by Ross, Fran
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.
9 Phaea
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.”
On the subway to Long Island City
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.”
En route to Scott Scott’s
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 Chees
e 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.
At Scott Scott’s
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.
Scott Scott’s math problems and Oreo’s fake answers (the real answers are found only in the teacher’s edition of this book)
Q. Gloria spent a certain amount for a new dress, a pair of shoes, and a purse. If the combined cost of the purse and shoes was $150 more than the cost of the dress, and the combined cost of the dress and purse was $127 less than twice the cost of the shoes, what is Gloria’s real name?
A. In round figures, Shirley.
Q. An aspiring starlet rode a train that traveled at 70 miles per hour from Kenosha, Wisconsin, to the terminal in Los Angeles. She took a limousine that traveled at 20 miles per hour to Watts, escaping in a motor launch that traveled at 14 knots to Knott’s Berry Farm. The entire trip of 2,289 miles required how many coup
s d’´tats if the starlet spent seven times as long on the motor launch as she did in the limousine?
A. Not counting Carmen Miranda, 3; counting Twentieth Century-Fox and General Maxwell D. Taylor, 547 at one blow of state.
Q. Jim has gone to school six times as long as Harry, and in 4 years he will have gone to school twice as long. What grade of motor oil does Jim use?
A. The question assumes a knowledge of calculus, thermodynamics, and jacks. It is not fair, and I refuse to answer it.
Q. A girl can clean her room in 46 minutes, and her roommate can do the job in 22 minutes. How long will it take them to figure out that they are wasting their time because the house has been condemned?
A. Two shakes of Charles Lamb’s tale.
Q. To lay in a straight walk from his house to his gate, a man used 92 feet of foundation into which he poured 40 cubic feet of concrete to make a slab 8 inches thick. Name his disease and its seriousness, or dimensions.
A. Schizophrenia. A 2-inch, diagonal split.
Q. A sales representative was allowed 17 cents per mile for the use of his car, a 1928 Auburn, and $4 a day for general expenses (another auburn). One month, he submitted expenses totaling $8,332, which he was reimbursed, to cover the cost of these two items. If the mileage charge was $46.82 less than his daily allowance, what name did this salesman sign to the ha-ha-I-got-away note he sent from Nicaragua?
A. A Distant Drummer.
Q. A babysitter charged 72 cents per hour before midnight and $1.10 per hour after midnight. During a certain month, the babysitter earned $12.60 and the number of hours worked before midnight lacked 2 hours of being six times the number of hours work after midnight. How many of you assumed the babysitter was female, and how many of you were correct in that assumption?
A. Three, two, and seventeen, especially Nicholas Chauvin.
Q. Tim and Tom were brothers who had a housepainting business. If Tim could paint 2 cubic feet per minute in decorator colors while Tom was painting his face blue and holding the ladder for Tim, what did the neighbors call the brothers after Tim’s operation?