Cow's Milk

Pale orange light filtered through high thin clouds shown through the east facing window and down onto the worn wooden floor beside Phil’s bed. The sound of chickadees chirping could be heard sporadically. He had been laying on his stomach staring at the light on the floor since dawn, his thoughts wandering as it slowly evolved and brightened. Dawn was probably over two hours ago by now. He had no way of knowing exactly. But still, he was procrastinating and he knew it. The box needs to be fed. Don’t overthink it.

It was hot already and the sheet felt tacky on his back. Trying to force himself into motion he reached his arm out from the bed to touch the light on the floor, his head filling with blood as he dangled over the edge of the mattress. Can you touch light? I guess you can feel it if it’s strong enough. If you can feel something you can touch it, right? But I can’t feel this light. Or maybe it’s just subtle. Maybe a few years ago I could have felt it. As he rubbed the weathered hardwood, feeling his calluses move together in thick plates, his mind drifted to a memory from childhood. His neighbor Joshua was a few years older and his parents were both always at work so the boys of the block would gather in his overgrown backyard. There was a tunnel through the kudzu-covered bushes leading to a small clearing that couldn’t be seen from any other lots. The clearing was littered with outgrown action figures, broken legos, defunct razor scooters, and pieces of brick and scrap wood covered with dirt and English ivy. There were three or four boys gathered around Joshua as he first showed them how to burn through a leaf with the magnifying glass. It was midday and the sun beat down on their backs, the sweat on their ankles was dark with dirt. Another boy he couldn’t put a face to pulled an old Venom action figure with a missing head out from the soil and placed it on the propped-up plank of wood they were gathered around. They all waited silently, as though part of a ritual, as Joshua slowly burned a hole through its chest. 

He needed to get going. He’d never been even one minute past noon. Not in over two years. His breath tightened as he considered being late on purpose. I can’t keep going like this for another eight years. Today is as good a day as any to find out I suppose. He pulled himself out of bed and crossed over to the bathroom, flashing his teeth to the mirror and rubbing the deepening wrinkles under his eyes as if to flatten them. There wasn’t time to brush teeth or shower. 

In the kitchen he opened the worn particle board cabinet door and pulled down a box of cheerios. He was both rushing and procrastinating and the simultaneous pushing and pulling made his arm feel unnaturally heavy. He shook powdered milk down into his bowl and then filled it with some water from the sink and mixed it rapidly with a spoon. He poured the cheerios into the bowl which bobbed up and down among the remaining chunks of powder and then picked up the bowl and drank it all down as quickly as he could, choking slightly once. He was down to the last box of cereal and his last bag of milk. He hadn’t rationed well this month and had been out of canned vegetables and cured meat for well over a week. His feet dragged audibly on the sandy linoleum floor and he sensed that there was a general sloppiness or carelessness that had been creeping into his actions recently. Almost time for another delivery, thank god.

As he stepped outside he was struck violently by the smell of manure. It was the only moment of the day he could smell it and he had come to enjoy the intensity of it. He crossed the peeling and slouched front porch and down the front stairs over to the massive sun-dial that was centered in the front yard. The small farmhouse was encircled by a fenced-in clearing with a few-hundred foot radius, beyond which there was cow pasture for miles in each direction. And beyond that, he didn’t know. In the beginning he had tried to escape but every time he crossed to the end of the pastures and started to climb the 15 foot chain link fence that surrounded the farm he’d pass out and wake up in a pile at the base of the fence, often with a sprained ankle or aching wrist. 

He stepped over to George who stood beside the sundial, facing out towards the field. He put his hand affectionately on the scarecrow’s shoulder. 

“The box isn’t going to feed itself is it, George?”, he said, looking down at the sun dial. Shit, it’s already 10 AM. What the hell was I doing this morning? It’s going to be tight. He’d never started his day this late. 

“What happens if I’m late, George? I certainly hope we don’t find out today.” His voice was artificially upbeat, cracking slightly from the pressure in his chest. At least part of him did hope to find out today. 

He hurried back into the house and into the office, his sweaty shirt resisting the swing of his arms, and opened the thick log book. He flipped past hundreds of pages of records. Two years worth of milk production, vaccination records, tag numbers for new-born calves, dry-food inventories, and random notes scribbled in the margins of the gridded sheets. He landed on today. How much milk do I have in storage? Ehh, fuck. Only 200 gallons. 

He closed the log book and reopened it to the inside cover where the two rules were printed in thick black letters. It was a tick; everytime he shut the book he would reopen it and read the two simple rules out loud to himself. 

The Rules:  The box needs 500 gallons of pasteurized milk per day delivered between dawn and noon.  Do not ever be late.

He’d never been late. Even early on in the weeks after Sam left when he’d tried to escape, he hadn’t been late. He’d wait until after the box had eaten to cross the pasture and attempt to scale the fence. His immense fear of being late was inherited from Sam, the man who’d been here before him. They’d overlapped for twelve weeks. Twelve weeks to learn how to run the farm. Twelve weeks to learn how to tend to the cows, birth calves, run the milking parlor, fill the 500 gallon stainless steel bulk tank, pasteurize the milk, and deliver it to the box every single day. Sam had been here for 10 years. Ten years following the rules to a tee. Sam claimed he’d never been late in the entire 10 years. Not once. He feared being late more than anything and instilled that in Phil. 

Over the past few months the tension in Phil had worked itself into every one of his thoughts and movements. The fear of being late and the dread of eight more years of this. The strain caused by the opposing force of the seemingly-infinite unanswered questions and the desire to survive. 

Only 200 gallons in the tank. He needed 300 more. Even that was risky as he’d have no reserves for tomorrow’s feeding. He had been averaging 6 gallons per day per cow. That’s 50 cows to be milked minimum. He did these rough calculations in his head as he ran out of the house and over to the barn. The herd was gathered around the feeding trough. 124 cows in total, including calves. He flipped a switch which dropped food into the trough within the milking parlor and then hopped over the metal fence and started pushing cows towards the milking parlor. He frantically tried to count cows as they flowed in, getting lost in the sea of cows and needing to restart the count multiple times. Once he was sure about 65 cows were inside he shut the door, wrestling with the bulk of the cows still streaming into the barn. 

He ran over and started hooking up the first cow. He sprayed his rag and then wiped her down with the disinfectant wipe and then connected the teat cups. Fuck, I don’t have time to wipe them all down today. The milk is pasteurized anyway. He hurriedly hooked one after another into their pumping stalls. The process seemed to take forever. His thoughts drifted as his hands worked mechanically and independently, periodically forgetting to skip the wipe-down step. The box needs to be fed. Don’t overthink it, Sam had always said. But the tightness in his chest worsened. He thought back to Sam calmly explaining that the shift was 10 years to the day. In ten years minus twelve weeks his replacement would arrive. 

He finished the 60th cow and jogged past the few cows still eating lazily at the trough towards the pump control-panel on the far wall of the barn. He slowly turned up the pressure dial, seeing white milk start to fill the pump lines. Once he saw the first bit start to flow down into the 500 gallon bulk tank he sprinted out to the sun dial to check the time. Shit. It’s 1100. Motherfucker. He ran back over to the pumps and cranked up the pressure and rate dials to the max. Which was risky. The utter cups can pop off if the pressure is too high. But he had no choice. It would take 45 minutes minimum to get 300 gallons at the normal pump rate. He didn’t have that time. 

Now all he could do was wait. He stared at the level-sensor of the stainless steel bulk tank as it slowly started to creep up from 200. He recalled going to a restaurant with his parents when he was ten or so years old. There was a glass window besides the seating area that looked down one story into the industrial zone where they brewed beer. The stainless steel bulk tank always reminded him of this day. He only had so many memories of the before times and this one was like a precious letter that he took out every day and got fingerprints on, changing it, smudging it. He remembers his mom and dad were happy that afternoon. It must have been a Saturday because that was the only day his dad was around. His dad had recently gotten a promotion at work or maybe he’d just gotten a new job. He worked in the medical field or maybe pharmaceuticals. But it was a celebration, going to the restaurant. They ate french fries and burgers and his father had dipped his fries in mayonnaise and his mother kept giving him a hard time about it. But in a sweet way. Your mom, Phil. She’s always giving me crap for something, isn’t she. 

That day he had been looking down from their table into the warehouse space below filled with stainless steel piping and tanks and dolly carts and big sacks of barley. So mom, these guys just make beer all day? That’s their job? She had her arm on his back and made soft circles between his shoulder blades. I guess so dear. It’s a funny thing isn’t it? We all spend so much of our time doing one sort of random thing. And we can’t really guess what that thing might be when we’re your age. 

Beyond his early teen years there were fewer and fewer memories each getting progressively more faded. And then beyond about 15 there was nothing concrete at all. A few emotions. Maybe a first kiss? He couldn’t tell for sure. Potentially an angry fist fight. But no images, just smells and impressions in the body. Then he was here. Here at the farm. Here with Sam. Here learning how to be a dairy farmer. Learning to feed a box. Learning never to be late. Then alone. 

With his eyes still locked on the level-sensor of the tank, his mind drifted to the very beginning of his recent memories, when he first arrived at the farm two years ago. He was angry and confused. But also scared. Every morning Sam would come into the office, where there was a cot Phil was sleeping on and wake him up and tell him to get dressed. 

I just don’t fucking get it, Sam? What the fuck is going on? I can’t remember how I got here. And I look like I’m in my mid 30s. I can’t remember the last 15 years or so at all? Can you explain that? Can you explain anything? 

Sadly, I don’t have answers. But yes, I do understand your confusion, is all Sam would answer. 

Well then at least tell me how you got here? 

I got here exactly the same way you got here. And the man before me, his name was Sandy. The exact same way. Your anger will fade. Your confusion will slowly fade into acceptance. That’s the only comfort I can give you. That’s the only understanding I can give you. 

Sam heard the loud crack of one of the cups popping off of a cow udder and jerked, releasing a drop of sweat that rolled down his cheek and into the collar of his shirt. Early on at the farm he had had this feeling that at some point in the future he would gain clarity on his situation or if not clarity that he would at least have a great release or catharsis and be able to cry or feel the enormity and absurdity of his situation fully. But it never came. And over the last 24 months he had come to appreciate the odd logic of his situation. Sam had told him that there would be a contentment that would arise slowly. And it had. A comfort and an intimacy in the repetition. The box needs to be fed, Sam would repeat. Don’t overthink it. There was a simplicity and a pragmatism to it. The box needed feeding. The box needs milk. He was embarrassed to voice it in his own mind, but feeding the box every day satisfied something in him. 

He looked over to the level-sensor. Fucking shit. 450. He walked out to the sundial breathing deeply to try to calm himself. It was 1135. He had 25 minutes. If he didn’t make it in time should he just feed the box what he had or should he wait for the full 500 and then feed it late? There weren't any instructions for this in the log book. And he’d never discussed it with Sam. Sam had always just emphasized being sure there was plenty of time left. I should just be late today. I should just find out what’s on the other side. A memory of the day Sam left struck him. They had walked down the road together towards the gate and the gate had opened. Phil had wanted to go with him so badly that he had almost thrown up. But Sam insisted that he wouldn’t be allowed out. That was the closest Phil had been to really feeling it. When the gate opened, only a few hundred feet in front of them, Sam gave him a long hug and walked out without looking back. 

He jogged back into the barn and tapped the level sensor. 465. He flipped on the heating coils for pasteurization. He knew it was bad practice but it was his only hope. He’d have to pasteurize as he filled in order to save time. 20 minutes to go. Today could be the day. Today could be the day he’s late. Maybe a drone would come from over the fence and bomb the farm and kill him. Maybe a team of troopers would march down the road and torture him. But at least there would be clarity. But then again, he thought of the box, as he always did. What about the box? The box needs to be fed. 

He cranked the heater and could see from the steam rising from the relief valve at the top of the tank that the milk was almost at a boil. 490. He might just make it. He jogged over to the shed beside the barn and opened the door. There was nothing inside but the box and a thin layer of hay surrounding the ground around it. He felt a tenderness for it, rubbing its side, taking a stray piece of hay off of it and dropping it on the ground. He took his rag and wiped off the feeding spout gently feeling the rebellion in him dampen. The comfort of the box softened him. He didn’t really want to be bombed by a drone or killed by a swat team, did he? Feeding this box every day isn’t the worst thing? 

He sprinted back into the shed and tapped the level sensor. 498! He could make it. He shut off the heaters and cranked on the water cooling for the tank. The box couldn’t take boiling hot milk. Boiling water could hurt it. This wasn’t in the list of rules but Sam had taught him this. 

He took the end of the feeding tube from the bottom of the bulk tank, feeling sweat drip from his head as he bent over, and ran it over to the shed. He hooked it up to the box, hearing the familiar click of the fittings successfully engaging. Feeling a surge of blood in his chest he considered his situation. This was as close to the other side as he’d ever been. All he would have to do is endure the next five minutes without feeding the box and he would be free. Be free. He reached out and touched the box. Be free, he repeated to himself. Be free. Be free. Be free. He laughed out loud to himself and felt tears roll down his cheeks. He took a breath through his nose and felt his chest open and soften. He wouldn’t be late. Not today. Not ever. He felt light with this realization. It’s ok, box. It’s ok. I’ve got your milk here. He rubbed the top of the box gently. I’ve got your milk. Pretty hot still, but should do you just fine. He flipped the switch on the box to open the inlet spout and milk began pouring in.