Motorman (2 page)

Rapid pecking followed by pauses. Long, agile tongue coated with a jellylike substance, good for rooting in tree trunks for larvae and etcetera. When the tongue is retracted it apparently wraps about the brain.

Things were loose in those days for Moldenke. He was free and new green, bright suns behind him, spirals ahead.

2]

When his mind wandered it took him to a sunchoked acre of grasses and weed where a snow of pollen lay yellow on the ground, a place like a rotunda, obviously complete, although nothing suggested architecture. There was no apparent ceiling and no visible dome.

Warm winds would lap at his stringy hair arrangement. He would feel no pulse, faint metabolism, conscious only of the hum and flow. He would recall what Doctor Burnheart had said to him on one occasion: “Take wing, Moldenke. Life is flight if you choose to ride the updrafts.”

He would circle the acre in pollen silence with his better ear open. The silence would give way to a labored breathing, the sound of a single lung in difficulty. Then, on a cue from no visible source, something with mudded claws would spit clots from surrounding bushes. Moldenke would imagine himself turning away, his chin on his chest, one hand in a pocket.

The Moldenke mind was airy, like a dirigible loosed from its tethers.

3]

He felt something without form, something edgeless, rushing at him from the direction of eastern light. He pressed his nose against a lookout, saw a pattern coming together at the horizon of city and sky. He crabbed backwardly up the false stairwell and crouched in a blind spot. “Is that you, Bunce? Mr. Bunce?”

It moved through his room, the visitor, touching things to its nose and snorting, and sat in Moldenke's chair.

Moldenke turned on a light, “Yes?”

The visitor stood and approached him, opening its ear valve to relieve pressure. “You should stay in the chair now, Moldenke. I will remain in the hallway and watch your door. It is a pleasure to know you.”

4]

The phone rang. Moldenke picked up the speaker:

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello.” It seemed a genuine voice. “Is this Moldenke?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, well...Moldenke?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Never mind that. By the way, are you leaning against a wall?”

“No.”

“Would you mind?”

“No, I wouldn't.”

“Then please lean.”

“The phone is in the middle of the room. I can't.”

“Good, try squatting.”

Moldenke squatted. “There. Now, who's calling?”

“Never mind that, jocko. You know who this is.”

“Mr. Bunce?”

“Exactly correct, Mr. Moldenke. Old friend Bunce. What say we halt these amenities and face the grit? I have a reason for calling you, jocko. A number of reasons in fact; one particular is a pressing little matter of tapes. You might say I called to talk tape. That would be sufficient.”

“I'm not playing, Bunce.”

“He's not playing, he says.”

'That's right.”

“I warn you not to fiddle, Moldenke. This is a business call and I'm speaking on a business phone.”

Moldenke felt floor through his soft, catkin slippers, was conscious of trapped gas within his pajamas, imagined a raincoat under his skin, and an indoor rain.

“Were talking dumps, Moldenke. Don't give me gas. I have some tapes here that may be of major importance to you, all nicely packaged and locked in my kitty-box.”

Moldenke hung up.

5]

Dear Moldenke,

I think of you often these days. How are things in the cities? I wish you could be with me in this country air. Yes, Moldenke.
Air.
You should be breathing it occasionally, if not constantly. After all, you're the one with the problem heart.

My special regards, as ever,

Doctor Burnheart

6]

She would say, “Play the Buxtehude, Moldenke. I enjoy the chills it gives me.” She would close the door behind herself and leave him alone in the piano room with its pots of ivy and ant-traps.

He would begin the Buxtehude on the cold keyboard. In the bedroom she would listen through a wall.

He would play the Buxtehude until ants crawled along his fingers and assembled on his sleeves.

He would then walk to the kitchen, carrying his hands like packages, and scrape the ants into a teaboil. Roberta would emerge from the bedroom, stand in the doorway in her flannel. Moldenke would turn from the tea boil and smile, his old silver tooth throwing out a rod of light.

Roberta would say, “Tea?”

Moldenke would add mock sugar. “Yes, would you like a cup?”

She would always have a cup. She would say, “As always.”

Moldenke would have his with potato milk, she without.

7]

When he was a boy, a student, whenever he loaned out a book it would come back with nosewipes in the margins and down the spine.

8]

He put the speaker to his better ear and listened for a dial tone. There was static, someone pouring rice from bowl to bowl.

He fixed the speaker in its cradle and went to his lookout. Buildings, vehicles, something above suggesting sky.

Two suns up, a bright day.

American hearts beating in the street.

9]

Over the seasons Moldenke's faith diminished. If he opened a spigot and got water, no matter how clouded or sour, he was gratified, as though he no longer expected it, although he loved water as nearly as he loved anything. That was the way with Moldenke, a brightly burning candle with a shortened wick, destined to burn low and give off gas.

10]

The phone rang. Moldenke answered:

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Mr. Moldenke? ”

“This is Mr. Moldenke speaking. Who's calling?”

“Bunce here, Moldenke. Serious up a minute, please. No fooling around. I don't like the way you hung up on me last call. I never like to see a hang-up. It shows me you're not as interested as you should be, not as engaged as you might be. What's the trouble? Would you like me to put my forearm up your very delicate chuff pipe and pop your spleen like a cherry, or run my thumbnail down your inner spine, assuming you have one? Is that the sort of thing you want? Bunce doesn't cater to the meek, my friend. Remember
that
even if you forget all else. Remember that much. Open the good ear, jocko. Listen to me. We have the tapes.”

“You have the tapes,” Moldenke said. “What tapes?”

“What tapes, he says.”

“Yes, Bunce. What tapes?”

“Tapes, friend. Tapes! Things said about you in your absence. Yourself as others see you. The works. We have it all. The whole Moldenke. If you ever have a yen to listen to a few of the tapes, give me a call. The number is 555-333-555333-555-333. I'll be around. Give me a ring sometime. We'll have lunch, slug down a few pinebrews, and talk things over. Put all our bags on the table, if you know what I mean. Are you with me, Moldenke? Can you follow me? ”

Moldenke again hung up.

11]

He opened the book to a random page, let his finger float to a random line and read:
In 1856 Claude Bernard noted the appearance of cloudy lymph in the duodenum near the entrance of the bile duct.
He read no further.

12]

He dialed in a station on the radio and got a weather report:

Cloudy, freezing in the outskirts, cold tonight, colder tomorrow, warming Thursday and Friday, cooling off by Saturday, sleet by Sunday, double suns on Monday, and so on, according to the everyday charts, indicating a possible trend—warm, cool, cooler, etcetera, chance of light-to-heavy blister snow, probable drizzle washing out the artificial month, gas breaks at Amarillo, Great Chicago, and Texaco City, no moons tonight, shelter animals if necessary, please stay tuned...

13]

He dialed 555-333-555333-555-333, an obvious woman answered the first ring:

“Chelsea Fish Pavilion.”

“Excuse me,” Moldenke said. “I may have misdialed. My apologies.”

“Sir, what number did you call?”

“I don't remember. What number did I reach?”

“The Chelsea Fish, 555-333-—”

“Thank you, miss. The number sounds familiar, although I don't think-—”

“May I help you, sir?”

“I don't know, miss. Is there by any odd chance someone in the establishment by the name of Bunce? ”

“Yes, sir. The Manager, Mr. Bunce. Would you like me to connect you with him?”

“No, miss. I already am. Thank you. And, miss?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Is he what you call the boss?”

“Yes, sir. He is.”

“I see. Well, thanks, miss. I was only verifying the number. I didn't have anything to talk about. I may come in and buy a few nice fish sometime.”

“We don't have any, sir. I'm sorry.”

“Oh?”

“Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye, miss.”

14]

He went to his kitty-file and took out a Burnheart letter:

Dear Moldenke,

Yesterday I had a productive visit with my friend Eagleman of Atmospheric Sciences. He was full of his ensiform work with
oecanthus
and it took him several cigars to get it all on the table, as it were.

One question, Dinky: how are the polyps?

Cordially yours,

Doc Burnheart

P.S. Have you seen Eagleman's moon?

15]

After the mock War was apparently over, the army let Moldenke go. He found work as a bloodboy in a gauze mill outside Texaco City, a klick or two from the L.A. limits. He started low and remained there, sure that safety embraced felicity on a mattress of obscurity. He knew that vertical activity invited dazzling exposure, and that to seek is to be sucked. He recognized loneliness as the mother of virtues and sat in her lap whenever he could. He practiced linear existence and sidewise movement, preferring the turtle to the crane, the saucer to the lamp. He enjoyed the downstairs and chafed at going up. All of this, despite what his mother had told him: “Sonny,” she had said, a circle of rouge on each of her cheeks, her eyes like basement windows. “Son,” she said, “I want you to always have a job to go to, no matter what it is or where it is or what it involves. What matters is whether or not it lets you go up.”

16]

The lights went out. The radio died. Moldenke went to the lookout. Both suns were up, and clouded over. It was dark enough to be close to noons, although he didn't have a clockpiece anywhere. The second double Sunday in an artificial month.

He opened his refrigerator and found a cockroach at the lettuce. Something scratched in the eggs.

The juice was off. He would call the Power Co-op.

17]

The phone rang.

Moldenke answered.

“Hello?”

“Am I speaking with Moldenke? ”

“Yes. Bunce? Bunce, my lights are off.”

“His lights are off, he says.”

“And the radio, and the refrigerator. What about my weather reports? I'm worried. The wind is dying. What about those things, Bunce?”

“Moldenke fiddles on. The lights are off, the wind is dying. Moldenke, if we were back-to-back we'd tangle asses.”

“The heat grille went off also. I should add that. I'm getting colder.”

“Hey, pal, listen to this: I'm taking you out of the M's and putting you at the top of the A's, smack at the head of my list. Here it is, jock: From now on, only one outgoing call per day, two incoming, all monitored. Consider benefits and privileges terminated, and don't leave your room until I say so. I don't
necessarily
want blood, but don't rule it out. Read a few magazines. No moving around. Pick a chair you like and stay with it. No changing. I'll have your food sent up. What do you think this is, Moldenke? A nightflying outfit? Don't be so casual about it, boy. How would you like to spend an hour in the hot room? I want seriousness from you. Remember, if you don't ease up, you might get plugged.”