Fran Ross - Oreo

They stopped dancing and got down to the real business of seeing who could top whom. It went on for about fifteen minutes, his tit for her tat, and vice-verbal, until they both got tired and conceded the match was a draw.

Oreo never discovered her opponent’s name, but she was happy for the chance she’d had to flex her snot-nosed-kid muscles. She headed back to the campsite, comforted by the knowledge that the Jewish half of her had kept her from getting sickle-cell anemia and the black half had warded off Tay-Sachs disease.

Back at the campsite

Oreo said good night to the Does, fifty baby steps away, and snuggled under her rock ledge on newspapers she had chosen for the purpose. She had picked ad pages with a high percentage of white space, not only because their good-taste quotient was likely to be high, but also because it would cut down on the amount of newsprint that could come off on her dress.

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.

The next morning

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: