David Ohle - The Pisstown Chaos

Roe played that song, one tone flowing smoothly into the next as he bent the blade back and forth, then "Moonlight on the Wabash" and "My Old Kentucky Home." His bouncing foot produced a vibrato.

He continued playing as the line shortened until he reached the window, when an official inside, raising one eyebrow, spoke through a perforated metal plate in the ticket-booth glass. "Let's see those shifting orders."

Roe produced the form from his upper pocket and slid it through a portal in the glass.

"Balls. That name strikes a bell. Why?"

"I don't know," Roe said.

"I know. Your grandfather was the late Jacob Balls. I'm surprised his widow didn't use her civic influence to get you out of the shifting process."

"She's at Permanganate Island. Out of touch."

"That's a shame. Half the world is going there." The official went over the papers again. "And you were shifted here to mate with the Doolittle girl, like most of these other poor suckers? I hate to tell you, but there's a long line ahead of you."

"I don't understand."

"We're sorry about the snafu, but what the heck, complex systems go haywire. It's all part of Hooker's grand scheme, which allows plenty of room for failure along the way. Go inside, find yourself a seat, start the waiting process."

Shortly after, Roe came to the candy counter and waited for the American. Beneath the cracked glass case, moths flew about over candy bars ridden with white maggots. At the end of the counter a popcorn machine still held the last batch of corn popped, now brown and moldy and seething with ants.

The American showed up, yawning. "I fell asleep. I hope you didn't wait long. Come on, I saved you a seat." Roe followed him into the seating area. Of the hundred or so seats, more than ninety were occupied. "If you don't get a seat you could be standing for a long, long time." They found the seats and settled into them. "These are good ones. The springs haven't popped through."

"What do we do now, Frank?" Roe asked.

The American chuckled. "Nothing. We sit here and wait. The power's on. That's good. When that happens they show a movie. Otherwise we sit in the dark or light candles if you can find one. Matches are scarce, too."

"I'm hungry," Roe complained.

"Don't worry. They'll pass out some starch bars and some willy. Here they come now."

Barefoot stinkers in ushers' uniforms pushed wheelbarrows up the aisles, distributing starch bars, low-grade willy, and bottles of Jake. The hand-size starch bars were wrapped in wax-soaked paper and could be eaten in two or three bites. The willy was in pellet form, the Jake diluted, its normal yellow hue almost absent.

Roe gobbled down his starch bar and followed it with a slosh of Jake and the lump of willy. "Not so bad," he said.

"You should have saved your willy for later," the American advised. "You'd sleep better."

The shabby curtains opened and the movie began. The American sighed, "I've seen this a thousand times."

The film began with a scene in which Hooker, dressed in winter clothes, approaches the dark entrance of The Grotto, a restaurant conducting business inside a shallow cave. The host, a stinker, is there to greet him: "Honored sir, Pliny referred to this grotto as the breathing place of Pluto, where the fiends of the infernal regions found ventilation and fresh air when Hades became too hot for comfort. Therefore, you might imagine the air to be naturally cool. That is not true. You see, a warm carbonic gas percolates through the floor. The place is uncomfortably warm to anyone who is not a fiend. But I must caution you, the gas can be insidious if you breathe it for long. That's why we limit diners to twenty-five minutes, even very important people, and why we close for the summer."

The Reverend places his hand on top of the host's head. "Loosen up, you stiff!" In close-up, viewers see the stinker's gray cheeks redden, his eyes light up, his dry, spongy lips fill with moisture.

The Radiola's power failed, the film stopped, and the theater darkened.

Beset suddenly with a fit of coughing, the American lit a candle, saying it was his last. When he caught his breath he said, "The air in here is bad for the lungs. Falling plaster dust is what it is."

Roe gave his bottle of cough syrup to the American, who held it well above his open mouth and poured in a dram or two. "Mmmmmmm. That's righteous good."

A few industrious stinkers moved up and down the aisles selling hand-made tallow candles and matches whose tips were dipped in poor quality sulfur and excessive amounts of phosphorous. Small flaming chunks often flew from the tips when they were struck, sometimes setting the user's clothing on fire or landing in an eye. "Candles here. Candles and matches. What'll you give me?"

Gel cans were lit and placed along the edge of the stage. An usher spoke through a bullhorn. "All right, everyone. Keep the chit-chat to a minimum. If any of you want to come down and entertain, please do. Curfew in one hour."

A stinker sitting behind Roe thumped him on the head and said, "Go down on that stage and play your saw. I heard you out there. You're terrific. Put out a hat. You'll make a killing."

Roe went to the stage and played on for more than an hour. His prodigious skills kept listeners attentive and quiet. He took modest bows between pieces and the flicker of the gel cans lent the evening a small degree of graciousness. Bucks were balled up and thrown to the stage, at which point a welldressed gentleman in a silk suit and impskin boots made an appearance onstage.

"Jerry Grandee. Let me manage you, sonny boy. You'll make me rich. I'll make you happy. You play the saw like an angel. Can you dance?"

"No."

"I'm always on the lookout for young men with your talents. Can you sing?"

"Only the Edelweiss song. My sister taught it to me."

"Not such a problem. I'm Ray. Ray Harp."

"Didn't you say you were Jerry…?"

"Did I say I was Jerry, Jerry Grandee?"

"You did."

"Sorry. A little white lie. It's nothing. My tongue slipped. Look, the truth is, I run a private club called The Bones Jangle. Very hush-hush. It's in the basement. I book acts. We serve a limited clientele, you understand. Everything's extremely sub rosa. Come on down. I'll show you the place. We'll talk turkey."

"I want to bring my friend, Frank."

"Can't do that. I know Frank. He's a reprobate, a petty thief, and a congenital liar. Not allowed in the club."

"That's a shame."

Down a steep set of stairs, the Bones Jangle door stood slightly ajar and the sweet odor of burning urpflanz drifted out. Roe heard excited conversation, annoyingly loud once he was inside. At the far end of a long, narrow space, on a raised platform, a human skeleton hung on a stand. Bathed in a dim red light from a spot above and powered by some unseen mechanism, it danced a jig. The syncopated jangle of its bones provided lively ambient sound. Down the center of the space was a series of eight raised platforms with round tables atop them, each with four sets of pedals. New arrivals sat drinking Jake as they pedaled and chatted.

Grandee sat Roe down at the table nearest the skeleton. "Here's a good spot. The show will start in a few minutes." He flagged down a server. "Two Jakes for me and my client here."

Roe strapped his feet to the pedals.

"It keeps the power on," Grandee said, "for the stage lights, for Mr. Bones Jangle over there, for the icebox."

"You want me to play my saw?"

"I do, but not tonight. The Doolittle girl's on for tonight. She's in big demand, a showpiece. It was a tough negotiation with her family, but she's mine now. They'll wheel her out in a minute."

"That's what my shifting order said. That I was going to try to mate with Daisy Doolittle."

"That's what they told all those dopes upstairs. But here's a little secret between you and me. There's very few sets of gonads that'll work with what she's got. One could be yours. If it is, you'll be upshifted for certain. You want to give it a try sometime? I'll put you on the list."