from The Age of Sinatra
During the Age of Sinatra, just prior to the Forgetting of sixty-four, an excavation near New Oleo unearthed a casket that, when opened, held a long-haired corpse encased in a wicker-like cage of overgrown fingernails. A metal name bracelet was found around the corpse’s wrist, though rust and mold had obscured all but the middle name, which was Arvey.
AT FOUR BELLS, winded by the short walk from his cabin and bleeding from the nose, Moldenke was the first to arrive at the Titanic’s deckside bistro, Der Kröetenkusser. Being early assured him of getting the outermost table, the one affording the best view of the promenade deck. The little table’s metal top, however, was no larger than a dinner plate and its spindly, uneven legs made tip-overs an ever-present hazard. To the obsessively overcautious Moldenke, the table was something to keep a wary eye on.
Udo, the round-faced German barman, brought Moldenke a mug of fermented mulce, a tin of phosphate powder, a bowl of cubed fungu and a small bale of smoking hair. “Hairloom brand, Moldenke. The best. By the way, how do you like the hand? Nice job, eh?” The hand was cadaverous, blue, and all thumbs, the nails partly uprooted and seeping puss at the quick. “Fine work. Who did it?” “Dr. Ferry in New Oleo. If you’re ever down that way, let Ferry work on you. You look so ordinary. You should have something done. What about those tiny ears? Wouldn’t you like bigger ones? Different ones? Possibly from a French pig. Ferry’s a pig man, you know.” Moldenke pulled a plug of hair from the bale and sniffed it. “I’ll deform when they make it a law.” With his apron, Udo wiped leaking blood from one of the thumbs. “My uncle got a pair. He looks very sharp now, more streamlined. He’s thinking of a third eye.” Moldenke indicated a ring of pinpoint scars around his mouth. “I’m a little shy of needles and knives. When I was ten, Mother sewed my lips shut with thick, black thread for spitting on her night-blooming jasmine. I couldn’t eat, drink or speak for three days, until my late, but kindly, father cut the thread with scissors.” He unzipped the front of his jumpsuit. “And this ugly, cruciform scar from nipple to nipple and neck to navel … four sheep’s hearts went in there and a lung came out. My old ticker was failing.” “I’m impressed. But there’s nothing like elective deformation. It’s a different thing, a different feeling. You have to admit this is quite a hand. One of a kind. A conversation piece. I'm having a special glove made.”

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Copyright 2005, David Ohle
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