David Ohle - The Old Reactor

“I didn’t know.”

“Some jellyhead gone critical barges into his store, squirts him, takes a sack of sulfur, fifty pounds of slug bait and a gallon of fly syrup. So Goody’s out of all that. What do you need?”

“A tub of rat paste. I’ll take the chance he might be open.”

“All right then. Walk ten or twelve blocks north and there you are.”

Moldenke felt the heat of the sidewalk through boot and sock and into the bottoms of his feet. The walk to Goody’s was miserable and he was parched by the time he got there. After a long drink at a public fountain he sat down on a bench in front of the store and took off his boots. His socks were worn in places and there were little bleedings where shoe nails had pushed up through the sole and punctured the skin. He slammed the boots repeatedly against the concrete until the rest of the dried out stool fell off. When his socks had aired a little he laced his boots back up and went in under a hand-painted sign that read: NO JELLYHEADS.

In front of him was an opaque window where orders were placed, and another where they were picked up. Goody tended both wearing a rough, sagging mask scissored out of window curtains and held there by a headband.

He opened one window long enough to take the order then went about filling it. Only his wavering silhouette could be seen through the glass as he moved about. When the order was filled, Goody appeared at the pickup window to deliver it.

When Moldenke’s turn at the window came he ordered a tub of rat paste. “The strongest you have. This is a big rat.”

Goody went back to fetch the tub and Moldenke met him at the pickup window. “You can put this on Big Ernie’s card.”

“All right,” Goody said. “He and I are good friends. His nuts click loud in this City.”

“Sorry to hear about your deforming, Mr. Goody. It could happen to any of us I hear.”

“Yeah, sure enough. That little jelly came in here in spite of that sign out there that says ‘no jellies.’ He ordered a sack of salts, and when I opened the window, he sprayed me all over my face, laughing, like he was having a lot of fun. I’m all scarred up.”

Moldenke shook his head, which made his ears ring. “I guess that’s the only fun jellyheads can have. Was he naked? Wearing a cap? Good sized donniker?”

“That’s the one. The hat and the big peter.”

Goody slid the tub of rat bait forward and closed the window suddenly, nearly crushing Moldenke’s fingers. The lights dimmed. The store was closing abruptly for the day.

Moldenke shuffled out with a few unserved, complaining shoppers all rushing to the car stop at once. This time, with his boots clean, Moldenke thought he would be able to board the Arden car going to the Park. He did board initially without trouble, but along the line there was a kiosk and a stop sign between the exit from the Quarter and the entrance to free Altobello. An official stepped from the kiosk and entered the stopped car. He went up the aisle grumbling, checking pass cards. When he came to Moldenke he said, “You stink. Don’t you think that offends the rest of the passengers? Get off now.”

“Well, I’m sure it does offend them, but it’s something I couldn’t help. I stepped in jelly stool.”

“In that camp in the park?”

“Yes.”

“My young son fell face down in a pile when we were walking through there. They’re worse than dogs, aren’t they? Don’t get off. It could happen to anybody.”

The official signaled to the conductor to move on down the line, that everything on the car was fine.

After getting off, Moldenke sat on the curb to load rat paste into the sausages. He split the casing with his long, dirty thumbnail, parted the two sides, then used a stick to press the paste into the gap. When he turned to get up, he saw the naked jellyhead trotting purposefully across the street, tongue dripping with hunger, the large member swinging, the cap worn rakishly to the side. His hands, however, were empty. He wasn’t carrying deformant.

Without slowing, the jellyhead snatched a sausage from Moldenke’s hand and ran into the unlit Park. Moldenke followed at a chosen distance — not close, not far. It was getting dark and hard to see. The jellyhead slowed his pace long enough to eat half the sausage then raced on toward the old dead tree. Moldenke continued following. He had no idea how long it would take the jelly to die, and he needed the valves to show to Big Ernie.

The closer he came to the tree, the more distinctly he could hear groans of pain. The sickened jelly had curled up with his head close to a small campfire, his cap fallen off and smoldering. The bright blue eyes were open but unfocused. Moldenke kicked him a few times to be sure he was completely unconscious if not dead. He didn’t want to reach for the valves until he was sure he wouldn’t be bitten or sprayed with a hidden can of deformant.

Now, without a knife or a pair of scissors, it was a question of pinching off the fleshy valves with his fingernails. He knelt down and grasped one of the valves between his thumb and forefinger, sinking his long thumbnail into the flesh as far as it would go, then pulled the valve loose from its root. He did this to the other valve, put them both in his jacket pocket, and walked briskly out of the Park to the streetcar stop on Arden Boulevard, feeling relieved that his favor to Big Ernie was taken care of. When he showed his pass card, the conductor said, “You smell. Is that gel?”

“Yes. I was handling some valves and I’ve got gel on me.”

“Sit in the back.”

Moldenke gladly obliged and headed for the rear, holding on to seat backs to keep his balance as the car clattered off on the downtown line. It was early morning by the time it reached the stop a block or two from Ernie’s Bakery. He’d walked only a few steps when his bowel gave early warning by passing dry gas. It wasn’t all that urgent. He felt he could do his business with Ernie and still get to the privy in time.

Sorrel was behind the register as usual, her poor face heavily caked and painted. “Hello, Moldenke. You smell awful.”

“Yes, I know. Is your father here? I have something to show him.”

“He’s in the back, proofing dough.”

“I’ll wait, then.”

“You have the valves? Did you get the jelly?”

“I did. I have them in my pocket. That’s what you’re smelling.”

“Let me see them.”

Moldenke took the two valves out of his pocket and displayed them in an open palm. “It wasn’t easy getting them off. I had to dig in and pull hard. They came out with the roots. There wasn’t anything to cut them with.”

“It gives me the chills to look at them. Let me go get Daddy.” She gave Moldenke a bear claw.

He sat at the table and waited quite a long time. Eventually Ernie came out, dusted all over with flour. “She tells me you got the little demon.”

Moldenke held out the valves. “There they are.”

“Nice work. We’re glad to know he’s dead and gone. I’d give you a reward, but everything’s free here.” He turned to Sorrel. “Like my little girl there who’s free to do anything she wants to.” He winked at Moldenke. “She might get sexy with you, who knows?”

Sorrel lowered a veil over a withered, blushing cheek and put three or four claws into a bag. Ernie delivered them to Moldenke’s table, bent over, and whispered, “Her face is no good anymore, but the rest of her is fine. Why don’t you ask her out on a date? You can use my card. Go to Saposcat’s. Eat some food, drink some bitters. Have some fun.”

Sorrel overheard. She smiled and turned away.

“Maybe,” Moldenke said, giving her his awkward little salute. “When I get settled. I need a little time.”