The Death of a Character

PRAISE FOR DAVID OHLE

Ohle flays the human condition to singular, hallucinatory effect.

—The Village Voice

Ohle continues to construct an intoxicatingly vivid and demented world that is both reflective and revolutionary.

—LA Weekly

"Ohle’s 1972 classic, Motorman, and its sequel, The Age of Sinatra (2004), made him a legend."

—Publishers Weekly

Ohle masterfully shows us how his world is so very sadly and frighteningly like our own.

—BOMB Magazine

Ohle wants to show the reader that the toy-theater cutouts he moves about so masterfully could, with a shift of light, reveal a third dimension at any moment.

—Bookforum

THE DEATH OF A CHARACTER

Copyright © 2021 by David Ohle

ISBN: 978-1-7340126-7-5

ISBN: 978-1-7340126-8-2 (e-book)

First paperback edition published by Stalking Horse Press, July 2021

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted for review or academic purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher. Published in the United States by Stalking Horse Press.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Publishing Editor: James Reich

Editorial Assistant: Julia Goldberg

Design by James Reich

Cover image by Rob C. Miller

robcmillerart.bigcartel.com

Stalking Horse Press

Santa Fe, New Mexico

www.stalkinghorsepress.com

ALSO BY DAVID OHLE

City Moon

The Blast

The Old Reactor

The Devil in Kansas

Boons & The Camp

The Pisstown Chaos

Cursed From Birth:

The Short, Unhappy Life of William S. Burroughs, Jr.

The Age of Sinatra

Cows are Freaky when they Look at You:

An Oral History of the Kaw Valley Hemp Pickers

The City Moon: A faux-newspaper with Roger Martin

Motorman

For Alice and Juan with love and kisses.

Contents

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

JANUARY

ON A SCORCHING WINTER AFTERNOON, Moldenke stopped at the Dew Drop Inn for a Chinese whiskey. He’d been limping along China Way, a newly named street, wondering what to do with the remainder of his life. The sound of distant riots rattled his half-deaf ears and the air smelled of sulfur. He’d been homeless now for months, sleeping in the park with other jobless, hungry souls, spending his days in the library reading and using the toilet when it was working.

Using a thrift shop cane, wearing a soiled grey jumpsuit and snap-brim cap, he limped into the Dew Drop on floppy, secondhand shoes without strings. His feet were numb and swollen, with hammer toes that ached and toenails yellow with fungus.

Jerry, an old friend of his, sat at the bar. They’d gone to school together at St. Cuthbert’s. On the stool beside Jerry was a hulky neutrodyne male in denim overalls, stroking his flocculus and reading an old newspaper. There was an odor about him, which Moldenke recognized, of a stepped-on stink bug, exotic but not unpleasant.

At the end of the bar sat a uniformed Chinese official lost in her own thoughts, jotting notes in a daybook. She looked up at Moldenke for a moment and smiled. She was quite pretty, Moldenke thought. If he were fifty years younger, he would have tried to mate with her.

Jerry saluted. Moldenke? How goes it? Hard times, right? You look a little pasty.

The plagues of age, you know. Serious decline, mental and physical. His worn-out glasses, with arms of rusty hangar wire, fell off his ears. He caught them in his cane-free hand. Without the glasses, he was all but blind.

Jerry stood up, stretched his arms. These are bad times, Moldenke. Everybody’s getting sick or going crazy. My uncle hung himself to stop the ringing in his ears. Kid down the block set himself on fire to see what it felt like.

Moldenke settled onto a stool. That’s the least of it. The Chinese Court condemned my late aunt’s home, where I’d been living for years, so I’m locally homeless. Don’t give me any rope more than two feet long. I’m the hanging kind.

You got a plan, Moldenke? I worry about you out there on the streets. You can’t outrun the crazies in those rat-gnawed shoes. You’ll get trampled, you’ll have a heat stroke or freeze to death.

Moldenke smiled. I do have a place to go, far south of here. He waved a legal-looking document. Old family property. A thousand acres. My aunt left it to me. Mostly marsh, but some high ground with a decent cabin. Went there a few times when I was growing up. That’s where I want to be. There’s no future for me in the city.

Jerry had a small pile of yuans on the bar in front of him. Let me buy you a whisky, Moldenke. He winked at the Chinese official. It’s really awful swill, but it’s all we can get.

Yeah, thanks. I have ten yuan. The whisky cost five. See what I mean?

The bartender served Moldenke two ounces of a greenish-tinted whisky. There you go, French style, with a touch of Chartreuse, a transcendent concoction made by Alpine monks under a vow of silence.

Jerry held out his glass for a refill. I’ll have one of those.

Moldenke leaned back as far as he dared on the backless stool. Is that big neut with you, Jerry?

Yeah, that’s Wheaton. He worked the wheat harvests in Kansas for many years. Could throw a bale of hay thirty feet in the air at local fairs and run faster than a racehorse. I found him in the riot zone, wandering around in the smoke and confusion. You want him? He has lots of files in his head, full of information. He knows almost everything. Take him to the cabin with you. You don’t want to go down there by yourself. You need a companion. He’s an honest, gentle soul and he’ll take care of you.

Moldenke shrugged. How can I feed two of us? Look at this. He drew a little packet wrapped in newsprint from his pocket. In it were a few slices of imitation cheese, a wedge of stale flatbread and a sour pickle. That’s all the food I have.

No, no, he will feed you. That’s what these latter-day neuts do.

Wiping his flocculus with a bar rag, Wheaton turned to Moldenke. I do not eat and I do not shit. I will have a glass of neut milk sometimes if I can find any, but that is it for maintenance. I am no trouble at all. I can help you. I am a healer. Take me to the cabin. There is nothing for either of us here.

Moldenke leaned on the bar, head down, to entertain a few thoughts. Jerry pressed the issue in a whisper. I’ve got a family. I can’t keep him. He frightens the kids.

Wheaton moved his seven-foot hulk over to the stool next to Moldenke. The old wooden floor groaned under the weight. You will never regret it, he said, and gave Moldenke a furtive hug. Let us leave tonight.

The bartender said, There’s a pedal bus that comes at eight. Catch it at the corner. It’ll take you south.

Very slowly, Jerry added. Takes about a week. It’s a rusted-out old stripped-down school bus with pedal chains and cycle gears. No springs. Tough ride.

Moldenke, hungry and smelly, wanted to know if there were places to eat and shower on the way. Jerry wiped the sweat from his face with a moist bandanna. I heard there was a neut-run diner out there and some roadside stands. But see that green stuff oozing out of Wheaton’s flocculus? You can eat it if you’re really hungry.

My urine is potable, too, Wheaton said, and full of B-Vitamins, the whole complex, and some alpha-lipoic acid for your nerve damage.

Jerry yawned wearily. Good night friends. A cabin in the cool south is a good place to be, Moldenke. It’s getting hellish here. Wish I could come along. But, like I said, I’ve got a family to worry about. The Chinese confiscated my guns, so we have no defense. Right now, I’m going home to nail the windows shut. Trouble on the streets tonight. We’ll probably lose electricity.

Wheaton slid a long finger along his flocculus, scraping up green paste. Anybody want any? He extended his middle finger and offered Moldenke a taste. It is better than a sour pickle.

Moldenke dipped the pickle into his whiskey and took a bite. Maybe later.

A bit of advice, the bartender said. Sleeping on the bus is frowned upon. It’s the pedaling that gets you where you’re going. That’s why it’s free. You do all the work.

No matter, Wheaton said, I do not sleep.

I do, Moldenke said, at the drop of a hat. Sleep is the best part of my life.

The bartender looked at the clock above the backbar. "You’ve got a while before the bus comes. How about an absinthe frappé on the house?"

Yes, indeed, Moldenke said.

The Chinese haven’t banned it yet. He looked at the Chinese official.

She giggled.

The bartender said, "I’ll use about two ounces of homemade absinthe, some simple syrup, soda water, mint leaves, lemon juice. I would need a mixing glass, a muddler, a shaker and a frappé glass. I don’t have any of that, or ice, because of the Chinese sanctions, so I’ll just pour you an absinthe frappé straight up. They allow absinthe, but not ice."

Good enough, Moldenke said.

The Chinese official said, "I am off duty now. I will have a frappé if you please."

Sure enough. The bartender began to make the drinks.

Moldenke hobbled to the window and looked out. The east side sky is red. Buildings are burning.

Wheaton moved to the long-unused dance area and began doing squats, getting his hammy legs ready to pedal. Moldenke sipped the home-made absinthe and ate the cheese and flatbread in his little packet, leading to a rush of stomach acid. Moments later he had a violent chest pain, collapsed to the floor and vomited.

Wheaton knelt above the vomit, dug out a divot of it with a long fingernail and sniffed it. Oh, that is bad.

I can smell it from here, the bartender said. It’s not natural.

An old heart problem, Moldenke mumbled. Years ago.

The official wrote in her daybook: Many will choose to move south, hoping for a better life and a better climate. It will not be there for them when they arrive. It will be a new and unfamiliar world.

Wheaton cupped his hand around his ear. Wait, quiet. I can hear the bus. It is coming.

The bartender drank the rest of Moldenke’s frappé. Get out there, you two. They won’t slow down if they don’t see you. There’s a bench on the corner. Wait there.

Wheaton lifted Moldenke from the stool and helped him to the door.

The official said, Goodbye, friends. Very good luck to you. Things down south are pacified and under new development.

Once outside, Moldenke regained his balance, probably owing to the strong frappé, which settled his neuropathic numbness, and was able to walk to the bench with only the help of his cane. Wheaton took great six-foot strides when he walked, leaving Moldenke unable to catch up.

In