David Ohle - The Old Reactor

“Stop that.”

“Hurry up. Drive fast.”

She gave him another Wet Willie.

“Stop that, please.”

Saposcat’s was crowded. They were offering a Coward’s Day breakfast special of mud fish and kerd. Udo sat on one side of a booth, Salmonella and Moldenke on the other. Most of the diners wore yellow Coward’s Day regalia.

The scrape of leg flesh signaled the approach of the waitress. “Morning. You all here for Cowards’ Day?”

“No, we’re not,” Moldenke said. “We’re headed for the west side.”

“You ought to stay. It’s something to see, I’ll tell you.”

“We’re in a hurry.”

“Okay, what’ll it be?”

Salmonella said, “Give me the special, with green soda.”

“Sorry, girl, if you’re not here for Coward’s Days, you can’t have the special. You can get something else if you want.”

“That’s pretty stupid. Give me the kerd then.”

“We’re out of kerd.”

“Okay, the mud fish and green soda. This is all pretty stupid.”

“Mud fish and soda. That we got. You, sir?”

Udo wanted only a cup of tea and a bowl of meal.

Moldenke ordered the same, telling the waitress, “I don’t digest things very well. Angry bowel.”

“Well, sir. There’s a privy out back in case.”

The waitress returned to the kitchen.

It seemed that the act of mentioning his bowel triggered a strong contraction in Moldenke’s gut. “I’m going out back.” He slid from the booth and headed for the door. A few strides in that direction and he stepped into a hole in the floor, scraping his shin on the splintered wood. Salmonella helped him out of the hole.

“You okay?”

Some of the Coward’s Days enthusiasts laughed.

The waitress came to help. “Sorry, it’s a rotten spot that fell through.”

The fry cook rushed out of the kitchen wearing a homemade cloth veil. “What’s going on here? Is there trouble?”

Moldenke was almost in tears. “Why don’t you put up a sign ?”

The fry cook raised his fist and took an angry step forward, but the waitress blocked his way. She massaged his shoulder and neck to calm him then said to Moldenke, “We’re sorry. It would be nice to have a sign. That spot’s been fixed but it just rots again.”

The fry cook, becalmed now, said, “You’re lucky, fella. When we opened this morning, some old jelly broke her leg in that hole. I heard it snap like a twig.”

The crowd twittered and giggled.

Moldenke raised his trouser leg to examine the cut on his ankle. It was more of a gouge than a clean cut, and the bleeding was slight. He continued on to the privy out back and discovered three privies instead: one for males, one for females, and one for jellyheads. He went first into the privy for males, found the commode ringed with drying feces, then tried the female privy. When he opened the door, there sat the waitress, squinting to read the Treatise in dim light. She wasn’t startled or offended and said, “Angry bladder.”

“Please excuse me. I didn’t know anyone was in here. You were just inside a moment ago.”

“Don’t worry, it happens all the time. That’s my sister. We look alike. Not twins, but we look alike.”

“Oh.”

“I work in the kitchen if I’m not out here taking care of business.”

“Well, again, my apologies.”

“Use the one for jellyheads. It’s the best.”

“All right, thanks.”

Moldenke found the jellyhead privy in a clean condition, with only a slight odor and no sign of the Treatise . There was a bucket of water on the ground and a selection of old socks for wiping hanging from nails in the wall.

In that setting, relaxed, Moldenke had a strong and productive bowel movement before wiping with a sock that he rinsed it in the sink and hung on a nail. He limped back to the booth, passing close to the kitchen, where he saw the fry cook drop an unlit kitchen match into deep fat. After floating a moment, the match burst into flame. “She’s ready to fry stuff,” he said.

Moldenke said to Udo, “If you have to take a leak or anything, use the jellyhead privy. It’s the best one out there.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

Moldenke’s ankle throbbed. “Why couldn’t they fix that hole? If there was law here, I’d sue them for all they’re worth. You just get some wood and you fix the hole.”

“No carpenters,” Udo said. “And hardly any wood. If you want to fix the floor, you have to rip wood from some other part of the building. That’s the way it is here.”

“I didn’t see that in the brochures.”

“Pure freedom means no money, no law, nothing. Think about it.”

“We pay nothing for our rooms,” Moldenke said, lighting a Julep, “or the food. We’ve got streetcars and pass cards. Good bear claws in the Old Quarter. Passable sausages at Smiley’s Meats, too. It’s not so bad. I’m getting used to it.”

The waitress set the food on the table. “There’s your orders.”

Salmonella asked, “Why is that stupid cook wearing a veil. Is he deformed?”

The waitress whispered, “Yeah, but not from deformant. A jellyhead mother threw her baby through that kitchen window over there. It landed in the fryer and splashed him with hot oil, mostly in the face. People don’t like looking at him while they’re eating.”

Salmonella asked, “Did the little jelly get fried?”

“It did, black as a cinder.”

The fry cook called out, “Order up!”

“Why do they kill their babies?” Salmonella asked.

Moldenke shrugged. “Why do they cut off heads and leave them at Saposcat’s?”

“Zanzetti’ll figure it out,” Udo said. “It’s got something to do with their gel sacks.”

The food was served by the woman Moldenke had seen in the privy. “Hi, there,” she said to him. “I saw you outside. It’s my sister’s turn now. She’s got a bad stomach.”

Moldenke blushed. “I apologize again for barging in on you.”

“It’s nothing. Here, enjoy your food.”

Salmonella picked up a mud fish whole and bit into it above the fin, the crispiest part, and complained it was cold.

Udo said, “Eat it anyway. There’s a storm coming. We’re not staying any longer than we have to.”

Moldenke ate his meal rapidly and drank his tea with a single lift of the cup, then waved his pass card. “This one’s on me. Thanks for the ride.”

The waitress brought the bill and checked pass cards. “Where you three headed?”

“The west side.”

“Big change in the weather. Snowstorm coming, you know? Drive careful.”

Dear Moldenke .

You’ll be glad to know that I am leading a strike of the Bunkerville garbage men. Some pretty unsanitary conditions have begun to arise as the result of the work halt. Little boys are running barefoot through great steaming mounds of trash and refuse, their childish cheerfulness undimmed by the fact that with every passing day another twenty thousand tons of garbage is added to the heaps already decomposing in the hot sun. Talk of the plague is on every tongue .

The paper asked scientist Zanzetti about it and he said, “No one can say we weren’t forewarned. It’s only a matter of time until Bunkerville is completely liberated. This strike is an early sign.”

You see, we’re eventually going to liberate this city one strike at a time. When you get back, everything will be different. No one can go up to the striking garbage men with their crudely lettered “Stink City” placards and their brutish oaths and say, “I’m very sorry but somebody has to pick up the garbage and on this particular turn of the wheel it looks like you.” No one has the charisma needed for a job like that. We will not lose this battle .