Motorman (11 page)

75]

Featherfighter swiveled and faced Moldenke. “Toss if I mind you a few works before we question you to put...?”

Moldenke waited for the correction. A drop of jelly bled from Featherfighter's wrist valve. “Mind if I toss you a few questions before we put you to work? Ten apologies, Mr. Bufona.”

“Moldenke is the name. Burnheart and Eagleman arranged this. I got on at the last stop.”

“This was arranged by whom? And whom?”

“Doctor Burnheart and Doctor Eagleman.”

“It doesn't make much sense to me, Mr. Bufona. That combo escapes me. Wait, didn't Eagleheart promote a moon once?”

“Once, yes,” Moldenke said. “The name is Moldenke.”

“Shake hands.” Moldenke shook the hand, a rubber glove filled with jelly.

The Health Truck hit a chuckhole; Featherfighter sloshed.

“Someone else arranged this, Mr. Bufona. Burnman and Eagleheart had nothing to do with it.”

Moldenke said he was surprised, although he would take the job anyway, whatever it was, if it was available.

“Sit down, Bufona. A few questions, please.” Moldenke sat in a cup-chair.

“Let me ask you if you use a calendar?”

Moldenke said he didn't bother. He took out a cigar.

Featherfighter said, “No flames, please.” Moldenke put the cigar back and chewed his lip. “You don't use a calendar, you say. I can sympathize there, Mr. Bufona. Six technical months in a single day sometimes. It gets confusing. Do you watch the weather then?”

“I listen to the reports.”

“You listen to the reports...try this.” He gave Moldenke a dried weevil cake. Moldenke swallowed a bite and said he liked it. Featherfighter said, “You will be a good employee, Bufona. I can already see that. If you can swallow a weevil cake, you can swallow almost anything.”

The room widened at the top and became circular, although the floor was square, accommodating Featherfighter's desk and Moldenke's chair, nothing more. He followed the walls up, looking for the transition from square to circle, but missed it.

Featherfighter opened a drawer. “May I read you something from the book, Mr. Bufona? ”

“Moldenke. Yes, read it. I know the book myself.”

“In 1856 Claude Bernard noted the appearance of cloudy lymph in the duodenum...
No, that isn't the page...”

If he leaned over Featherfighter's desk, his face reflected in its top. If he drew back, the reflection remained in the polish.

Featherfighter said, “Here it is:
As a boy I often walked the graveways. Once I kicked open a rotted tomb and bees swarmed out. Until then, in my youthful ignorance, I had thought them dead in the winter. It was an important juncture in my career. I soon began to think in terms of human honey, and it wasn't long before..."
Featherfighter stopped, looked at Moldenke.

Moldenke said, “And so on. I know the passage. Burnheart is exploring his youth for scientific indicators.”

“Who is?”

“Doctor Burnheart. The author.”

“The author?”

“Yes, what's the point of the passage?”

“The point is
Insecta,
Bufo. The class
Insecta.
Let me read from another section:
Spread the wings of two or three flutterbys over a slice of pinebread, pass under the grille, top with honey if available, a basic recipe that even a... (deleted)... could accomplish”

Moldenke said, “Etcetera. I've read the book. I see you have a deleted edition.”

Featherfighter ignored him, continued reading:
“As a child I was kept in a crumbling house. I would gather earwigs among the fallen bricks and make a tea. My father taught me to make an ant-trap. My mother taught me the piano. As a student under Professor... (deleted)...I read the book
.”

Moldenke said, “I believe that deletion should read 'Eagleman.' Professor Eagleman. They get worse toward the end.”

Featherfighter closed the book, returned it to the drawer. “Would you like to start today, Mr. Bufona? ”

“Yes. I need the chits. What will I be doing?”

“You'll be eating various insects and dreaming up recipes. Let's get a frock on you and I'll take you down to the Tasting Lab.”

76]

Roquette opened a door. “This is your room, Moldenke. A bed, a chair, a sink, an oval lookout, a nightstand, a radio, a lamp, a closet, and a small fireplace with mock logs.” Moldenke said, “Very nice.”

Roquette said, “There's a common pisser down the hall. We share.”

Moldenke said that would be fine. “I think I'll take a nap and give my hearts a rest.” He went to the bed and fluffed a rubber pillow.

Roquette said, “No rest. I'll show you around part of the boat.”

A note in greenish ink was pinned to the pillow.

Moldenke,

I am on the boat. Don't show it if you see me.

Love,

Roberta

He folded the note and ate it. Roquette waited in the hall. “Hurry on, Dink. Leave your baggage here and we'll meet a few of the folks. Who knows, we might catch a movie.” He removed his packs and left them at the foot of the bed, followed Roquette to the elevator.

77]

Mr. Featherfighter,

Here is my first report:

(1) The cedar bagworm does not seem worth the bother of tearing it out of the bag. It is leathery on chewing and it has a tendency toward bitter excretions. However, if one were to allow them to pupate and emerge, they may then be soaked in potato milk and pan fried.

(2) Halictine bees, dried, make a hearty, bracing tea, good for the imagination. Eaten raw they leave blisters in the mouth.

(3) The cicada killer, boiled and iced, resembles the quahog of the old days.

(4) While the robber fly has a disturbing pungency and tends to irritate the chuffs, it does have beautiful eyes.

78]

Mr. Bufona, Tasting Lab

The Health Truck

MEMO

Your first report is now on my desk, etcetera.

Mr. Featherfighter

Mr. Featherfighter's Office

The Health Truck

79]

There were no lookouts in the Tasting Lab. At lunch break Moldenke turned to the wall and closed his eye until the time was up. Had there been lookouts he would have watched the sidewalks go by.

On the second day of work he arrived early and found an aquarium on his desk, and a note:
An aquarium, Bufo, since you don’t have a lookout. Will send along the water and the fish later. I’ll read your report today

Mr. Featheretcetera.

On the third day, when he swiveled around from his lunch break and found a gallon of fleas marked “for tasting,” he wrote a memo:

Mr. Featherfighter,

MEMO

No. No fleas. I have hesitations.

Yours,

Moldenke (The name is
MOLDENKE
.)

80]

Mr. Bufo

Tasting Lab

The Health Truck

MEMO

I have read your first report, Mr. B. I find it lacking in seriousness, especially toward the end. I look forward to the second report.

Your employer,

Mr. Etcetera

81]

Mr. Etcetera,

My second report:

(1) Both fleas and
cantharides
lead to self-abuse.

(2) I feel I should resign.

(3) I feel. I feel. Therapy helped me.

(4) I do resign.

No longer yours,

Moldenke

82]

Roquette said, “Let's stop off at the hot room. Take off your clothes, son. We're all ourselves in the hot room.”

Moldenke undressed and hung his clothes in a locker. “My hearts, Roquette. I shouldn't be going in there.”

“Malarky, Dink. Step in. You'll never regret it.”

They bowed under a low passageway, entered a room lit dimly red. Wooden benches, a wood-burning stove, a woman attending the fire, the odor of wood sap.

“Sit down, son. Relax.” Moldenke sat on a bench, head between his knees. “Breathe it in, son.”

“What's the temperature, Roquette?”

“That would be hard to say. I wouldn't want to guess.”

Moldenke sat up. Another heart stopped. “May I have water? Is there water in here? I need liquids.”

“Watch the fire-lady. Fire-lady, this is Moldenke. He'll be boating with us.” The fire-lady turned, smiled. Moldenke's eye was closed. “Let the poisons work themselves out, Moldenke. Let it come. Fire-lady, get this man a cup of water.” She carried a wooden bucket, dipped her hands in, splashed water over Moldenke's body. He opened his eye. Perspiration filled it.

Roquette whispered, “She likes you, son. Wouldn't you say her tit nipples resemble pencil erasers? Moldenke?”

“I don't know.” He tried to clear his eye. Her silhouette against the stove light seemed familiar. “Cock?”

“Pardon me, Moldenke,” Roquette said. “Do you know this lady?”

Moldenke said he didn't and closed his eye.

83]

Dear Miss Roberta,

Once they said there was nothing to do about the weather, then there was, then too much was done, and now it's out of control. Keep yourself warm, Roberta, no matter what comes down from up. Hide your thinking in the clouds where artificial winds do not exist. I'm sorry, Cock. Excuse me. I've strayed from the middle.

I will tell you about an interesting thing I saw in the papers. LAST NIGGER DIES IN GREAT CHICAGO. Cock, the very last one is gone. Roosevelt Teaset. The article says they'll clean him up, prepare him, and show him in a case at Preservation Hall. I don't doubt they'll also sell popcorn, and put him next to the banana plant. They had stuffed him with twenty odd hearts before the blood rush drowned his brain.

I am wired today, Roberta. I may go on. My feelings are greatly improved. I find it hard to acquaint myself with the new condition, but I don't hesitate to take advantage of it.

Roberta, do you remember the morning I scattered sesame on the window sill and the mock birds came along to feed and woke you up? Remember the night we slept in a rubber house at the edge of a marsh in the worst of summerfall? I showed you foxfire and we watched it follow an army train across a bridge.

Cock, it seems that whenever I'm looking for you, you're out, and whenever you're in, I'm never looking. It reminds me of the ghost crab relationship. He'll crawl to her hole with his claw raised, she'll be gone, and he'll crawl away, his claw trailing in the sand. Then she'll return to the hole, wait for him, grow impatient and leave. Then he'll come back to the empty hole. That's the way they do it, Roberta. And we have doorbells and telephones. I suppose, judging from the younger ghost crabs I've seen, that eventually their periods of being at the same hole do coincide, although I've never seen it happen. Nor has Burnheart.

I don't remember much about the mock War, Roberta. I do have a recollection of being found by a lost dog. Because I could feel the heat of the earth I knew I was in a hole. There were government noises over the ridge, loudspeakers broadcasting airbursts. I looked up from the hole and saw the dog's face, his teeth showing ricelike in the battle light. I pulled him in with me and we shared fleas and heat for the night. In the morning I followed him back to my tent, then lost him in the smoke and confusion. At one point someone opened my tent flap and said, “Go home, Moldenke. Your war is over. The injury qualifies. Please don't mention the particulars. Say you were away at camp and you fell in a chuckhole.” Don't ask me about the War, Cock.

I'll close now. I've been writing on my lunch break for a change. I have to get back to my weevil butter and cream of ips.

Some time I'll find your deepest hole.

With feeling,

Moldenke

84]

Dear Moldenke,

I'm sorry to say they warehoused all the pianos. I would love to hear the Buxtehude again.

When I go to my Doctor with shivering, he recommends a coat. The nurses read my thermogram and tell me how cold I am, as if I didn't dream an icestorm every night and watch my fingertips freeze against the lookout pane. I would not like to grow any colder than this, Moldenke. Do something.