Fran Ross - Oreo

“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.

Oreo outside Mr. Soundman, Inc.

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.”