Free The Old Reactor by David Ohle Page B

sharp, Moldenke and Salmonella stood outside Saposcat’s, waiting for Sorrel. The weather had changed suddenly after Franklin’s exhibition, and a warm, bright day had given way to sudden downpours.
    Salmonella complained, “I’m getting wet. The awning is full of holes.”
    “An umbrella would be good to have,” Moldenke said. “Or even a rain hat. You can’t get anything here.”
    “Don’t bring me to the Home. Why can’t you look after me? I’m afraid of the Home. There’s jellyheads there. I could get deformant in my face. They sneak it in.”
    “Don’t be silly. I’m sure they’d confiscate it.”
    Moldenke looked up and down Arden Boulevard. “Try to behave. She’ll be here any minute.”
    Passing motors kicked up a mist of dirty water that settled on everything. One of the motors, a deluxe model K-10, glided to a stop in front of the Deli. A chauffeur dashed out and opened the rear door.
    “That’s Franklin,” Salmonella said.
    The golfer slid out of the seat with a broad grin, his legs spread widely, wearing a well-tailored mohair jacket, starched shirt, a gold lam é tie, and boots made of animal skin. A handler held an umbrella over his head and escorted him into Saposcat’s.
    At that moment, Moldenke saw a streetcar round the terminus at the end of Arden and screech to a stop half a block from the Deli. He told Salmonella to stay put while he met Sorrel at the stop. He could already see someone getting off wearing a macramé veil.
    “Sorrel. Here I am. Hurry, your veil is getting wet.”
    “What a ride,” she said. “The car ran over a jellyhead baby. The mother threw it under the wheels and ran.”
    “That happens all the time.”
    “It was quite a delay. That’s why I’m late. They had to clean up all that stinking goo on the tracks.”
    “I like your veil. It’s very pretty, even wet.”
    “I made it myself. I can smell, I can see, I can eat without offending.”
    “Let’s get inside. You’ll never guess who’s in there. None other than the famous Brainerd Franklin.”
    Sorrel said, “Oh, that should be interesting. I hear he smells bad up close. I hope we don’t get seated next to him.”
    A sandwich board set up outside the front door listed the night’s specials: Scrapple, Kerd, Meal, Mud fish, Sturgeon (seasonal), Trotters .
    “It all sounds good to me,” Salmonella said.
    Although the place was only moderately busy, many of the tables were reserved for Franklin, his handlers, fans, guests, and the visiting Bunkerville press, so there were only a few unoccupied. Sorrel chose the one farthest from Franklin, who was answering questions shouted at him from the press.
    “Do you jellies believe in an afterworld?”
    Franklin answered in slow, deliberate fashion, as though he were drugged. “After what? Oh, I get it. Sure, yeah, of course. I hope so, anyway. A jelly doesn’t any more want to be dead than you do.”
    “Why does golf need a jellyhead player?”
    “Ask a simpler question. And get me another plate of fish.”
    “What’s a sand wedge for?”
    “To eat, I think. Isn’t it? My trainer always made peanut butter ones for me when you could get it, and bread.”
    “Who makes your boots?”
    “The Franklin Bootery, back in Bunkerville. I own it. I’m rich. It feels good. It’s one thing to be a poor jellyhead, but a poor free man? It must be awful.”
    “Do jellies believe in any gods?”
    “Are you kidding? No god ever gave a jelly a break. I dig Masonry, though. I’ve got a scooter and I love to ride in parades, especially on Coward’s Day.”
    “Do you have a philosophy of life?”
    “A what?”
    “Like a guiding principle, sort of a rule or rules that you follow?”
    “Life is a bogey, not an eagle. We are always one stroke over, always in hazard. Fairways turn foul, every tee off ends in a slice. The game is forever uneven, the score is never settled. I often feel under par, and sometimes vengeful, which is why I hardly ever carry aerosol