Oreo by Fran Ross Read Free Book Online

but now if I see a white spot on a dog, I want to fill it in.
    I saw Sadie Herschberg as I was leaving. She was so fat she could have used a bra on her
     kneecaps—about a 38D. I mean to tell you, she was 360
degrees
fat. Herschberg
     himself was a beanpole—a
loksh
. When they went down the street together, one
     streaking, one shloomping, they looked like a lame number 10 or maybe an 01, depending.
    Newark
    A few minutes ago, I was listening to the local TV newscast, and the announcer said
     something like: “Fred Jones of Rahway, New Jersey, has been indicted for milking a bankrupt
     kosher meat company of thirty-three thousand dollars.”
Milchedig
and
fleishedig
! A
frosk in pisk
to Fred.
    Happiness, Montana
    What am I doing in Montana? What am I doing in a town called Happiness?
     Nothing. So I make long-distance calls to the circulation departments of the
New York
     Review of Books
, the
Partisan Review
, and
Commentary
. I say,
     “Hello, [
name of magazine
]? This is Miss Cream at your fulfillment house in Iowa
     [all fulfillment houses are in Iowa]. Could you please give me a list of your subscribers in
     Happiness, Montana? Our computer has gone haywire, and we are double-checking our records.”
     There is a short wait, and I look out the window at the pyorrheic mountains while New York
     checks its records. New York comes back on the line with a list of two names. In each case,
     they are the same two names.
    Then I call up the local newspaper, the
Happiness Chronicle
, and speak to the
     editor-publisher-reporter-layout man. I say, “Hello,
Chronicle
? This is
Life
magazine calling. Miss Sweet here. We are doing a survey on ethnic and
     religious groups in Montana and want to include your town in the survey. We know you’re on
     top of things out there, and if you can help us we’d be glad to mention your name in the
     piece we’re doing. Our question is twofold:
(a)
How many members of the Jewish
     faith are there in Happiness? And
(b)
What are their names?” The
     editor-publisher-reporter-layout man says, “Well, yes, there’s a Jewish fella out here—Mel
     Blankenstein. He’s the only one of Jewish persuasion in this town. A real nice fella too.
     Keeps to himself. Joe Kerry down to the superette does land-office business on farmer’s
     cheese because of Mel, I hear tell.” Then I say, “Thank you so much for your cooperation,
     sir. Look for your name and the name of that fine paper you’re running in the pages of
Life
magazine.”
    I hang up and I compare my
Partisan Review—New York Review—Commentary
list. Yes,
     Mel Blankenstein, reader of the above-named magazines, is one and the same Mel Blankenstein
     that is the nice fellow who has a taste for pot cheese. But—wait a minute. There is another
     name on my magazine list. What of that? I stare at the name. The name is Leonard Birdsong
     III. Leonard (surely Lenny) Birdsong (Feigelzinger, perhaps, or is the last name simply a
     flight of Wasp-inspired fantasy?). And III, of course just means third generation on
     Rivington Street. I now know something that nobody else in town knows—not even Mel. I know
     that Leonard Birdsong III is a crypto-Jew. My God, he’s passing—the
geshmat!
    I look at the two-page phone book and, yes, there they both are, the proud Jew and the
meshumad
. I decide to send Lenny a note before I leave town. My note will say:
     “Dear Lenny: Can you come over Friday night? My wife will fix you a meal like in the olden
     days. A little
gefilte
fish, a little
chrain
, some nice hot soup, a nice chicken. Who
     knows? Maybe a
kugel
even. Come on, Lenny, enough shlepping
trayf
home
     from Kerry’s Superette (though the pot cheese is unbeatable—imported from New York). It
     would be an
averah
if we Jews didn’t stick together, especially way out here. I am
     so sick and tired of looking at
goyim
I could
plotz!
We’ll expect you
     early. Best, Mel. P.S.: If you like pepper, please bring your own. We don’t