David Ohle - The Pisstown Chaos

In the kitchen, Red stood hunched at the sink, scrubbing pots and pans. His cheeks were either rosier than usual or the rest of his face more pale. "I'll be there in a moment. I have to get this pan scrubbed. The whole process is making me very anxious."

"Stay calm, Red." Ophelia drank a glass of Jake, hoping it would settle her stomach. "I do appreciate all you've done towards this meal, all the trouble you've gone to, but I'm out of sorts tonight. The bathwater was awful. It made me sick."

"Miss, if I've told Peters once, I've told him a thousand times, to clean out that standpipe by the pond. That's what's getting into the plumbing, it's that pond water. I've told him, I've said, `There's snakes in that pond. How would you like one in your bathtub with you?' That's what I told him."

"All right. I'll see if I can keep some stew down, but not the pie, thank you."

"Oh, no. You must have some pie. I demand it." Red waltzed in with a steaming bowl and ladle and sat shoulder to shoulder with Ophelia, then sliced the pie. A creamy sauce poured out while the mushroom chunks remained beneath the burned crust. Little or no attempt had been made to cull for beetles. Their parts floated freely in the sauce along with flecks and strands of peat.

"I don't mean to be suspicious, Red, but what sort of mushrooms are those? Are they safe to eat?"

"Oh, yes. Peters cultivates them. In a week, here we are, a whole pie full. Eat the bugs, too. They feed on the mushrooms. That's where the flavor is."

"Just a small piece, please."

Red served Ophelia a much larger piece than she wanted. "Eat all of it, and fast. That's the best way. Really, the only way. You might as well throw it out to the imps as eat just a little, or too slowly."

Rather than risk an outburst of anger on Red's part, Ophelia ate a forkful of the pie, which was refreshingly flavorless, except for the beetles, which crunched with a tiny release of peppery fluid. She ate another, larger forkful, and then was able to finish the slice as Red stood behind her saying, again and again, "Hurry now. Hurry up and get it down. Hurry up and get it down. Hurry now.

"It wasn't as bad as I thought," Ophelia said, wiping a beetle from the corner of her lip.

Red asked, "Mind if I make a confession to you before you leave?"

"Of course not, Red."

"Did you notice the smear of rouge on my sunken cheeks?"

"No, I hadn't."

"I'm wearing some of your grandmother's underthings, too.

"Just don't soil them, that's all."

"I'll be so-so careful not to. That's a promise." He ladled a bowl of the eel stew. "Is that enough, Miss?"

"Plenty."

"When you leave I'll pack the rest in jars. You can take them along in a basket."

"That would be ducky."

By morning, after a long, deep sleep, Ophelia felt fit, light and energetic. She went to the window after hearing nervous laughter from below and looked down toward the potting shed. Peters knelt at a stump, stretching the swan's neck over it, and Red raised an axe and lopped off its head. Peters then nailed its feet to the side of the potting shed to let it bleed.

Red looked toward the house. "Good morning, Miss! I'm going to bake this old bird for your going-away supper."

"That was Grandmother's pet."

"I know, Miss, but you can see it's on its last legs. Isn't it best to make some use of it, before it goes off somewhere to die?" Peters said.

"Grandmother won't agree, but I don't have time to worry about this. I need my colonic. Will you give it to me, Red?"

"I'd be honored. Let me do this plucking and we'll get right to it."

Ophelia searched through her grandmother's toiletries for an enema bag and a bar of floating soap, which she had little trouble locating. She took them into the bathroom, placed them in the sink, sat on the stool and read an insert in a copy of the City Moon. The piece was written by Hooker himself, using the nom de plume Dr. Christopher Nyrop, on the subject of kissing: "It is well-known that kissing is the main culprit when it comes to spreading parasites. Therefore I feel it appropriate to explore the subject more closely. The first requisite of a kiss is a mouth. A sucking movement of the lip muscles, accompanied by an audible sound that varies in length and intensity. But, this alone does not constitute a kiss. You may also hear the same sound when an imp driver calls his imps. No, it is a kiss only when it is used to convey a feeling of affection and when the lips come in brief or sustained contact with a living creature or object."

When Red came in, he was wearing rubber boots and an apron from the potting shed, and was holding a shower cap in his hand. Though his mood had become sour, the swan feather clinging to his nose gave him a clownish look. "I'm not in the mood for this," he said.

"You certainly look dressed for it."

"When I said I would do it, I was in another mood. I'm like a werewolf. Have you noticed? I think it was last night's moon. Some magnetic effect beyond my control."

"I'll do it myself, then. It wouldn't be the first time. You just calm down."

"No, I insist. Let's get started."

Red filled the bag with warm, soapy water, and oiled the nozzle. He flexed his fingers and slid on a pair of dirty workgloves. "All right, Miss, climb into the tub and bend over."

Ophelia stepped high and into the cold porcelain tub and braced herself against slippage. Red inserted the nozzle without looking directly at her anus. He merely pushed on it until it found home. Ophelia stifled an outcry by biting her lip.

"Sorry again, Miss. I've always been something of a klutz. My past is full of holes. I may have been born in Lund, near the Alps. But what did I do when I wandered away from the Q-ped factory one day? I've always wondered that."

Ophelia's impactment broke loose and a few dark, granular turds dropped into the tub. "Thank you, Red. That's a relief."

"Let me clean up now. Go wipe yourself."

Ophelia stepped out of the tub, planting her toes first on the mat, then the rest of her foot. She sat on the commode to wipe, using a little unguent afterward to soothe her bottom.

"Will you help me douche, now?"

"Oh, yes, Miss, I d be glad to. As soon as I'm finished cleaning up."

When the bathroom sparkled again, and the douching was done, Red said he was going downstairs to begin browning the swan in fat.

"Thank you for helping me."

"It's a pleasure, Miss."

"You were gentle but patient and thorough."

"For the douche, I diluted the vinegar with rosewater. Wasn't that a nice touch?"

"It was. Thank you again."

Ophelia lay in her bed for an hour or two, reading the City Moon, until the rich cooking fumes that drifted up the stairwell, along with the sizzle and pop of hot fat, lulled her to sleep. During the nap she dreamed she was in a pedal tram station dressed in a gray and blue military uniform and lugging a fully packed duffel bag. Another soldier stopped her and asked, "Which train to the Chaos?" For a moment, in the dream, Ophclia was perplexed. She thought all trains went there.

She awoke famished. With cleaned-out bowels yearning for food, she went to the banister outside her room and called down, "What time is supper? I'm starved."

"In an hour or two, I imagine. This bird is tougher than I thought."

Two hours later Ophelia called down again. "Good God, Red. If it's much longer I'm going to eat my pillow."

There was no answer.

"Red? Isn't that swan done yet?"

Still, no answer.

"Red Cane? In another minute I'm coming down there."

Silence. Ophelia slipped into her robe and went down. The dining table was set for two as usual. The baked swan cooled on a platter in the kitchen. But Red was nowhere to be seen. She went into the kitchen and through a pantry window saw a lantern in the potting shed. Red had probably gone to get fresh herbs to garnish the bird or add to the stuffing. Slipping on a pair of galoshes, she lit a candle. The new moon had gone suddenly dark and it was black as pitch outside.