by David Ohle
“All right,” Moldenke said. “I’ll take care of it in the morning.”
“Bring me the ear valves. If you don’t have a knife, pinch them off with your fingernails.”
“Right, I will.” Moldenke’s tone was laden with doubt.
Big Ernie smiled broadly and winked. “Little Sorrel’ll owe you a favor…”
“All right. I’ll take care of it.”
Moldenke was on the afternoon car back to the west side feeling anxious. It wasn’t in his nature to kill anything, even a jellyhead. He decided to distract himself that evening after an order of mud fish at Saposcat’s by going to the Joytime Cinema, the only open one in the City, to see Misti Gaynor and Enfield Peters starring in Who Puked in the Sink?
Midway through the dull, slow paced film, Moldenke fell asleep. Just after its end, an usher awakened him. “Go home, fella. You’ve shit yourself.”
“I’m sorry. It’s something out of my control and it’s getting worse.” Moldenke yawned and stretched. “All right. But tell me, who puked in the sink?”
“It was the plongeur, the dishwasher. The wealthy partiers were leaving all those rich canapés on their plates and he’d been eating them. It made him sick and he heaved it all up right there into the three-chambered sink. Mystery solved. Now get on out of here. We’re closing up for the night.”
On the way back to his room, Moldenke ventured into a dark alleyway where he threw his soiled underdrawers into a trash bin. Fortunately the discharge in the theater had been light. His uniform pants were only lightly stained. When he reached his flat he hung them in the window to dry then sat naked all night, smoking Juleps and watching the progress of the half-moon through his window when the clouds and the swaying pants would let him.
It was an hour or two after getting into bed that he finally gave in to sleep and dreamed of Ernie’s daughter coming fast toward him on a busy street, her hair wild and tangled and blown by the air she parted with her rapid walk. She looked as thin as death, expressionless as she came to him and locked him in a tight hug. They whirled around, which prevented him from looking straight into her ravaged face. He saw only parts of her—a cheek, an ear, and hair swept back like a comet’s tail. His eyes were fixed in a stare at empty space. She said nothing, and her gaze never met his.
Employees at a streetcar terminal in Bunkerville watched in horror Monday night as a jellyhead fatally slashed her throat and stabbed herself repeatedly in the chest. Melba Morten, thirty-one, was dead on arrival at a hospital after the incident in the cafeteria of the terminal.
Randolph Scott, an off-duty police officer working as a security guard, struggled with the victim, twice trying to get the knife from her.
“She was split from one end to the other, screaming and gasping for breath,” Scott said. “I tried to get a bandage on her, but I’ve never come across anyone so strong. She pushed me away.”
Olga Pimental, cafeteria supervisor, said she heard Morten screaming. “I ran to see who it was and she was slashing her throat,” she said. “She did it about three times. After she did it, she just stood there screaming. It sounded horrible.”
After a cup of tea and a bowl of meal at Saposcat’s the next morning, Moldenke cut through Liberty Park on his way to the streetcar stop and stepped into a mound of jellyhead stool hidden by leaves. There were no flies on it to give warning, even though the odor was unbearably foul, like something days dead. There were other mounds scattered around and balled bunches of wiping rags and soiled newspaper thrown about. It was a jellyhead toileting area.
As he waited at the stop, Moldenke scraped much of the stool from his boots onto the car tracks, but what remained smelled strong enough to get him kicked off as soon as he got on.
“Who do you think you are, getting on my car smelling like that?”
“Sorry, couldn’t help it.”
“Get off right now.”
Moldenke jumped out of the car while it still moved, fortunate not to sprain his ankles. It was a long walk to Smiley’s, and he was exhausted when he got there. He sat down outside on a concrete banquette under an awning and watched the comings and goings of Smiley’s customers until he felt strong enough to go in. An elderly woman who passed him said, “I’ve never seen a maggot in Smiley’s meat.”
The market was cool and cavernous inside, the floors, walls, and ceiling covered in gleaming white tiles. There were several counters between the refrigerated cases, each with a long line. Moldenke chose one and prepared for a long wait. A free man in front of him said, “Holy Christ, man. I’m going to faint from that smell. Did you step in shit or something? Get in another line.”
“All right. I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”
Moldenke moved to another line. When he finally reached the counter, he said, “Let me have two of your sausages.”
“You got it. Two links on the way.” The clerk wrapped them in waxed paper.
“Put them on Big Ernie’s card.”
“Oh, yeah, sure, Big Ernie’s Bakery, downtown. Best claws in the Quarter. Him and me go way back.”
The clerk disappeared through a rubber curtain. When it parted momentarily, Moldenke saw butchers at work sawing bones and cutting meat. A jellyhead boy in a canvas apron policed the floor, picking up fallen scraps and filling a wheelbarrow with them, which he emptied into the hopper of a sausage making machine, along with scoopfuls of pepper, salt, and other spices. At another station, a butcher emptied packets of gelatin into a vat of head cheese.
The clerk returned with the sausages. “There you are. Cook them a long time.”
“Thanks for the caution.”
Back on the street with the sausages, Moldenke asked someone how to get to Goody’s Hardware. “Old Goody got deformed, you know. I’m not sure he’s opened the store yet. It’s only been a week or two.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Some jellyhead gone critical barges into his store, squirts him, takes a sack of sulfur, fifty pounds of slug bait and a gallon of fly syrup. So Goody’s out of all that. What do you need?”
“A tub of rat paste. I’ll take the chance he might be open.”
“All right then. Walk ten or twelve blocks north and there you are.”
Moldenke felt the heat of the sidewalk through boot and sock and into the bottoms of his feet. The walk to Goody’s was miserable and he was parched by the time he got there. After a long drink at a public fountain he sat down on a bench in front of the store and took off his boots. His socks were worn in places and there were little bleedings where shoe nails had pushed up through the sole and punctured the skin. He slammed the boots repeatedly against the concrete until the rest of the dried out stool fell off. When his socks had aired a little he laced his boots back up and went in under a hand-painted sign that read: NO JELLYHEADS.
In front of him was an opaque window where orders were placed, and another where they were picked up. Goody tended both wearing a rough, sagging mask scissored out of window curtains and held there by a headband.
He opened one window long enough to take the order then went about filling it. Only his wavering silhouette could be seen through the glass as he moved about. When the order was filled, Goody appeared at the pickup window to deliver it.
When Moldenke’s turn at the window came he ordered a tub of rat paste. “The strongest you have. This is a big rat.”
Goody went back to fetch the tub and Moldenke met him at the pickup window. “You can put this on Big Ernie’s card.”
“All right,” Goody said. “He and I are good friends. His nuts click loud in this City.”
“Sorry to hear about your deforming, Mr. Goody. It could happen to any of us I hear.”
“Yeah, sure enough. That little jelly came in here in spite of that sign out there that says ‘no jellies.’ He ordered a sack of salts, and when I opened the window, he sprayed me all over my face, laughing, like he was having a lot of fun. I’m all scarred up.”
Moldenke shook his head, which made
his ears ring. “I guess that’s the only fun jellyheads can have. Was he naked? Wearing a cap? Good sized donniker?”
“That’s the one. The hat and the big peter.”
Goody slid the tub of rat bait forward and closed the window suddenly, nearly crushing Moldenke’s fingers. The lights dimmed. The store was closing abruptly for the day.
Moldenke shuffled out with a few unserved, complaining shoppers all rushing to the car stop at once. This time, with his boots clean, Moldenke thought he would be able to board the Arden car going to the Park. He did board initially without trouble, but along the line there was a kiosk and a stop sign between the exit from the Quarter and the entrance to free Altobello. An official stepped from the kiosk and entered the stopped car. He went up the aisle grumbling, checking pass cards. When he came to Moldenke he said, “You stink. Don’t you think that offends the rest of the passengers? Get off now.”
“Well, I’m sure it does offend them, but it’s something I couldn’t help. I stepped in jelly stool.”
“In that camp in the park?”
“Yes.”
“My young son fell face down in a pile when we were walking through there. They’re worse than dogs, aren’t they? Don’t get off. It could happen to anybody.”
The official signaled to the conductor to move on down the line, that everything on the car was fine.
After getting off, Moldenke sat on the curb to load rat paste into the sausages. He split the casing with his long, dirty thumbnail, parted the two sides, then used a stick to press the paste into the gap. When he turned to get up, he saw the naked jellyhead trotting purposefully across the street, tongue dripping with hunger, the large member swinging, the cap worn rakishly to the side. His hands, however, were empty. He wasn’t carrying deformant.
Without slowing, the jellyhead snatched a sausage from Moldenke’s hand and ran into the unlit Park. Moldenke followed at a chosen distance—not close, not far. It was getting dark and hard to see. The jellyhead slowed his pace long enough to eat half the sausage then raced on toward the old dead tree. Moldenke continued following. He had no idea how long it would take the jelly to die, and he needed the valves to show to Big Ernie.
The closer he came to the tree, the more distinctly he could hear groans of pain. The sickened jelly had curled up with his head close to a small campfire, his cap fallen off and smoldering. The bright blue eyes were open but unfocused. Moldenke kicked him a few times to be sure he was completely unconscious if not dead. He didn’t want to reach for the valves until he was sure he wouldn’t be bitten or sprayed with a hidden can of deformant.
Now, without a knife or a pair of scissors, it was a question of pinching off the fleshy valves with his fingernails. He knelt down and grasped one of the valves between his thumb and forefinger, sinking his long thumbnail into the flesh as far as it would go, then pulled the valve loose from its root. He did this to the other valve, put them both in his jacket pocket, and walked briskly out of the Park to the streetcar stop on Arden Boulevard, feeling relieved that his favor to Big Ernie was taken care of. When he showed his pass card, the conductor said, “You smell. Is that gel?”
“Yes. I was handling some valves and I’ve got gel on me.”
“Sit in the back.”
Moldenke gladly obliged and headed for the rear, holding on to seat backs to keep his balance as the car clattered off on the downtown line. It was early morning by the time it reached the stop a block or two from Ernie’s Bakery. He’d walked only a few steps when his bowel gave early warning by passing dry gas. It wasn’t all that urgent. He felt he could do his business with Ernie and still get to the privy in time.
Sorrel was behind the register as usual, her poor face heavily caked and painted. “Hello, Moldenke. You smell awful.”
“Yes, I know. Is your father here? I have something to show him.”
“He’s in the back, proofing dough.”
“I’ll wait, then.”
“You have the valves? Did you get the jelly?”
“I did. I have them in my pocket. That’s what you’re smelling.”
“Let me see them.”
Moldenke took the two valves out of his pocket and displayed them in an open palm. “It wasn’t easy getting them off. I had to dig in and pull hard. They came out with the roots. There wasn’t anything to cut them with.”
“It gives me the chills to look at them. Let me go get Daddy.” She gave Moldenke a bear claw.
He sat at the table and waited quite a long time. Eventually Ernie came out, dusted all over with flour. “She tells me you got the little demon.”
Moldenke held out the valves. “There they are.”
“Nice work. We’re glad to know he’s dead and gone. I’d give you a reward, but everything’s free here.” He turned to Sorrel. “Like my little girl there who’s free to do anything she wants to.” He winked at Moldenke. “She might get sexy with you, who knows?”
Sorrel lowered a veil over a withered, blushing cheek and put three or four claws into a bag. Ernie delivered them to Moldenke’s table, bent over, and whispered, “Her face is no good anymore, but the rest of her is fine. Why don’t you ask her out on a date? You can use my card. Go to Saposcat’s. Eat some food, drink some bitters. Have some fun.”
Sorrel overheard. She smiled and turned away.
“Maybe,” Moldenke said, giving her his awkward little salute. “When I get settled. I need a little time.”
Ernie and Sorrel followed Moldenke out onto the sidewalk and waved goodbye.
Zanzetti Scienterrifics has produced the first “preternatural boy.” He was born in the seventeenth month of fetal development, delivered by a “treated” jellyhead mother andhoused in a basement room of Zanzetti’s Bunkerville laboratory complex, kept comfortable with air coolers and de-humidifying units. Prone to fungal ravages of the epidermis he was otherwise sound and healthy.
The City Moon’s headline was: FIRST ‘GODBOY’ BORN IN BUNKERVILLE
Zanzetti was quoted as saying, “His brain will be a whopping twelve pounder, if he matures. We’ll harvest it, keep it alive in a saline and sugar solution, and see if we can get it to help us think better.”
“The paper called him ‘Godboy,’” a reporter said. “Are we to draw any conclusions?”
Zanzetti shrugged and looked upward. “Gods have been around since ancient times. We expect this one, like the others, to grow up and change the world for better or worse. I’m a scientist, and I say, eventually, why not now?”
One afternoon Moldenke went to the Saposcat’s on Arden for lunch. He found Udo and Salmonella there. Salmonella ate mud fish, picking them up in her hands and chewing them through, even the softened bones. Udo drank tea, ate nothing, and read the City Moon, which arrived in Altobello with day-old news. A reader had to allow for recent developments, especially if they related to events in Altobello, which had no newspaper.
“Well, yippie,” Salmonella beamed. “It’s Moldenke. Sit with us.”
“Look at this,” Udo said, tapping the paper with his finger. “Some kind of jellyhead show over on the east side tonight. It says Brainerd Franklin’ll make an appearance. Let’s go. Let’s all go.”
Salmonella placed her hand on Moldenke’s knee. “Come on. Come with us. Franklin’s that famous golfer. Daddy won’t shoot him. He’s too famous.”
“It’ll be fun,” Udo said.
“All right, I’ll go along.”
Salmonella clapped her hands. “Yippie!”
Udo folded the paper and swatted a fly on the window sill. “We’ll pick you up in front of the Tunney at half-past seven.”
Moldenke slept the afternoon away in his room, awakened at six by the distant sound of the angelus ringing in the tower of the Church of the Lark. He put on his uniform and boots and combed his hair without a mirror, glad he’d had a chance to sleep, to store some energy for the show.
Udo’s motor pulled up exactly at seven thirty. “Get in. It starts at eight sharp.”
> Salmonella, sitting in the passenger seat, slid over to give Moldenke room to sit. “Promise you won’t shoot one, Daddy?”
“Shut up you little twit. Quit hounding me. They don’t feel pain like we do.”
Salmonella brushed back her hair with a quick motion and let her tongue part her lips into a smile. “What about you, Moldenke? Do you know if they feel pain?”
“They lack consciousness, it says in the brochures. They took it out of their own heads and put it into machines. That’s what turned them into jellyheads way back when. So they really don’t feel much of anything.”
Udo placed a hand around the grip of his niner to still the tremor, then rubbed the weapon with an oiled cloth.
Moldenke ate the second bear claw, soggy now and soaked with the fishy oil they were fried in, then lit a Julep. “I’m worried this won’t go well,” he said. “There might be trouble.”
Udo shrugged. “Trouble? No chance of that. So what if I wax a few jellies. People used to kill chickens and fish, didn’t they?”
Moldenke retrieved a long-stored memory of killing a chicken. It had happened when he was visiting his late aunt’s country home, where she kept a dozen free-roaming pullets. One spring day she asked him to go out and kill one and give it to the cook to fry. “He makes the most sublime spring chicken. We’ll have it for supper tonight. You kill it, he’ll pluck it.”
Moldenke went out and snatched the legs of one of the pullets and held it upside down. He took the head in his hand and pulled at it ineffectively, never hard enough to take it off. A pair of garden shears would probably do the job faster and better. He went to the shed, carrying the bird by the feet. The shears hung on a nail in the wall. He closed the door to keep the pullet from escaping and chased it with the shears, finally trapping it in a corner and closing the dull blades across its neck. Rather than shearing off the head cleanly, the neck merely folded flat between the blades, crushing the bones.
“I did kill a chicken once,” he said. “The wrong way. The way I thought was the smartest, and the chicken suffered a slow death. I could taste it in the meat when we ate it for dinner. It was off flavor.”
