David Ohle - The Old Reactor

The mineral-rich steam rising from the little ditch that ran alongside the road indicated that the Springs were ready to boil, a strong sign that Myron might be open and in business. As Moldenke recalled, he was an affable sort and likable company. While the pants, shoes, and socks boiled he would probably sit with Moldenke in the kitchen drinking bitters and swapping stories about their lives in Bunkerville before they were set free.

Myron had been an art typist. On Saturdays and Sundays he could be found at a portable table in the Park at his Remington typewriter, pecking out the most intricate landscapes and portraits with letters, numbers, and diacritical marks. Strollers in the Park stopped to watch him. A small crowd often gathered, some to have Myron type their likeness for a thousand or two. Moldenke was often among the crowd and had two of Myron’s works hanging in the hall at his aunt’s house on Esplanade. His favorite was the head of Bunkerville mayor, Felix Grendon, whose features were etched perfectly in the artful strokes of Myron’s Remington.

Then, one Sunday, Myron’s table was not there. Strollers stopped, waited a while, and moved on. It was unusual, but then there was a chill in the air and a mist. Perhaps Myron, worried his machine would rust and the ink run, stayed home. It wasn’t a serious concern until weeks went by without Myron’s arriving with his machine in its case and the folding table and stool under his arm. Curious, Moldenke went to the Bunkerville Records Office and looked up the names of recent offenders sent to Altobello. Myron was there, detained three weeks and sent to the free city on two charges: selling private art in a public park and boiling jellyhead clothing.

The boiling service idea had come to Myron when he read in the City Moon that hundreds of pounds of gel-soiled clothing was either going to the dump or being burned in back yard fires. Jellies had been increasing in dramatic numbers and so were jelly killings, which more than likely ended in a well-aimed discharge of gel. Boiling, he knew, would neutralize the odor and restore the clothes and footwear to usability. He opened a small operation in his basement, but a shortage of wood to fuel enough fire to boil the water in his kettles threatened to close it quickly.

The facility at Steaming Springs came into Myron’s possession when, out for a walk, he found the place abandoned. Apparently the it had ceased to boil after a hundred years of geothermal activity and the former boiling service had to close its doors.

Myron lived in a small house on the property, where he continued to pursue his art typing. Rather than haul his table and machine all the way into central Altobello, he simply carried his work in a portfolio and gave them away on the streets. That way he had nothing but grateful customers. He followed this routine every Sunday for months, then awoke one day to see steam rising again from the Springs. That night they were at full boil. The boilery was in business again.

When Moldenke arrived there and stood over the Springs, he looked down on an appalling scene: Myron’s body floated atop the boiling water while a ring of jellyheads stood around the pool laughing. “He looks like a dead fish,” one of them said. The naked body pinwheeled in the boiling, swirling current, its flesh bright red and split open in places.

One of the jellyheads spotted Moldenke and shouted, “Let’s boil that guy, too.” Three or four of them climbed toward him.

Exhausted as he was, Moldenke saw no other option but to run, and he did, as far as his sore ankles and breath would let him, dodging in and out of the crepe myrtles and eventually losing the two sluggish jellyheads trotting behind him. He was close enough to the byway to hear the rumble of speeding motors. He waved at passing vehicles, hoping one would stop and take him to the public bath near the Tunney.

Twenty or thirty went by. To make things worse, a hot, dry wind began with the first light of dawn. Moldenke remembered reading in a brochure that in some years Altobello was visited by an incessant wind, winter and summer, cold and hot that drove the early freemen half mad.

With his back to the traffic, Moldenke held out a thumb hoping that someone would see that he was far too weary and weak to do them any harm and offer him a lift. He heard one of the motors gearing down for a stop and turned to see Udo’s motor pulling onto the shoulder of the pavement.

“Get in, Moldenke,” Udo said, turning the crank that opened the door.

Moldenke got in and sat in the front passenger seat. “This is quite a coincidence, isn’t it? Hundreds of motors going along the byway and there you are to pick me up.”

“The roots of coincidence run deeper than we think, Moldenke. Our meeting in Point Blast, was that a coincidence?”

“I don’t see any other explanation.”

“Suit yourself. Be an idiot…What are you doing out here anyway?”

“Visiting a friend of mine at the boiler. Some jellies boiled him in the springs, then they were after me, chasing me. It’s lucky you came by. I’m exhausted. I want to get a bath, some food, and back to the Tunney for sleep.”

“I’ll take you there, but luck had nothing to do with it.”

“All right. Drop me off at the public bath. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Will do.”

When Udo accelerated in a final push toward Altobello, a spume of black foam shot from the motor’s bleeder pipe. Udo saw it in the rear-view. “Bad break,” he said. “The steamer is hot. We’ll have to stop for the night. It’ll take till dawn for it to cool down.”

Udo angled the motor into the Black Hole Motel lot and turned off the engine. “We’ll stay here tonight and have a shower.”

Salmonella jumped out of her nook and clapped her hands. “Goody! Goody!” She put on a pair of rubber flip flops.

Udo said, “They tell me the workers at the Old Reactor used to stay here, so they have the best showers. Artesian well. Cold and clean.”

Salmonella hurried to the lobby, stepping on hot asphalt most of the way. The bottoms of her flip-flops were coated with it. Udo and Moldenke followed, soft stepping over the asphalt. In the lobby, a fluff-haired desk clerk asked Udo, “You here for Coward’s Day?”

Moldenke lit a Julep. “Is it Coward’s Day already?”

“It sure is and we’re almost full. Got one room left. Fifteen. It ain’t the best one.”

Udo showed his pass card and signed the register. “You do still have cold showers.”

“Sometimes, if the pump’s working. My husband, he got sent back to Bunkerville. I don’t know how to fix nothing. It’s room fourteen. Fifteen, I mean. Key’s on that peg up there.”

“I don’t see any other motors in the lot,” Moldenke said. “And you have only one vacancy?”

“Jelly families around here, they always come in on foot for Coward’s Day. Heck, I can’t stop ’em. You want the room or not?”

“Yes, we want a room,” Salmonella huffed. “We stopped here, didn’t we? Don’t be so stupid.”

“Excuse my daughter,” Udo said. “She’s been a mean young turd since I got her out of the Home. I’m going to slap her silly if she doesn’t stop.”

Salmonella snatched the key from the peg, ran toward the row of numbered rooms, and tried the key in fifteen. It fit, but was stubborn in the lock, refusing to turn. Eventually, after dozens of tries, the door opened to a burst of stale air. An ugly tableau presented itself. On the floor, beneath a hole in the ceiling, was a mound of rotting gel sacks with cockroaches roaming over it.

“This is bad,” Salmonella said. We can’t stay in here. Those things smell terrible.” She put her hands on her hips. “And I’m hot. I want a shower.”