Shortening Bread

I don’t know if it still holds true, but not too many years ago the Long Island Railroad had a program whereby you got a reduced rate to and from New York City if you traveled “off-peak” hours. So it was that I was on the 10:06 on the southern branch, with rapidly diminishing dreams of becoming a multi-million-dollar movie script writer.

I literally had more than 30 treatments, teleplays and full length feature film scripts in my files, some of them quite good actually, but they had been there for a decade at least. Sold a couple of scripts, but they were never produced, such is the nature of the industry. As the Brits says, it’s a “Mugs game,” and all rules of decency, civility or ordinary courtesy, don’t apply. There are more whores in the motion picture industry than in all the brothels of Southeast Asia.

I was thinking such thoughts that spring morning when dressed in sports jacket, slacks, shirt and tie I gazed out at the by now familiar landscape of houses, stores, and occasional patches of green, which grew ever fewer as we approached New York.

It was just after Babylon station when this African-American family got on and seated themselves. Impeccably dressed, in colorful, well-starched dress, the two little girls looked like figurines. They chatted in the mellifluous cadences and warm vowel sounds of the Caribbean until the next station when an extraordinary creature entered our car.

She wore a white 1920’s Hollywood-style turban, had two ounces of powder on her face and her abundant mouth was listicked to form an enormous bow. The eye liner and mascara were very heavy and the lashes three quarters of an inch long. She had about six long strands of pearls over a black velvet dress. This escapee from the Hollywood of Clara Bow and Gloria Swanson wore ankle length white socks and black patent leather shoes. Somewhere in her late sixties or early seventies, she was exuberant upon arrival and immediately espied the two little girls.

With no preamble she said,” Aren’t you a picture. Picture perfect I should say. What are your names and how old are you?” Without waiting for an answer from the two absolutely awestruck children she asked, “Do you like music? I’m a music teacher, you know, have been for forty years and have taught thousands of little children how to play and sing. Would you like a song, girls?” Before they could answer she put a forefinger to her mouth, looked heavenward and tapped her lips. “Hmmmm, what would be appropriate?”

She thought for another moment and said, “I’ve got it,” and started singing and dancing to “Mamma’s little baby loves shortening, shortening, mamma’s little baby loves shortening bread.” Her sounds grew louder as her hands reached toward her knees and she began crossing them and slapping her knees and swaying. The Black couple, their children, myself, and by now, the conductor, sat with our mouths hanging open as the spirited, rollicking performance continued. She kicked up her heels and kept crossing her hands and slapping her knees in a Charleston take-off as her voice climbed to fight the wheel noises and fill the car.

I literally grabbed my cheeks in my right hand and held them hard but could feel the laughter trying to pass my lips as the song continued, “Six months for the skillet, six months for the bread, six months in jail eating shortening bread.” The conductor was transfixed, twenty years on the railroad and now this impromptu, highly spirited rendition of the old southern tune. He backed toward the rear of the car and without taking his eyes off our singer/dancer, closed the door.

I tried not to be mesmerized by the show and glanced at the little girls. I could have sworn they didn’t take a breath during the rendition. Their parents sat utterly transfixed until our performer stopped, grinning hugely and said, I‘ll bet you never heard anything like that before, did you?” and sat down.

We dared not look at each other but rode silently into the city. I got off with the family and we looked at each other and broke into fits of laughter. It carried me through that day and another round of disappointments. Late that afternoon I returned to Long Island and found myself quietly singing, “Mamma’s little baby, loves shortening, shortening,” and was better for it.