Free Motorman by David Ohle Page A

into the sunslight, and said he wondered where they were. Moldenke said there was a river close by.
    “My apologies, Dinky. I forget sometimes. The brain is always in a fever. Where did you say you had come from?”
    “Texaco City.”
    “Well, a boy from old T-City. Shake my hand, son.” He held out a hand. Moldenke shook it. It was like an ear of corn.
    One sun dropped, the others drifted apart.
    Roquette said, “Looks like a break in the weather.” He squatted again and turned down the shade lamp, patting a gauze pad at the back of his neck.
    A blackworm snaked across the footpath.
    Moldenke said he was going south. They ate crickets from Moldenke's tin and smoked cigars. The temperature dropped.
    “Are you chilly, Mr. Roquette? I could build a fire.”
    “No thank you, Moldenke. I'll say something about the cold. As old as I am I may as well be realistic regarding the probable future, given the past as a stepping stone and the present as a foothold. I decided long ago to defeat the heat by gathering the wisdoms of the cold. Once I froze myself crank-to-ground in ice, read the book, and went to sleep. When the weather gets good and cold I usually go out naked in my garden and hose off.”
    Moldenke built a small fire. “I don't have that wisdom,” he said. “I try to stay warm if I can. I hope you don't mind the smoke.”
    “Did you say 'smoke,' Dinky? ”
    “Yes. I have a little fire here.”
    Roquette said, “Smoke. He wants to know if I mind smoke. Watch this, boy.” He lit a fresh cigar and turned to give Moldenke a profile. He exhaled at length, then began an inhale. The ash grew longer as the ember burned back, dropping off in lengths. The inhalation continued until the cigar had become a mound of ash in his lap.
    “That's a slick one,” Moldenke said. “The whole cigar in a single draw. I'm impressed.”
    Roquette turned, bloatfaced, indicating that it wasn't over yet. He lay back, raising one leg in the air. “Now, watch.” Moldenke watched. Smoke curled out of the khaki shorts, out of the fly, out of openings in the shirts. “See, Moldenke. I suck it all in, then I blow it out the chuff pipe. It brings the house down every time.”
    The fire smoked. Moldenke fanned the sparks with his sun hat. Roquette fell asleep smoking.
    Moldenke buttoned on his trenchcoat, moved closer to the firelight and read at random from the Ways & Means :
     
    SNIPEMEAT: In the absence of other meats, snipemeat will provide an adequate wilderness meaL. Entrails will be found to contain valuable minerals. The bones may be sundried, pulverized, and taken for heart pain.... MUDCAT NOODLING: Spawning catfish will generally be found in hollowed out places in the mud bank and may be landed by two people, one the noodler, the other on watch. ... BOX-ELDER BUG-SOUP: Tasty black and orange soup. Two cups of box-elder bugs, sifted, simmered on a warm...
     
    Roquette woke up, sat up. The fire had improved. Moldenke added cypress bark. Roquette took off his goggles and rubbed his eyes. “What did you say your name was, son?”
    “Moldenke.”
    “Ah, Moldenke. Where are you headed?”
    “South?”
    “Ah, south. That's a fine direction, son. Which is it, though, the New South or the true south?” Moldenke said he didn't know, that he was looking for two individuals by the names of Burnheart and Eagleman who lived in a house toward the south, some south or another, with hogs living under the house, among the pilings. He guessed it was near a river, or a brackish marsh, since Burnheart had mentioned crabs. Roquette wanted to know the kind of crab and Moldenke couldn't say. Roquette said he knew a great deal about crabs and oysters, had spent a good many years in the business. “But no sense dwelling in the past,” he said, making a circle in the dirt with his walking stick and spitting in its center.
    Moldenke agreed, snatched a mole cricket flying by, bit off the head and discarded it, broke off the digging appendages, and