Motorman (12 page)

Love,

Cock

P.S. They say my punctuation improves, period.

85]

“Roquette? ”

“Yes?” Roquette half-slept, perspiration dripping from his toes to the floor.

“My hearts, Roquette.”

“Change the subject, son. That one bores me. You act like the only man on earth with heart pains.”

“I'd like to leave the hot room.”

“No!” Roquette's eyes apparently melted and drained down the cheeks. His whiskers flared and burned to small, glowing stumps. Moldenke blinked the apparent illusion away.

“I should see a Doctor, Roquette. You mentioned before that I might see a Doctor.”

“Did I? Who installed those hearts?”

“Burnheart.”

“Is he the family Doctor?”

“I can't say. There's no family.”

“I see. Then I don't know what we can do. All of our Doctors are family Doctors. They wouldn't be able to help you. I'd go back to the original mechanic if a vehicle went bad, wouldn't I? You should get back to Burnheart, shouldn't you?”

“Yes.” Another heart fluttered. “I may not have time to get to Burnheart. They're going at a clip. When will we be in Burnheart's neighborhood?”

“I don't know. I wouldn't guess about that.”

“Let me off the boat.”

“Let him off the boat, he says.”

“Off the boat. I'd like to get off the boat.”

“He'd like to get off the boat. You'd freeze yourself. Stay on the boat. You'll meet the folks. We'll take a walk through the arboretum.”

The fire whistled.

86]

The taxi man had turned to Moldenke and said, “Excuse me in the back. Don't yell if I stop and pick up that couple there by the stadium. The lady looks like she's in a spot.” His teeth had been ricelike, his face doglike. Moldenke sat middled in the back seat, feeling diminished.

The k-taxi pulled out of the flow of traffic and stopped near the couple. Moldenke said he had his doubts about them. The taxi man said, “I like silence in the back.” Moldenke fell quiet, doubtful.

The woman knelt over a puddle of jelly in the gutter beneath her, favoring her stomach. The man, professorlike, approached the k-taxi, asking to be taken to a drugstore for a tin of “charcoal tablets” for the woman's stomach.

The taxi man said, “Is it raining?”

The professor said, “The weatherman said it was.”

The taxi man said, “Good enough. Get in.”

Moldenke sat forward. The taxi man said, “No yelling from the back. I always pick up extras in the rain.” Moldenke said it wasn't raining. The taxi man said, “And who are you?” Moldenke said never mind, sliding over in the seat.

The professorlike man pushed his woman into the back seat, sat himself in the front, his breath filling the k-taxi with the suggestion of peanuts. When the k-taxi made a curve in the boulevard the woman, in a stupor, leaned over on Moldenke, vomiting a jellylike substance into his trenchcoat pocket, her eyes like the eyes of boated fish. In the front the professor went to sleep.

The taxi man said, “You in the back. What do you think of these two?”

Moldenke said he wasn't thinking.

The taxi man said, “Watch this.” He peeled off one of the professor's eyebrows as he slept, threw it into the rear seat. “Check that, jocko. I don't like the way these two champs smell.” The eyebrow fell to the floor, lost itself in chewed pinegum, dirt, and flattened popcorn puffs.

The jelly soaked through Moldenke's coat and stuck one of his shirts to his chest.

The taxi man said, “The k-rules are clear on this point. I'll have to take these champs for a ride through the bottoms. No yelling in the back.”

They drove out of the city, down mud roads, down narrow roads of oyster shell, reflecting white, far from any suggestion of architecture. Mock pollen dusted the road hedge.

The professor continued to sleep, his lips hanging on his tie by a strand of latex.

At the end of roads the k-taxi stopped. The taxi man opened the glove box and took out a screw driver.

Moldenke said, “What now?”

The taxi man said, “Now we'll take a walk. You carry the woman.”

They walked into a grove of ethers, Moldenke carrying the woman over his shoulder, jelly dripping down the back of his trenchcoat. The taxi man pushed the professor along in front.

Two suns were up, close together.

They stopped walking, Moldenke put the woman down. The taxi man said, “Now you take a walk and never mind what I'm doing.”

Moldenke walked aimlessly under the ethers, snipes whistling above him. He sat on a log and waited. He heard the k-taxi drive off. He chewed a stonepick and forgot.

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.”

“This is air, Roquette.”

“And 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,