David Ohle - The Old Reactor

Feeling refreshed after a long soak in the pools, and with clean clothes, Moldenke ventured out onto Arden Boulevard. It had rained while he bathed, the streets were steaming, the air cooler, and there were reflective puddles on the sidewalk, each offering a blinding glimpse of the mid-day sun.

He stopped at the Tea Off, a free-talk salon, and looked through the window. Kerd cakes and tea were being served to small groups of new arrivals sitting at tables. For some it was an odd thing to speak freely, to exchange so much information without the supervision they’d known in Bunkerville.

When Moldenke entered and showed his pass he was given a slip of paper and a pencil. The host, who was busy brewing tea, said, “Print your name and list a couple of things you want to talk about. I’ll put it in that jar.”

Moldenke found a seat at the counter, signed the paper and wrote:

These are the things I would like to talk about. One: Who invented aerosol deformant and gave it to the jellies? Two: Angry bowel. What are the causes and remedies? Does anyone know?

The host collected the paper from him and put it in the jar. As Moldenke waited his turn, he drank tea, smoked Juleps and listened to the talk, which, though ranging wide, was orderly and polite. No one spoke out of turn or overlong. The host saw to that with a little church bell he carried on a thong swinging from his belt. Ding-ding . “All right now, that’s enough about that,” he might say.

A free man at another table talked about jellyheads. “They have a moving-picture mind. All life to them is a series of snapshots with no chance for time exposure. That’s why they can’t think straight on any subject. Their minds are a bundle of transient impressions and confused ideas. What are we going to do about them?”

Ding Ding . “That’s enough about jellyheads. Next…?”

A free woman said, “I wonder if it’s true, what Burke said in his Treatise , that if we were watching a scene in a stage play in which a man was being brutally beaten, and someone rushed in and yelled, ‘There’s a man being beaten to death outside,’ most of us would rush out there to see the real thing.”

The host rapped a table. “Proving what? Who wouldn’t prefer a real beating to a staged one?” He pulled Moldenke’s name out of the jar. “You’re up, Moldenke. Table five. But first, here’s the real question. Why do jellyheads have deformant and we don’t?”

Everyone gave it thought, but there were no immediate answers.

Moldenke cleared his throat as he felt an uneasy twitch of his bowel. He worried that he wouldn’t get to all his talking points before having to run for the privy.

There were no empty chairs at table five but someone at table four slid one over for him. He began: “One thing I’d like to bring up is aerosol deformant. Who invented it? And who put it on the City streets?”

A free woman said, “And the victims of these deformings? Who are they? Always handsome females.”

The host, attracted by the discussion, stood near table five with a tray of empty tea mugs. “Zanzetti certainly invented it, but he claims he didn’t give it to the jellies. One of his workers, a whistleblower, let them into the lab and they hauled off every can, the entire supply.”

Another free woman asked, “What purpose is served by squirting us in the face with it? Why do they do it? Because we shoot them? Is that any reason?”

“They have deformant and we have guns,” the host said. “Fair is fair. They’re as free as we are.”

“I’ll tell you,” a free man wearing thick eyeglasses and a horsehair wig said, “it’s the difference between the sublime and the beautiful. Disfiguring beauty is a courageous and beneficial act. The horror of the victim’s new face is very, very sublime. I’ll take the sublime over the beautiful any day.”

Moldenke raised his hand. “What about the angry bowel I have. How can I cure it?”

“Watch what you eat. Stay away from scrapple.”

“If you can ever find any cheese, eat that.”

The host looked at his watch and rang his little bell. “The hours do go by. It’s already closing time. Everybody out. We’ll take up these issues and lots more at noon tomorrow.”

After the Tea Off closed, Moldenke walked to the day market at number nine Arden Blvd., where he’d heard there was a public privy. He bought a pack of Juleps from a tobacconist. “Why would anyone smoke anything else but Juleps?” the man asked. “Plain, menthol cooled, or cork tipped?”

“Plain for me,” Moldenke said.

“Sorry, out of plain. Big shortage. Menthol cooled or cork tipped?”

“The tipped then…By the way, is there a privy around here?” Moldenke opened the pack and lit a Julep.

“Yessir, number seven. It’s up there close to Big Ernie’s Bakery.”

“Thank you.” Moldenke pressed his palm to his bloated abdomen, the burning cigarette between his fingers. “I never know when I might need to use it.”

A few shops down, he passed Zanzetti Scienterrifics. A fat little clown-suited barker outside tried to engage passersby. Standing next to him was a pitiably deformed young woman wearing a sheer veil. “Been deformed?” the barker shouted. “Improve that face! We can make them younger, handsomer, and more expressive. We can restore deformant-damaged faces faster than all the paint and powder in the world. In one week, you can throw your veil away. Guaranteed.”

After crossing busy Arden Boulevard, Moldenke smelled fresh-baked bear claws. The strong, sweet, floury scent probably meant the claws had just been taken from the oven. A green light blinked above the doorway of Big Ernie’s Bakery. Forgetting for the moment that his bowel was angering, and passing the privy by, his mouth watered. He stepped inside the bakery, ordered a claw, and showed his card to the cashier, a young woman whose face had been deformed.

She saw him staring at her. “You wouldn’t believe how pretty I used to be,” she said. “A jellyhead got me by the Park. I was just walking by. What’s the point of all this freedom when we’ve got jellyheads carrying deformant and using it whenever they want?” She turned sideways. “How do I look from the side?”

Moldenke felt obliged to respond, but words were slow in coming, and when they did they were tentative. “You don’t look all that bad,” he heard himself saying.

“Thank you, I suppose that’s a compliment.” She gave him the bear claw in a waxed bag. “My name’s Sorrel — after the plant, not the horse.”

“I’m Moldenke, from Bunkerville.”

“How long are you here for?”

“Indefinite. Desecration of a grave. I’d rather not talk about it except to say it was an unavoidable accident. What about you?”

“Came with my father. He got life. They just needed a baker over here. I don’t mind, though. I like Altobello. You can do what you want, except for the jellyheads. I hate them. If I had a gun I’d shoot my share.”

Moldenke bit off a chunk of the pastry. It was crisp and sweet. “Oh, this is excellent an claw.” He sat at a sunny little table near the front window and ate the rest of it.

Big Ernie came in from the back with a tray of fresh-baked claws and began lining them up in the display case.

Moldenke breathed in the fragrant smell. “Give me another one, please, to go.”

Big Ernie backed his head and shoulders out of the case and stood his full height. “Welcome to Altobello, my friend. You’re a free man.”

“I can’t say it’s good to be here, but a person makes do. I suppose I’ll look for some kind of work, employment somewhere. Best way to pass the time I hear.”

“What’s the point of working if everything’s free? I got a passion for baking.”