Oreo (14 page)

“In the next section, you have your chopped chicken liver, with an extra portion of
shmaltz
so that you can mix it to your own taste. Next to that is Tante Ruchel’s
justly famous
gefilte
fish. Next to that is our
chrain
, with an extra
wallop especially for Passover. Next to that is a hard-boiled egg, already halved for your
convenience. The main course, occupying a double section all its own, is baby lamb
shank—roasted to perfection and garnished with generous sprigs of parsley. See, Tante Ruchel
didn’t forget. A packet of kosher salt comes with every frozen Seder. ‘What’s for dessert?’
you ask. For dessert we have, of course,
charoseth
, but it’s Tante Ruchel’s own
special blend of apples, nuts, and cinnamon—a taste treat you’ll never forget. Tante Ruchel
has even thought of wine. Where state laws permit, you’ll find a two-ounce container of
holiday wine in the eighth and final tray section. Be sure to remove the container before
you pop the Seder into the oven. Yes, believe it or not, that’s all you have to do to serve
your family a delicious, traditional Passover meal. Just pop Tante Ruchel’s Frozen Passover
TV Seder into a three fifty oven, relax for thirty minutes, and your family will think you
slaved over a hot stove for days. Remember our motto: ‘A holiday for your family should be a
holiday for you also. Let Tante Ruchel worry.’ Look for Tante Ruchel’s Frozen Passover TV
Seders in your grocer’s freezer. Why wait for Passover? Try one today. Who’s to say no?”

Slim had her redo a couple of sections here and there, which he called “wild” lines, but he
seemed pleased.

“How did you know I could do it?” Oreo asked.

NICE VOICE, SLIGHT JEWISH ACCENT,
he ballooned.

“What Jewish accent?” Oreo protested.

Slim pointed to his ear—the “Golden Conch” he had termed it earlier in the session.
REMINDS ME OF SAM SCHWARTZ,
he printed.

“I’ve never met the man,” Oreo said wryly.

Slim shrugged a “So what can I tell you?” and pointed again to his ear.

They went back to Slim’s office, where he had Oreo sign a release saying she had been paid
for doing the commercial and had no further claims on Mr. Soundman, Inc. Then he gave Oreo
ten dollars.

“How much would a pro get for doing that?” she asked.

A LOT MORE,
his balloon admitted.

“Well?”

Slim handed her another ten dollars and held up his
REMINDS ME OF SAM SCHWARTZ
cardboard again.

Oreo shrugged a “So what can I tell you?” and shook his hand.

She stood in the doorway and saw a curious procession coming down the
street. A black pimp and ten prostitutes, five white, five black, in alternating colors,
wended toward her in a ragged V, a checkerboard wedge of wedges. The pimp’s walk reminded
Oreo of Fonzelle, her brother’s friend. But Fonzelle’s was a heavy choreography, this one
lighter, more fluid. It was as though the pimp were swimming down the street, a swan breasting the current for his cygnets. The cob would take two stroking steps, glide to a
stop, flutter his arms ostentatiously to his hips, turn to see that he was still followed at
a respectful distance, and continue downstream. His clothes seemed to grow out of him,
hugging his lithe, sigmoid torso more snugly than a suit of lights a torero’s sinuosity. He
was fledged in a suit of pearlescent pink velvet, a soft dawn-gray shirt, a blushing-rose
string tie. His long-billed velvet cap raked this way and that as he skewed about to check
on the progress of his brood. The rake’s progress, Oreo thought, and laughed to herself.
Occasionally he paused to buff his nails, perking his chest with anseriform hauteur. When
he stopped, the women stopped; when he moved on, they followed. Oreo decided to name him
after an adulterer and, as a student of British history, dubbed him Parnell.

The first woman behind the pimp carried a high stool and a white parasol. She was obviously
his bottom woman, since she had been entrusted with his throne. She was white. The next
eight pens in the bevy carried only their purses and a pent-up expression. The last woman in
line, black, carried a shoeshine box with a built-in footrest. His next-to-bottom woman,
Oreo surmised. Only the favorites got to do all the extra work. Oreo’s assessment of their
relative rank was supported by the fact that all the women except the first and last were
wearing similar crotch-high red dresses, while the bottom women wore pink ones that matched
Parnell’s suit, enabling the dullest observer to distinguish the stars from the chorus line
at a glance.

The group passed Mr. Soundman and came to a halt in front of the next stoop. Parnell
casually turned to face the street and crossed his arms. He uncrossed them long enough to
snap his fingers, then crossed them again. The white bottom woman placed the stool under his
bottom, the parasol over his head, and the pimp sat, one rose-booted foot on the middle rung
of the stool, the other straight in front of him. He snapped his fingers again. The black
bottom woman approached him, carrying the shoeshine box as though it were a chalice. She
lifted his foot from the ground and placed it on the footrest.

The two bottom women then stepped to either side of him. He snapped his fingers again. The
two queens nodded to their eight ladies-in-waiting. The first of the eight took a deep
breath, knelt before her liege lord, and began shining his shoes. After about five minutes
of creaming, buffing, and polishing, the pimp snapped his fingers.

It’s a wonder the friction from all that finger-snapping doesn’t set his phalanges on fire,
Oreo was thinking, when she saw that the pimp was repaying his bootblack—or, rather,
bootrose—with a boot in the behind. Oreo was alone in her surprise. The two queens were
impassive, the ladies-in-waiting stolid. The shoe polisher herself apparently regarded the
boot as her customary tip. She merely rubbed her rear and hurried up the steps of the
building in front of which all this took place. She disappeared inside.

Oreo did not persist in her surprise when she saw that this ritual was to be repeated
through all the women in line: the polishing of the boot, the booting by the boot, the
hotfooting it into the building. By the time the last woman had snapped her rag at the
rose-colored boots, the sun was virtually recoiling from the surface of the leather.
Sunbeams gratefully ricocheted away whenever Parnell wiggled his toes. Another finger-snap
and the two queens helped him off his stool, which one retrieved while the other fetched the
shoeshine box. As the two women turned to go up the steps, the pimp gave them both a
resounding whack on the bottom, this time with his hand, further proof that they held a
special place in his balls.

He stood on the sidewalk, one hand on his hip, gazing with shielded eyes at his coruscating
boots. All his women were inside, but he seemed to relish just standing there on the sidewalk.

Oreo estimated that half the block was watching from windows and doorways just as she was.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. She reached into her handbag and put some loose
change in the middle of one of the ten-dollar bills Slim had paid her. She crushed the bill
lightly around the coins and bounced down the steps, humming to herself and swinging her
cane. She walked briskly past Parnell, smiling a free and open smile.

She was a step beyond him before he spoke. “Hello, big stuff,” he said softly, “where you
going with your bad self?”

Oreo didn’t answer.

“Not speaking, huh? Dicty, ain’t you, Miss Siditty? Okay, hello,
small
stuff,” he
said in a put-down voice.

Oreo turned, looked at his crotch, pointedly assessing the cob’s cobs, and said, “Hello,
no
stuff.”

“Ouch!” he said. “You got me that time, baby.” He smiled and glided toward her.

Oreo smiled back and dropped the money. The coins tinkled all over the sidewalk, but the
pimp did not make a move toward them. His eyes glommed on to the ten-dollar bill. Oreo
pretended to be preoccupied with gathering all her coins. She turned away from Parnell. In
that split second, he bent over to pick up the bill. In the second half of that split
second, Oreo turned back to see a lovely close-up of his rear. She drew back her walking
stick like a pool cue and (decisions, decisions) leaned toward ball-breaking or buggery. Oh,
hell, she decided, I don’t want to get pimp shit all over his nice cane. She switched her
grip and instead gave him a grand-slam clout across the ass. If his howl meant anything, it
meant that he was now the only person on the block with four cheeks to sit on. Parnell
staggered and fell into the gutter. As Oreo ran down the street, she saw three things
happen. One, a sanitation truck came into the street.
Flush!
Two, all up and down
the street, witnesses to the flushing, at the extreme edge of hysterical laughter, clung to
their windowsills (Parnell’s suit was ruined, but the water merely beaded on his boots and
ran back into the gutter). Three, Parnell’s women appeared at the door, a look of revelation
on their faces.

She smiled her cookie smile every time she thought of Parnell’s sodden
rise from the gutter. His arms extended like wings away from his soiled and dripping suit,
his fingers spoked out from his palms at a web-splitting stretch. Oreo hoped that the look
of revelation on the faces of the prostitutes meant that they had discovered Parnell was
vulnerable. If one stranger could whip his ass, why not ten friends?

Oreo knew she would have to be careful as she roamed around the neighborhood waiting for
her father to show up at the whorehouse. Parnell did not look like the kind who would take
to humiliation like a swan to lakes. As soon as he changed his clothes, he would probably be
out looking for her—a drag, since she had to hang around to try to catch Samuel before he
started catting.

Oreo was hungry. She ducked into a luncheonette, sat in a booth in the back, and ordered a
hot-sausage sandwich, a Shabazz bean pie, and a Pepsi.

The woman behind the counter, obviously the owner, was huge, a giant high-yellow Buddha. To
the tune of “St. Louis Woman,” she sang, “I hate to see my only son go down, I hate to see
my only son go down.” She repeated these lines thirty-seven times. The repetition was
driving Oreo mad—she wanted to hear the rest of the parody.

The woman beckoned to her when the sausage was ready. Oreo carried the food to the booth
herself. No one else was in the place. The woman did not seem inclined to talk, had merely
grunted, to show she had heard, when Oreo ordered, and now went back to her copy of
Vogue
. Oreo did a double take.
Vogue
? She had misjudged the woman.
Harper’s Bazaar
, yes;
Vogue
, no, she would have sworn. Oreo now saw that she had missed the gaining-circulation
squint of the eyes, the condé nast flare of the nostrils. Oreo was disappointed in herself.
It was like mixing up the Brontës. After all, Branwell’s staggering style was not Anne’s.

The whole episode was an affront to Oreo’s judgment, and she resolved to be less quick to
snap in future. For example, what of the only son the woman was so musically concerned for?
Oreo could not refrain from wondering, Is he real or imaginary? She was at first inclined to
think real. A woman with the proprietor’s solidity gave one the impression of practicality,
a reflex grasp of—no, a stranglehold on—everyday life. Such a woman, with her banana
fingers, might well despair of the sexual proclivities of any son who was not a Kodiak bear
and hence, to forestall such despair, would train up her child in the way he should go,
which would be in any direction but down. Any blow jobs connected with any son of this
mother would be to, not fro. Another point: the reader of
Vogue
was ofttimes a
traditionalist. A traditionalist would wear at all times—waking and sleeping, resting or
laying waste the countryside—a wedding ring. Oreo looked again at the banana fingers of the
left hand. No band of gold bruised the bunch. This, of course, was not conclusive proof. It
would be hard to find a ring that could contain those plantains. What is more, a store owner
might think it politic to keep valuables that were not for sale out of sight of thieves. But
Oreo felt that if this woman had a ring, she would wear it—and let thieves come if they
dared. No, she was not married; she had no relatives, not even a sonlike nephew to sing
about. Nephews who worked for her would toil around the clock and think twice before
complaining about the low wages—and there was no nephew in sight. Q.E.D. The copy of
Vogue
was again the crucial clue. It took imagination to persist in reading a
magazine whose cover date was January, 1928. Yes, the only son of the song was—
mirabile
cantabile
(which in Oreo’s pidgin Latin meant “wonderful to sing”)—imaginary.

Oreo finished her bean pie, took a last swig of Pepsi, and paid the check. She said good
evening to the proprietor, who grunted, licked her finger, and turned a page of her
magazine. This Sakyamuni was now sitting on one of her counter stools, her apron hammocked
across her knees. If she sat like that much longer, impassive and idol-like, she would
present a cruel temptation to deranged incense burners in the neighborhood.

Oreo pushed open the screen door. She raised her chin to sniff the dark, peppery air
outside the luncheonette, when suddenly her left arm made a distinct L behind her back. Her
walking stick was jerked from her right hand. She turned her head. Out of the corner of her
eye, she could see Parnell. “Oh shit,” she said softly.

“Um-hm,” Parnell gloated. “Got you by the
short
hairs this time, baby.”

“Can we talk this over?” Oreo asked.

“Oh, we gon talk it over, all right—and
then
some.” Parnell was marching her down
the street with her arm still behind her back, making no attempt to hide the fact that he
was coercing her. People looked on with perhaps a shade less curiosity than they would have
lent to a change of traffic light.

One man greeted Parnell with “What’s the haps, my man? See you got a new worker for the
vineyard. She
saying
something too. Choice cut, man, choice,” he said, looking Oreo
up and down. She looked him up and down in retaliation, but he didn’t notice as he swung
down the street.

Oreo wondered whether to use WIT on Parnell right on the street, but she decided to wait
and see what kind of game he would try to run. She told him there was no need to twist her
arm. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll go along with your program.”

“You better believe it. I got something special in store for you, baby. You really gon dig
it. That is, it gon dig
you
.” He chuckled to himself at his turn of phrase.

They turned into Parnell’s block. He relaxed his grip, out of fatigue. She could see now
that he was wearing a suit of identical cut and style to the fine pink feathers he had
strutted earlier. This one was midnight blue, more appropriate for evening. His boots too
were blue-black and scintillated like a vein of anthracite struck by a miner’s Cyclopean
lamp.

The hustler hustled Oreo up the front steps. Inside, the first floor was dark. All she
could see was a light under a door at the end of a narrow hallway. They went up the stairs
to the second floor. Parnell opened the door into a large square room with a huge wrestling
mat in the center. On chairs around the periphery of the room were one little, two little,
three little prostitutes, four little, five little, six little prostitutes, seven little,
eight little, nine little prostitutes—where was the tenth? Oreo wondered. The black bottom
woman was missing. The nine young women looked as if they were about to greet Oreo as a
sorority sister. They started to make a place for her along the wall.

“This is the bitch that ruined my baby-ass-pink suit—and put my ass in a sling,” announced Parnell. He tenderly
touched his behind.

Oreo translated their collective murmur as “Oh-oh, too bad for you, honey.” Behind their
masks of loyalty, Oreo thought she detected a tentative snicker at Parnell.

“Now she gon get
hers
this evening,” Parnell said. “Just in case any you bitches
begin to
begin
to think you can run some shit on me, I’m gon show you what happens
to little girls whose mamas didn’t teach ’em no manners.”

All this time, Oreo had been flexing her arm, ready to fling Parnell to the floor as soon
as things got a bit sticky. But she was curious. She still had not peeped his hole card.

“Now, y’all have heard rumors to the effect that I’m keeping some kinda way-out instrument
of torture in that spare room.” He cocked his head toward a door at the opposite end of the
room, cater-cornered from where he and Oreo were standing. “I want to tell you in front that
this is one
heavy
torture, chicks. I ain’t had to use it on any you yet. Y’all been
good little girls, humping your hineys off for li’l ol’ me. But this bitch”—he gave Oreo an
extra arm twist, which she added to her revenge list—“this bitch is something else. It gon
be my pleasure to see her split wide open.”

Oreo was getting a little worried now—she might actually have to hurt Parnell. If push came
to shove, how many of these women would fight for Parnell once she made her move and started
pushing and shoving him all over this room? Would she have to rack them all up? And what the
fuck was this instrument of torture?

Parnell snapped his fingers, and all heads snapped his way. He pointed to the woman
farthest from him. “Knock three times on that door, then step aside.” The woman looked
puzzled but did as she was told. Nothing happened. “Knock again—harder,” said Parnell. The
woman had no sooner lifted her knuckles after the third knock than the door burst open. She
did not step aside soon enough and was knocked down as something—Oreo at first thought it
was a small white horse—rushed out and bore down on them. Oreo looked again. It was a man,
virtually on all fours, caparisoned in a black loincloth.

He cantered over to Parnell and nuzzled his hand. Parnell patted him, and the man
straightened up as far as he could, to a slight stoop. He was deeply muscled. His withers
twitched as though covered with flies. His dark forelock covered his eyes like a shade as he
pawed the ground, impatiently waiting for Parnell to tell him what to do.

“This is Kirk,” Parnell said, stroking the man’s back. “Kirk is from out of town, folks.
Say hello to the bitches, Kirk.”

Kirk raised his upper lip and nickered, showing teeth long and strong, with a decided
overbite.

“Thattaboy,” said Parnell. “We got your first American playmate for you, Kirk. Young and
juicy. You like that don’t you, Kirk?”

Kirk pawed the ground twice. Oreo assumed that meant “yes” and that “no” would be indicated
by one hoof-strike.

“Strip for the ladies,” Parnell said, pantomiming to make sure he understood.

After a moment of incomprehension, Kirk did as he was directed. A gasp went up from the
nine prostitutes. Parnell looked, and looked again, with a “What hath God wrought?”
expression of envy on his face. Kirk’s equipment unfurled like a paper favor blown by
Gabriel at the last party in the history of the world. His demanding “digit” made
undiscriminating Uncle-Sam-wants-you gestures around the room.

Oreo was impressed. Male genitals had always reminded her of oysters, gizzards, and turkey
wattles at best, a bunch of seedless grapes at worst. On the other hand, most marmoreal
baskets (e.g., the David’s) resembled the head of a mandrill (a serendipitous pun). An
inveterate crotch-watcher, she had once made a list of sports figures whom she classified
under the headings “Capons” and “Cockerels.” The capons (mostly big-game hunters, bowlers)
were men whose horns could be described by any of the following (or similar) terms:
pecker
,
dick
,
cock
,
thing
,
peter
,
prick
,
dangle
,
shmendrick
,
putz
,
shmuck
.
The cockerels (gymnasts, swimmers) sported any of the following:
shlong
,
dong
,
rod
,
tool
,
lumber
. Neutral words
(
member
,
penis
) were applicable in cases where the looseness or padding
of the standard uniform made definitive assessment impossible (baseball, basketball,
football, hockey, and tennis players). But Kirk’s stallion was a horse of another collar, of
such dimensions that he could have used a zeppelin for a condom.

“Are you planning what I think you’re planning?” Oreo asked cautiously.

“Um-hm,” smirked Parnell.

“No-o-o!” the checkerboard Greek chorus chorused plaintively. Parnell silenced them with a
glance.

“Does the fact that I’m a virgin get to you?” Oreo asked.

Parnell smiled as at a baby’s funeral. “Just makes it all the juicier.” He gave her the
look of the expert. “Besides, you prob’ly lying. At your age, looking like you do? No
way
.”

Oreo saw that it was senseless to try the usual bullshit. She made a straightforward
proposition. “Three things: I get the right of inspection for general cleanliness; there is
to be no rimming—just straight-on fucking; and I get to go to the bathroom before we
start.”

“I don’t know where you get this what-you-will-do, what-you-won’t-do shit. You better watch
your mouth ’fore I bust you right now, bitch. But none them
requests
don’t make me
no nevermind. My man here’s gon do you in, chick. And I do mean
do
, and I do mean
in
. So make your play—you ain’t gon get away, dig?” Kirk was getting restless.
Parnell stroked his back. “Just a little while now, Kirk. You let the little lady look at you now like a
good boy.”

“I hate to be a nag, but I don’t want to touch it. Could somebody else do it for me?”

Parnell laughed. “You a funny bitch. You don’t want to touch it, but it shit-sure gon touch
you in more ways than one. But have your fun now. I’m gon be getting my jollies in a few
minutes.” He snapped his fingers. Without turning his head, he said, “Cecelia, turn this
guy out for the girl, will you?”

In a second, one of the women appeared at his side. She reached down and expertly pulled
back Kirk’s foreskin. Oreo looked. Kirk had cornered the market on smegma. “You gotta be
kidding,” Oreo said. “He could open a cheese store under there.”

Even Parnell’s eyebrows shot up in distaste. “Take him to the crapper and wash him,
Cecelia.” He turned to Kirk. “Go with the nice lady, Kirk, but don’t hurt her. She not for
you. This one’s for you,” he said, fondly patting Oreo’s afro.

Oreo was furious. She had been monumentally forbearing so far, out of curiosity—letting
Parnell twist her arm, call her “bitch,” and in general dump on her—but now she had had it.
She hated anyone to touch her soft, cottony hair without permission. She was having a shit
fit, gradually working herself up into a state of
hwip-as
. Parnell would be the
sorriest pimp in Harlem when she got through with him. But she would first take on Kirk and
get
that
over with. “May I go to the bathroom while Cecelia’s taking care of
Kirk?” she asked docilely.