Fran Ross - Oreo

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 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.

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.”