Motorman by David Ohle Page 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