David Ohle - The Pisstown Chaos

Love, Grandmother

Dear Ophelia,

They've sent me out to live in the middle of nowhere. There's not much to see. The view from my window is a dry creek bed snaking through a cluster of dead sycamores, scattered palmettos, creosote bushes, wild poppies and urpflanz.

I don't have the creature comforts I'm used to, but it isn't so bad. Though the summer heat is extremely oppressive during the day, a cooling breeze blows at night. There's a pellet stove to keep me warm this winter and a crock full of pellets.

Today was a dreary, hot Tuesday, not a drop of rain or a cloud all day. I found a drowned blackfly at the bottom of my teacup this morning and a few parasites in the stool sample. I don't know how they live on it. Perhaps they don't. Perhaps it's just their mode of transport into this sweet, airy world of ours. Even though my load of parasites is light, I feel heavy all the time, and sleepy.

Watch out for that dreamy brother of yours. You know how his mind can drift. Remind him to check himself for worms twice a day. Make sure he oils his saw and waxes the bow strings. And we don't want him wandering off and getting lost, so make sure he has plenty of ribbons in his pocket when he goes for a walk. He can tie them to bushes and find his way back. And I want you to stay close to home and shave him when he gets his tremors. We don't want him nearly beheading himself again. And don't lock him in the closet when he's being crabby. It gets him excited and he masturbates.

It must be springtime there. Have the hydrangea begun to bloom? What about the wasps' nest in the potting shed? Someone should tell that lazy yard man that the cure for that is to tie a rag at the end of a long pole, set it afire and burn the devils out. Does that turtle still sun himself on the dead cypress knee by the pond? Is the old white swan still alive?

The trip here on that clattering old orbigator, Noctuk, was more than unpleasant. In the stool sample line a man was brained as I stood by and watched. His crime? Slow bowels. They couldn't wait. Nothing but starch bars to eat and they crack open his skull with a billy club for slow bowels. It's an abomination.

As Ever,

Your Loving Grandmother

P.S. Don't be keeping company with either the butler or the yard man. Both of them are moral imbeciles. I intend to dismiss them as soon as I return.

A few weeks into Mildred's stay at Permanganate Island, she had visitors from the Administration. The pair arrived in a new Q-ped. Grasshoppers had burst green and yellow across the twin windshields. The belts and chains smoked as they cooled.

"Hello there," one of them called out. "May we come up?"

"What do you want? Who are you?"

"Administration. There could be a release in the works. We'd like to talk it over."

"By all means. Do come up. The steps are quite bad."

The pair were Raymo and Alana. "We're associate wardens," Raymo said.

"In charge of pardons," Alana added as they came breathless to the top of the stairs. Once inside, Raymo slid a document from his dusty briefcase. "Before we get started, Mrs. Balls, I want you to know that we know who you are."

Alana reached to shake Mildred's hand. "Your husband invented Jake powder. You're that Mildred Balls."

Raymo took her other hand. "Not to mention your own design for the Q-ped. Now I can say I've shaken the hand that held the hand of Jacob Balls and the pen that drew the first Q-ped."

Alana said, "What would the world be like if it weren't for those great ideas?"

Raymo began to pace, two or three steps in one direction, then two or three in the other. "Now, to get back to what I was saying. The Administration is willing to consider a fifty percent reduction in the normal time we keep infestation cases here, assuming we can get your parasites under control. And we think we just might be able to do that if we all pitch in and try hard. This would be in exchange for carrying out certain humanitarian tasks."

Alana and Raymo removed their duck cloth pedaling coats to reveal the typical uniforms of low-level Permanganate Administrators, their arm patches displaying the Permanganate Parasite Facility insignia-the letters PPF in black within a circle of stylized, red parasites.

Mildred hung their coats on a nail in the wall. "And what would be the nature of these duties?"

"You care for a group of stinkers, fourth-stage," Raymo said. "Retired donors, no longer useful in that way, but a lot of them are still surprisingly animated, so we want to build a pen out there where they'll be exposed to the elements night and day, year round. We'll want you to observe them and keep daily logs of their activities and behavior. You'll start with two or three of them."

"We'll replace any die-offs," Alana added. "They don't eat or drink much at this stage, so there's hardly any waste to dispose of. All you'll have to worry about is washing them once a week and rubbing them down with scented oil. Other than that they're pretty self sufficient."

Raymo continued, "The washing, as you also know, is mainly to keep the stink down. We'll leave you with ample supplies of soap, oil and sponges. Remember, their skin can parch and peel off if it gets too dry. That exposes muscle and bone to damaging sunlight, so be careful. And keeping detailed records is important." He produced a record book from his briefcase. "Everything goes right here."

"Don't laugh when you see what they're wearing," Alana chuckled. "It's mostly clinic-staff hand-me-downs. Stinkers have no sense of style whatsoever."

Mildred gave the offer some thought. Not only would it shorten her stay dramatically, she would have something to fill the hours. There would also be a limited degree of companionship, assuming she could communicate with stinkers at all. If frequent washing meant keeping the stink down, a year would pass quickly enough. Moreover, if her parasites proliferated beyond control, it was only a matter of time until she herself would need to be cared for. In that way helping out a few stinkers would be time well spent. "I'll sign on," she said. "It seems very fair."

Raymo gave the record book to her and she signed the agreement.

"One caution," Alana said. "Imps tend to gather when stinkers are in the area and they have been known to prey on them."

Raymo said, "They've given up grass and scum for a diet of stinker meat, what there is of it. No one knows why. A couple of them can chew up a downed stinker in a few minutes, head to toenails."

The Administrators put on their coats. "We'll be in touch at intervals to check on your stinkers," Alana said. "And, as a word of encouragement, we're on a fast track to finding a way to flush out those parasites. It's a matter of months. We've had several spontaneous cures lately. We're in the process of developing some theories about why as we speak."

"Be patient, Mrs. Balls," Raymo added. "Trustees will be here tomorrow to build the pens."

Alana had an afterthought. "One more thing, Is there a copy of the Field Guide here?"

"Yes, I found it in the closet."

"Have you been boning up on the Sayings?"

"I've memorized a few. `Too much learning is a dangerous thing,' 'Travel is the serious part of frivolous lives,' `The greatest affliction in life is never to be afflicted,' and, 'Excess of grief fora put-down stinker is an insult to the fully-alive.'"

"Only four?"

"I'm getting old. I don't have the memory I once had."

Alana said, "We'll try to be as patient as we can. You've got ninety-seven to go. Please, see that this gets done."

The next morning trustees arrived and went to work on the posts, wire and gate of the pen, finishing the job in a few hours. Meanwhile, Mildred sat near her window, keeping an eye on the trustees and writing another round of letters.

Dear Roe,