tell him Sally at the SAG office put you in touch with him. Don’t
forget,
Sally
.”

“Right. Sally. SAG. I’ll tell him.”

Oreo had let his number ring one hundred and eighteen times before she
decided to go to the Village on the chance that he might show up. She liked the flatted
fifth on the afterbeat of the ring and could have listened to it all day, but finally she
had torn herself away.

Oreo was standing on the corner of Eighth Street and the Avenue of the Americas. The
traffic standard gave a mechanical belch and turned green. “Where is Sixth Avenue?” she
asked a man standing next to her.

“You’re looking at it,” the man said.

“It says ‘Avenue of the Americas.’”

“I don’t care
what
it says. It’s
Sixth
Avenue.” The man crossed the
street, looking back angrily at Oreo.

Oreo had noticed that New Yorkers called things whatever they wanted to call them. Thus
Houston Street was not the “Hews-ton” of Texas, but “House-ton”; the so-called squares named
Sheridan, Duffy, Abingdon, Jackson, Cooper, and Father Demo were closer to being triangles;
hopskotch was called, in some potheaded precincts of Gotham, potsy; and New Yorkers stood
“on,” not “in,” line.

Oreo made two side trips—one to sniff the cheeses in a store called Cheese Village,
another to sniff the books in a library called Jefferson Market. The library reminded her of
a castle, with its spiral staircase, traceried windows, and low archways into the
paradoxically bright dungeon of the reference room.

Oreo knocked. There was no answer. She was about to turn away, when a
woman carrying an armload of groceries came up to the door. She was about thirty-five, with the harried look of a septiplegic
cephalopod.

“Are you looking for someone?” the woman asked, eyeing Oreo’s walking stick.

“Does Scott Scott live here?”

“Do you have the time?” The woman was trying to hold up the groceries, get her key out, and
bite her nails at the same time.

“It’s about three o’clock.”

“Scott should be home any minute now. You can come in and wait for him if you like.”

Oreo was shown into a tiny apartment cluttered with statuettes, globes, certificates—and
now with groceries, which the woman had dropped. “They’re Scott’s acting awards,” the woman
said, gesturing around the room with her elbows and chin. “I’m Mrs. Scott.”

Oreo had had enough fun watching Mrs. Scott juggle the groceries; it was time to help her.
She rounded up stray beef patties as she trailed Mrs. Scott into a kitchen that was just big
enough to let one slice of bread pop out of the toaster before it could actually be called
crowded.

“I must get Scott’s tea ready. He likes his tea as soon as he comes in.” She found an old
bag of Earl Grey behind the toaster.

Oreo backed out of the kitchen to wait for Scott. She saw Mrs. Scott drop the same teaspoon
seven times. Then the woman pulled herself together and dropped a cup for a change.
Fortunately, it was empty, and its fall was cushioned by the groceries, which Mrs. Scott had
dropped again. An orange rolled by Oreo’s foot. She picked it up and ate it quickly—she
thought she might go mad if it rolled by her one more time. It was what General Mills must
go through when Betty Crocker was in mittelschmerz.

Oreo looked around the apartment. Under the clutter, she could see that the Scotts had at
least one piece of furniture that they were protecting. It was an expensive plastic couch,
which the Scotts had had the bad taste to cover with cheap upholstery, so that neither
family nor visitors could get the look or feel of its fundamental, its rich plasticness.
Oreo, ever alert, had spied the plastic through a worn spot in the upholstery. She was
upset. To spend all that money on plastic and not show it!

A few minutes later, the door opened and a French-accented voice said, “I am arrived.”

Mrs. Scott came bursting out of the kitchen, tripping over a bunch of bananas. “Scott’s
here!” she said as if it were a miracle.

To Oreo, it was something less. The mature man, possibly her father, whom she had been
expecting turned out to be an eleven-year-old actor. He had the dark, knowing eyes of a
street urchin, and his black hair, a jaunty morion, peaked front and back. All his movements
were quick and sure. What his mother dropped on the one hand, he could surely catch,
offhandedly, on the other hand—while doing three other things, yawning.

Breaking a vase as she pointed to her son, Mrs. Scott introduced the boy. He put his school
books next to what Oreo now saw was a Play-Doh configuration of three Oscars, a Grammy, and
an Emmy.

“Hi, Scott,” said Oreo.

The boy threw his arms wide. “What is this that this is that you are so formal? I wish that
you me call of my prename.”

“Okay. Hi, Scott.”

“Well!” said Scott, nodding and rubbing his hands with apache aplomb. “Well, well, well,
that goes.” He laid his finger aside his nose. “Then, so, in that case, thereupon! How you
call you, young girl?”

“I call myself Christine Clark.”

“Well, well, well, that goes. Since what hour wait you for me?”

“Since three hours less ten minutes,” said Oreo.

“What a damage!” He turned to his mother. “I have need of the tea,” he said, speaking the
speech trippingly on the tongue as his mother went trippingly into the kitchen.

While Mrs. Scott was klutzing around, Oreo explained that she obviously had the wrong Scott
Scott. The Scott Scott she wanted, né Samuel Schwartz, had changed his name for stage
purposes.

Scott nodded vigorously. “You have reason.
Me
, this Scott here—this is me.”

“But your mother’s last name is Scott too.”

Scott shrugged. “This is true. You have reason.”

Mrs. Scott came back in, squishing a tomato underfoot—that is, in her case, underfeet.
She explained that she had changed her name for two reasons: one, she hated her husband for
not deserting her because she hated him, thereby putting her to the trouble of deserting
him; and, two, she knew her son would be famous someday, and she wanted part of that action.
When people spoke of Scott Scott, they would be speaking of her too, since her real first
name was also Scott. She and her son had taken her maiden names. Parenthetically, she said
that she had assumed Oreo was one of her son’s chums from Professional Children’s School. He
had many older friends, she said.

“Which reminds me,” Oreo said, “Sally at the SAG office asked me to say hello for her.”

“Ah, yes, Sally—my old. She is—how you say?—a veritable pedophile.” He shrugged again. “But
that is the war.”

“That woman!” said Mrs. Scott with a shudder. She took the dripping teabag from Scott’s cup
and plunked it into Oreo’s cup of hot water. “I hope you don’t mind,” she apologized.

“Not at all. I like weak tea. My grandmother calls it ‘water bewitched.’”

Scott clapped his hands. “This is magnificent! That phrase there—this is the word just.” He
turned to his mother. “Mama, my cabbage flower, have we of the outside of works to offer
this visitor charming?”

While his mother stumbled into the kitchen, Scott excused himself to go to the room of
bath. Amidst klunks, bangs, and thuds, Mrs. Scott chatted with Oreo. Oreo marveled at young
Scott’s accent. She told his mother that his inflection was so musically Gallic, she had had
to remind herself that he was speaking English and not French. Mrs. Scott said that Scott
came home with a different accent each day. Fortunately, she knew many languages and could
follow him most of the time; but for two days the week before, because of her ignorance of
Shluh and Kingwana syntax, Scott might as well have been speaking Shluh and Kingwana.

When Scott came back (one step and he loomed before them), Oreo told him that the other Sam
Schwartz—the one who was still Sam Schwartz—must be her father.

Scott stroked his chin, then snapped his fingers. “There is!” He put his hand gently on
Oreo’s shoulder. “Then, so, in that case, thereupon, the path of your father, it has crossed
the mine many of times. The ten-eighth April, I think, that day there, your father, he was
the voice of a bubble of soap, and I the fall of the snows of yesteryear,” he said, perhaps
quoting Villon. He paced the floor (two and one-thirty-second paces) and turned sharply.
“Have you the knowledge of the mathematics?” he asked pointedly.

“
Oui
—I mean, yes,” said Oreo.

Scott removed his school books from the Play-Doh sculpture garden, saying that if Oreo
would help him with his math problems, he would give her some leads to her father’s
whereabouts.