David Ohle - Motorman

87

Out of the hot room, dressed, Moldenke's hearts improved.

On a sawdust path in the arboretum he said, "I see you have banana plants. I thought they were gone forever." He snorted, mock pollen on his hair and shoulders.

"So, Dink. Still you have the snorts. You're a plague, son. Just like the old days."

"Old days? You seem to know me, Roquette. How well do you know me?"

"Roquelle, son. With two l's. I don't know you at all. One doesn't need a long-standing personal acquaintance to notice a snort, does he?"

"You mentioned the old days."

"What about them? Tell me, who found whom in the bottoms? I could have left you there pissing your name in the pollen. Consider that."

"How did you know about that?"

"About that? What?"

"About pissing in the snow."

"Did I say snow? I meant pollen. Pissing your name in the pollen. My apologies." He extended the corn cob and Moldenke shook it.

"No, Roquette. You said pollen, but you meant snow. You know about that? How well do you know me?"

They passed a circle of jujube trees, Roquette picking a jujube fruit and eating it. "Eat a jujube, Dink. Put your hearts in shape." Moldenke wasn't hungry.

Moldenke said he was tired of walking. Roquette increased the pace. Moldenke rested on a pile of peat bags.

Roquette said, "Hurry on, champ. Let's go see the wheat fields."

Moldenke said, "The wheat fields?"

88

Big D, Dear, Big M, Moldenke, comma,

Indent, Big Y, You forgot to remember me after the War, period.

Big L, Love, comma

Big H, Hope, comma,

Big R, Roberta

89

My Dear Roberta,

All my sympathy goes out to you during this time of verbal difficulty. Burnheart tells me that these things arise invariably when several moons come full at once. Push and pull, Roberta. Hang on.

Also unwell,

Moldenke

90

Dear Moldenke,

I am not much surprised to hear the details of Roberta's ailment. You yourself are infected with the slugs when the moons are up. Everyone feels it differently. Roberta punctuates. You remain in the chair, let things slide. Myself, a mild reaction — I expel a clot of blood in the evening feces. Eagleman, on the other hand, reacts complexly. He changes. Unless you know him well, you wouldn't at all. One moment rational, the next poetic. On occasion he'll forget his proper name.

Yours,

Burnheart

P.S. Eagleman has something new on the drafting table.

91

"Yes, the wheat fields. Does that alarm you, that we have wheat fields? Where do you think the bread comes from? Don't be a jock, Moldenke."

"Don't call me a jock."

"Don't call him a jock. Why not, champ?"

"Or a champ either."

"Or a champ, he says."

Three hearts fluttered.

"Off the peat bags, son." Roquette showed his teeth, ricelike. Jujube pulp hung in his beard.

"You're changing, Roquette."

"Everything changes."

"There's a load of moons tonight, Roquette. You're changing on me."

"Eat it, Moldenke! I don't want trouble. I've got a boat to run."

"Then let me off."

"No."

"I'll jump eventually."

"Enough of that. We'll tractor through the wheat fields. I've arranged to have a k-tractor waiting at the vehicle pool. Let's move."

Moldenke lay back, a rubbery vein worming on his neck, his face a paler shade. His lung inflated, deflated. Ceiling lights swarmed. He said, "Burnheart?" and closed his eye.

Roquette said, "Moldenke?"

Moldenke said, "Bunce?"

Roquette said, "What was that?"

Moldenke said, "Eagleman?"

Roquette unscrewed a back tooth, tapped a double-dome from it into Moldenke's mouth. "Here, son. Swallow. We'll get you fixed." He squeezed jujube juice behind the double-dome. Moldenke felt it loosen from his tongue and wash down his throat. "Easy, son. Rest back."

"Cock?" He rolled in the peat bags and buried his face.

"Patience, Moldenke. Give it a good minute. And don't smother yourself that way. Turn over and breathe the gas in here. What's the trouble, champ? Not used to an old fashioned atmosphere? Here, I'll blow you a piece." He took a harmonica from a khaki pocket. "Name a tune."

Moldenke turned over and breathed deeply, opening his eye. The gas was familiar.

Roquette blew aimlessly on the harmonica. "Name a piece, champ. I can't get started."

Moldenke sat up, nostrils flared. "Roquette? What is this gas?" He stood up, his lung taut.

Roquette blew something old and soft. Moldenke's hearts settled.

"You like it, son?" He wiped the harmonica in his arm pit. "I was top harp man in the old days. I'll do another one."

"This is more than half nitrogen, Roquette."

"Two l's, I've told you. You're right. More like eighty per cent. Nothing but the finest on Roquelle's boat. What do you think this is, a nightflying outfit?"

Moldenke lit a cigar. The lighter flame rose high, burned brightly. "Oxygen too?"

"Certainly, son. As I said before. ."

Moldenke inhaled cigar smoke, blew it out, watched it rise through the jujube branches. "Roquette?"

"I'll blow an old one. See if you know what it is. I hope it wasn't before your time. Listen." He played a different melody.

Moldenke said, "Air! This is air!"

"Wrong, son. Listen closely. I'll blow it again."

92

He had been standing in a downtown rain, waiting for an uptown k-bus. A boy rode by on a k-cycle, skidding in an oil puddle, falling on the sidewalk at Moldenke's feet. Moldenke crabbed backward, jelly on his shoe. A crowd gathered and someone mentioned jellyhead. It had been his first encounter.

93

Dear Burny,

What do you know about the jellyheads?

Thank you in advance,

Moldenke

94

Dear Semiscientist,

You expect me to dabble in answers to questions like that? Read the book.

Busily yours,

Burnheart

Moldenke opened the book and found all jellyhead references deleted, as they had been the first time he read the book, and all the following times.

95

"Well, champ. I see you're experiencing a revibration. Welcome back."

eeThis is air, Roquette."

eeAnd it makes you feel good."

"I have new energies."

"Good. The k-tractor waits."

Moldenke said, "Wait — I feel the pressure going down. I feel it."

"Moldenke, the sensorium."

Moldenke extended his hand. A drop of rain fell on it, drained through the fingers.

They looked up.

Roquette said, "Weather students playing, son. Ignore them."

Gray flox clouds hung from wires attached to the ceiling.

96

Mr. Featherfighter,

MEMO

You may regard this note as evidence of my intent to resign.

Moldenke,

Taster

97

Dear Bufona,

MEMO

The road to Etcetera was paved with such intentions. I do not accept them as anything, much less resignation.

You may regard this note as proof of my authority.

Chief of Tasting Health Truck Head

Mr. Feather, and so on

98

He ate popcorn from a paper bag, looked past his own reflection in the glass, studied Roosevelt Teaset. He saw that something was wrong.

Teaset wore an old cotton suit, heavy shoulderpads, suspenders holding the pants too high, cracked black shoes on gnarled feet.

He put on the earphones and pressed the button, heard a false Teaset biography and a snatch of the genuine voice: "Yowsuh." End of tape. He removed the earphones.

Cottonfield scenes were painted on the rear wall of the display, blackbirds flying in flawless skies, casting frightened earthward glances.