David Ohle - The Old Reactor

“Sure. We’ll take the streetcar tomorrow if they’re running.”

“Don’t you be diddling her, you hear?”

“I hear. That’s not going to be a problem.”

The concierge, asleep in a wooden chair in her little receiving room, woke up when Moldenke and Salmonella entered the foyer. She stood at her Dutch door yawning. “Who is that girl? One room, one person. That’s the way we do it.”

“It’s just for the night. She’ll be going to the Home tomorrow. No real mother, no real father.”

Salmonella produced a tear. “I’m an orphan. Let me stay. This poor man needs help. Look at his ear.”

The concierge put on her bifocals and looked at Moldenke’s ear. “You’ve gotten yourself deformed, haven’t you?”

“It was a light dose,” Moldenke said, and hoped. “It may resolve itself. Who knows?”

“Here, I have something.” The concierge went into an adjacent room, a kitchenette, and returned with a small bottle labeled Barrel Honey Concentrate . “It’s anti-deformant from Zanzetti Labs. Try it. Rub it in.”

Moldenke could see beyond the kitchenette, through a slightly opened door, a commode, and next to it, on the floor, a pre-liberation roll of tissue for wiping.

“Is that a wet commode, ma’am? You hardly ever see those.”

“My husband built it for me after the liberation, before he went back to Bunkerville. There’s a big rain barrel on the roof. That’s what flushes it all into a lagoon he dug out back.”

“That’s really something,” Moldenke said.

“It makes life a little better for me.”

“I’m certain it does,” Moldenke said. “I see a bathtub, too.”

“It doesn’t drain and can’t be used.”

“All right then. Thank you.”

Moldenke had one more thing to ask the concierge. “Is there any mail for me? A friend is looking after my house in Bunkerville. He’s promised to keep me posted about it.”

She looked through a small stack of letters. “Yes, you did get one.”

Moldenke opened the dirtied envelope and took a few minutes to read the letter.

Dear Moldenke ,

All is mostly well at the house on Esplanade except I think there might be termites in the door frames. The wood is crumbling. And some sort of animal, maybe a ground hog, has dug a deep hole in the back yard, which is convenient because the house toilet doesn’t work at all and I use the hole as a latrine. Didn’t you say something about maintenance money for this place? How do I get it? Does it come by mail?

Hope you’re doing well in Altobello. In so many ways, I wish I were there. But I see my job as staying and doing what I can to liberate Bunkerville. My aim is to have the place completely free when you return .

Your friend,

Ozzie

Moldenke gave the concierge the awkward little salute he always gave when he felt uneasy. “All right, thank you. Good night.”

Salmonella grasped Moldenke’s hand and led him up the stairs and into his room, where a dim bulb hung from the ceiling by an electric wire, not giving enough light to get a good look at the damages to his ear and the flesh around it. He had to rely on Salmonella’s sharp young eyes to describe it to him as he lay on the cot.

“It’s red and purple and leaking brown stuff.” She applied barrel honey concentrate to the ear. “We don’t want it to get any worse. This might help.”

The heaviness of the ear tilted Moldenke’s head sideward and downward. His swollen hand now lay beside him on the cot without sensation. “Put some on that ankle gouge, too. It’s festering.”

Salmonella dipped a finger into the honey and gently spread it over the wound. “Why do you want to put me in the Home? You need somebody to take care of you. I can do that.”

Moldenke’s lids sank over his eyes. “We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

The morning brought a raucous noise from the street. Moldenke went to the window. There were a few hundred jellyheads marching along Arden Boulevard tooting kazoos. They held no banners, carried no flags, sang no songs, and shouted no epithets or slogans. He wondered what had gotten them out at dawn to march that way without apparent cause or purpose. It wasn’t even Cowards’ Day, but the day after.

Salmonella joined him at the window. “Who are they? What are they marching for?”

“I don’t know,” Moldenke said. “It could be anything.”

Salmonella scratched her head. “I’m hungry. Let’s go to Saposcat’s.”

“All right. How does my ear look?”

“Pretty ugly.”

The concierge stopped them on the way out.

“How’s that ear today?”

Salmonella shook her head. “Bad.”

“Did you rub it good with that honey?”

“Yes. It didn’t help.”

“Show me that ear. Let me see it.”

“No time. I’ve got to get to the privy right away. I’ve got a condition.”

“His bowels get angry,” Salmonella said. “He potties in his pants all the time.”

“Like Franklin, the famous golfer,” Moldenke said. “We have the same problem.”

“For goodness sake, go ahead and use my crapper.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Hurry up,” Salmonella mumbled.

Moldenke entered the little toileting room and savored the look of the wet commode. He hadn’t seen one since Bunkerville, and seldom then. It was clean and the porcelain gleamed, even in dull light. On a small wooden stool within his reach was a copy of Burke’s Treatise . Although he was curious to read a bit of the well-worn copy, he didn’t want to overstay his time on the commode. He sat down and relieved himself with exquisite pleasure, then carefully unrolled the paper, wound it thickly around his sore hand, and wiped himself, careful not to get fecal contaminant on the cracked, slightly bleeding palm. When he flushed, the water swirled with energy and quickly emptied the bowl. “ Really nice ,” he said to himself. “ Really nice setup .”

He wondered if perhaps the concierge might somehow be persuaded to give him toileting privileges when he needed them and began to consider what approach to take toward that end. What could he offer her? Everything in Altobello was technically free. Would she accept an exchange of janitorial services? But what could he do with his sore hand the way it was. He wouldn’t be able to sweep or mop.

No, he decided to put it to her foursquare. He said, “What can I do in exchange for use of that commode? I never know when the need will strike. It could be in the middle of the night. I can’t be running down to the public privy all the time. You seem like a kind woman. Please.”

“When the rain water up there freezes, it doesn’t work. And you’ll need to find your own paper. They always have extra down at the privy. Just take some.”

“All right, that’s fair.”

“And when the lagoon out back gets full, I expect you to help me cart it down to the ditch in buckets.”

“Of course I will.”

“Please don’t tell the other guests you’re using my commode. I’ll have a line out here.”

“I won’t say a word.”

Salmonella patted her stomach. “Let’s go eat.”

“Wait,” Moldenke said. He asked the concierge, “Why were they marching out there this morning? Who were they?”

“The Cowards that weren’t killed yesterday. They’re headed home. I hear they stay out by the Old Reactor.”

Moldenke shook his head and pulled on his chin beard. “They’re an odd bunch, aren’t they? No one understands their customs.”

“You can say that again,” she said. “Here’s another letter for you.”

Dear Moldenke ,

You’d be happy with what I’m doing toward liberating Bunkerville. I’ve now organized the ice men. They’ve been on strike for three weeks. As a result I read in the paper that a check of available ice has revealed that sixty percent of it is contaminated with anything from insect parts and fish scales to mold, pieces of wood, paint flakes and human vomit. All of this because of my work for and dedication to freedom. I know you share my sentiments .