David Ohle - The Old Reactor

“Which is indeterminate, like mine. So it doesn’t make sense to think you’ll be getting time off no matter how many valves you turn in.”

Salmonella tugged at Udo’s uniform. “Moldenke’s right, Daddy. That shows how stupid you are.”

“Quit tugging on the uniform, you little shit.” He gave her a nasty thump on the ear with a snap of his middle finger.

“Ouch! I hate you!”

Udo pushed Salmonella backward. She nearly fell, until Moldenke stopped her and stood her up. She began to cry and rub her eyes.

Udo suddenly back-paced a few steps then turned and lost himself in the crowd.

Moldenke said, “Hurry up, run after him. Please, go with your father.”

“He’s gone,” Salmonella said, “and I’m glad. I’ll stay with you. You can take care of me.”

“Where’s your mother? Who’s your mother?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t talk about her.”

“An uncle, an aunt, anyone else who might take you?”

“Nobody.”

“I don’t have much room in my room, and it’s all I can do taking care of my angry bowel. You should go to the Youth Home. I’ll take you there tomorrow. You can sleep on my floor tonight.”

There was a roar from the crowd when Franklin approached the ninth hole, then a lull as he studied the lie of his ball about ten feet from the cup.

“I can’t see,” Salmonella whined. “Pick me up.” Moldenke lifted the bare-boned girl to his shoulders easily. Her legs cradled his neck and she rested her chin on the top of his head. “That Franklin sure does dress sharp.”

Moldenke stood on tiptoe to see over the crowd. Franklin looked resplendent in a yellow silk blouse, checkered shorts, and a spiffy long-billed cap. His trainer was never far from him, shouting encouragement. Franklin crouched low and sniffed along the green from the ball to the cup. “Atta boy!” the trainer shouted. “Easy putt! Easy putt!”

His caddy slid a shortened club from the bag. Franklin jerked it from him, sniffed it thoroughly, then addressed the ball. When he did so, observers in the crowd saw blood-spotted needles protruding from the rear of his shorts. The putt went off with a thwack and the ball dropped into the cup. Franklin pounded his chest and grinned for the crowd. Anyone familiar with his style knew what came next. His handlers formed a circle around him to keep the business private. When the circle broke and the group moved on to the tenth, a groundskeeper would be seen shoveling Franklin’s steaming stool into a bucket as his handlers pulled up the golfer’s shorts.

Moldenke smelled bear claws just then, a moment before Big Ernie and Sorrel came along giving them away. Sorrel stood close to Moldenke, handed him a bear claw, and whispered, “Let’s have dinner tonight at Saposcat’s, if Dad will let me. He beat my last boyfriend half to death for patting my behind, sent him to the crazy house a drooling idiot.”

Moldenke was caught off guard. “I’ve been to Saposcat’s. I love their fried mud fish. But, you know, my bowel feels angry. I’d best stay in the flat tonight. I have this girl to take care of, which is another complication. Her name is Salmonella.”

Salmonella beamed at the attention. Her father had never introduced her formally to anyone. “I think I’m named after a little fish from olden times.”

“The salmon,” Moldenke said. “It used to go up rivers. People ate them.”

“Another time then?” Sorrel asked.

In truth, Moldenke was repulsed by her facial deformities and doubted he wanted to be seen in her company at Saposcat’s or anywhere else. Yet her body was very easy on the eye, her hair long and radiant, her breasts modest but likely well-nippled, her buttocks perfectly formed. It would be a bit much for him to ask her to wear a veil. Still, he was on the verge of politely making that request when she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll wear my veil.”

Under that condition, Moldenke agreed to meet her at Saposcat’s at seven.

Salmonella said, “Count me in. I love their fried kerd. The mud fish’s not bad either.”

“She’ll have to come,” Moldenke said. “I’ve got her for the night.”

“That’s okay,” Sorrel said. “This once .”

Big Ernie appeared out of the crowd with an empty bag. “Everybody got a claw. Let’s go, Sorrel.”

“Listen, Father, Moldenke and I will be going to Saposcat’s tonight. Do you have any objections?”

“As long as he’s a good boy and keeps his hands off.” Ernie winked at Moldenke.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Moldenke said.

Salmonella clapped her hands. “I’ll be the chaparral.”

“You mean chaperone,” Moldenke said.

“You teach me stuff, Moldenke. I like that.”

Big Ernie came along and patted Salmonella on the head. “Who’s this little gal?”

“Her father ran off. I’ll take her to the Home tomorrow.”

Big Ernie looked down at Salmonella. “That’s the best place. It’s full of young free people like you.”

Two Bunkerville celebrities, the actress, Misti Gaynor and the writer, Sissy Peterbilt, have died in unrelated accidents.

Gaynor’s sodden body was discovered at about five a.m. yesterday. Sometime the night before, during an unpredictable downpour, she had slipped, fallen, or collapsed into the three-foot-deep gutter ditch that runs the length of Esplanade Avenue. It is estimated that the gutter quickly became a gushing stream of rain water, engulfing the actress and carrying her more than a hundred yards, where she was found dead.

Peterbilt was crushed when she stopped to gawk at an excavation near a smelter and was buried in eighteen-pound blocks of pig iron, which fell on her. It had been reported that she was hard at work on the life story of Scientist Zanzetti.

At seven sharp, Moldenke and Salmonella stood outside Saposcat’s, waiting for Sorrel. The weather had changed suddenly after Franklin’s exhibition, and a warm, bright day had given way to sudden downpours.

Salmonella complained, “I’m getting wet. The awning is full of holes.”

“An umbrella would be good to have,” Moldenke said. “Or even a rain hat. You can’t get anything here.”

“Don’t bring me to the Home. Why can’t you look after me? I’m afraid of the Home. There’s jellyheads there. I could get deformant in my face. They sneak it in.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m sure they’d confiscate it.”

Moldenke looked up and down Arden Boulevard. “Try to behave. She’ll be here any minute.”

Passing motors kicked up a mist of dirty water that settled on everything. One of the motors, a deluxe model K-10, glided to a stop in front of the Deli. A chauffeur dashed out and opened the rear door.

“That’s Franklin,” Salmonella said.

The golfer slid out of the seat with a broad grin, his legs spread widely, wearing a well-tailored mohair jacket, starched shirt, a gold lam é tie, and boots made of animal skin. A handler held an umbrella over his head and escorted him into Saposcat’s.

At that moment, Moldenke saw a streetcar round the terminus at the end of Arden and screech to a stop half a block from the Deli. He told Salmonella to stay put while he met Sorrel at the stop. He could already see someone getting off wearing a macramé veil.

“Sorrel. Here I am. Hurry, your veil is getting wet.”

“What a ride,” she said. “The car ran over a jellyhead baby. The mother threw it under the wheels and ran.”

“That happens all the time.”

“It was quite a delay. That’s why I’m late. They had to clean up all that stinking goo on the tracks.”

“I like your veil. It’s very pretty, even wet.”

“I made it myself. I can smell, I can see, I can eat without offending.”