Milk...by aeon
"Rob..."
"Robby..."
A voice, then a hand, nudged him not-so-gently from his dream. He groaned.
"Baby needs milk, Robby."
He groaned again, forced stinging eyes into half-lids and peered up at Mom.
"Baby needs milk," she said, sucking on a cigarette. The muscle below her
left eye twitched spasmodically, and she reached up to scratch the twitch
away, shoving a misbehaving strand of dirty blonde hair away. A long column
of ashes from her cig threatened to soil his bedspread worse than it already
was, but miraculously held on for dear life despite her gesture.
"Where do you get those things," he grumbled, peeling sweaty sheets off his
chest and sitting up. He didn't mention the money issue; it went without
saying. "Those are no good."
"Baby needs milk," she said simply, standing. "Go get some milk."
"Yeah."
He yawned, watched her as she turned and left his bedroom, bare callused
feet rasping on the bare callused wooden floor. He realized dimly that she
was wearing one of his t-shirts, nothing else, and half-considered telling
her to take it off before he opted to say nothing. At least she was dressed
today.
He sighed, ruffling his hair and kicking bare legs off the side of the bed,
leaning forward to crack his lower back into place. Standing, slowly,
painfully, he straightened up and padded naked across the room, shutting the
door to keep the humidity out. The door was surprisingly cool to the touch,
and he leaned heavily against it, eyes shut, almost enjoying the gentle
zephyr from the oscillating fan as it pushed stale air around the room. It
helped, but not much.
Convincing himself that if he got moving, the oppressive heat would
diminish, he hunted and gathered some jeans, a loose tunic and his black
boots, grabbed his folded trenchcoat from the head of the bed and got
dressed, trying to ignore the sweat that creased his back with every
movement. Leaving the fan on and the light off, he opened the door, locked
it behind him, and shuffled towards the kitchen.
Mom was frying bacon, cursing as hot grease spattered her bare legs, idly
swatting at the monster horseflies that landed on her thighs to sup, with,
he noticed, the same spatula she was using to turn the bacon. He didn't see
any eggs, and the toaster wasn't working, so it appeared bacon was it.
Again. A peek in the fridge confirmed this, so he gave up.
"What time is it?" he asked. The window was open, but the sun wasn't giving
any hints; through the filthy shades he could see nothing but an
indeterminate gray.
"Baby needs milk," said Mom.
"Yeah, I know," he said. "Where's money?"
"Get my purse," she said.
"Where is it?"
"How the hell should I know? Find it."
Shaking his head in futility, he turned and headed into the bathroom. It
seemed as good a place as any to look. Two of the girls were in the tub,
huddled together in 6 inches of lukewarm water, shivering as they played
with an empty green 2-liter soda bottle. They puppy-dogged him, looking for
permission to get out, teeth chattering.
"The girls are still in the tub," he yelled to the kitchen. Not
surprisingly, there was no response, so he made up his own mind and decided
they were clean enough.
"Get out of the tub," he said. "You've been in there long enough."
As the girls stood, he pulled the plug for them and watched, unsurprised, as
the water slowly began to glurp down the hairy drain. He turned to look for
towels, found a few that were mostly dry, and tossed one to each of the
girls without turning. They giggled and made the expected towel-rustling
noises, so he figured they could handle the drying-off phase without his
direct supervision. While they fussed about, he rifled through the pile of
stained underwear and single shoes and moldy magazines with the only clean
item he could find--the toilet brush. Convinced that the purse was not here,
he followed the girls into the kitchen.
"What the hell are they doing out of the tub?" asked Mom.
"The water was cold. They were in there too long."
"I just put them in there before I woke you up. They've been in there 5
minutes."
"The water was cold."
"There's no hot water. Get back in the tub."
The girls were having none of it, and, abandoning their towels on the
kitchen floor, they left a trail of naked squeals and wet 7-year-old
footprints as they rushed into the living room.
"Dammit, look what you started," said Mom. "Girls, get back here!" She
abandoned the frying pan and took the spatula with her as she pursued the
fleeing duo. He turned the gas off so the bacon didn't burn and picked out
one of the crispier bits, brushing off a few dead flies. Crunching
thoughtfully, he wandered back into the hall, ignoring the thwacking of the
plastic spatula on prepubescent buttocks and the ensuing forced sobs.
Mom's purse was at the foot of the stairs, across from Tony's room, the
dispersal pattern of the contents (lipstick, tissue, diaphragm, cigarette
lighter, spare coin) seeming to indicate its being thrown from the second
floor landing. Calculating the trajectory necessary to leave that black
leather mark on Tony's door, he confirmed this event, chalked it up to Mom
getting fed up with the overly amorous coupling which was going on last
night, and put the matter to rest. Miraculously, her wallet was still in the
purse, and her money was still in the wallet. He took some and left the
purse where he found it, quickly making his escape before Mom reappeared
from the living room. He didn't want to hear any more screaming today unless
he was directly involved.
The car was gone, which meant Tony was at work, and the metro was out of his
way. He considered the time, and his options. The sun was buried behind the
dome to the southwest, making it late afternoon. He still had a good hour
before the store closed. There was plenty of time to get milk, even if he
had to walk the whole way. The only other realistic option was trying to get
some milk from the neighbors, and he didn't feel like dealing with that
right now.
And so he walked.
As he'd figured, it wasn't so hot once he was out of the house. A cool
breeze stirred the haze around his freshly-shaved head, sucking at the beads
of perspiration on his neck, cooling him off and clearing his mind. The
sudden overdose of semi-fresh air made him feel a bit lightheaded, and
before he realized it he'd fallen back into old habits, body on automatic,
mind somewhere else entirely, just enough gray matter focused on the world
around him to keep him from stepping in front of a maglev.
He sighed deeply, enjoyed the feeling of the fresh air. He got all too
little of it lately. When he wasn't picking up after the girls, he was
keeping track of Mom, who'd really become frazzled lately. Nothing would
ever be like it was before.
He couldn't clearly envision a time when it wasn't like it was now, but he
remembered some of it. Bits and pieces of memories. A clean house, a nice
neighborhood, lots of promise. Pancakes and chocolate milk for breakfast,
eggs and waffles and toast and real jelly. Cartoons on the TV, Dad reading
the paper, bagged lunches on the school bus, playing with the kids next
door.
And of course, he remembered the day the cows died.
Of course, it wasn't really one single day--it was a gradual thing. But he
had been too young to see the whole drama play itself out, and hadn't even
been born when the roots were laid. And so it still seemed that one day he
just woke up and there was just no milk, and Mom said it was because the
cows had died. He still didn't know why. He wasn't sure anyone did. Disease,
the government, hormones, aliens: he'd heard it all. The truth was, the
reason didn't matter, because the outcome was unavoidable. It came and went
like the Angel of Death, and it destroyed his life overnight.
Fourteen years old, and no more ice cream. No more cheese. No more milk.
Nothing. Oh, sure, there was goat's milk and soy milk and calcium
supplements. And American cheese, but everyone knew that wasn't really
cheese, just oil. But pretty soon all that stuff got expensive too. And then
Dad got sick after eating a black market steak and died before anyone knew
what happened, and there wasn't enough money for all of them, so his sister
and mother got the welfare cheese and the powdered pseudo-milk, and all the
while he just made do without. And then, just as they got smart and decided
to put more calcium in the drinking water, it all changed again.
All of a sudden there was milk again.
Turning the corner, his street instincts brought him back to harsh reality
as he saw the gang hanging around outside the Johnny Rocket. They were a
regular feature of this corner, as much a part of the store as the cash
register had been, until someone had taken it. If he wanted milk, he'd have
to go through them. Stretching his aching neck, he put his left hand in his
pocket and balled the cash up in his fist, then stepped into the large group
huddled on the steps. Like an old mattress, the mass of Graycoats parted
before him, and he found himself standing before the door of the store.
Leaning on the locked metal grate was the one they were protecting, looking
quite comfortable in his cooled trenchcoat. He could feel the chill from the
coolant tubing from here, the sweat congealing on his face and arms. He
gulped, stepped forward, and looked the dealer straight in his bloodshot
eyes.
"Got milk?" he said.
"Got money?" the dealer replied coolly. His greasy gray hair dangled in
front of his face, a large oily clump swinging as he talked. Robby ached to
reach out and plaster the greasy mass back on the guy's head, but he
resisted the temptation and nodded.
"Yes," he said.
"Then I got milk," said the dealer, flashing a carpet-bombed smile more
absence than teeth, "It does a body good, yes?"
"Sure."
"Smooth and creamy," said the dealer. "Makes you feel creamy, like a
milkshake, yes?"
"Creamy," said one of the masses behind him. He didn't turn.
"I guess," he said. "But it's not for me." The Graycoats laughed en masse.
They enjoyed this. Of course it wasn't for him. It was for his sister. His
mother. For his baby. For his dying grandmother Matilda, God save her soul.
Sure. The chuckles died down as he brought the wad of cash out.
"How much?" he asked.
"How much you got?" said the dealer. He showed him the wad of bills, and the
dealer smiled his checkerboard smile again, shaking his head. "That's not
enough for milk."
"It was enough last week," said Robby, knowing full well that was not at all
a meaningful statement in this world.
"It's not enough now," said the dealer. "Old bills ain't worth a lick any
more. You need credits to get Milk. Maybe you want some smack instead? Some
flake?"
"I need milk," he said matter-of-factly.
"I thought you say you didn't need milk," said the dealer. "Not for you, you
said."
"Not for you." Robby ached to turn around and smack the big oaf, but today
was not a good day to die. The flies would devour his corpse before it hit
the pavement.
"No, it's not for me," said Robby. "It's for Ba..." He regretted it as soon
as he'd said it, and turned to look for a way out. There was none. Just a
sea of gray denim and kevlar, the largest wave standing right behind him,
ready to drown him in a sea of pain.
"Baby?" said the dealer, his tone suddenly changing. This wasn't business.
This was personal. "Baby got a problem, yes? A problem with money. Baby owes
me some money. Is this Baby's money? Yes?"
"No, it's..."
"I think it is, yes? I think Baby owes me money. I think we'll just take
this, then."
"I..." he said unconsciously, moving to stuff the wad back in his pocket,
regretting it instantly as Moby Dick grabbed his arm from behind and
wrenched it backward, nearly popping his weakened shoulder out of its
socket. The big guy would break his arm if he struggled, he knew that. And a
broken arm would not be a good idea for someone like him. He winced in pain
and let go of the money, which was the only signal necessary to trigger the
release of his twisted appendage. He resisted the urge to rub at his
shoulder.
"You go now then, yes?" said the dealer. "Tell Baby she owes us money."
"I need milk," he said. "I can't go back without it. I... they need it."
"They need it, hunh?"
"Baby needs it... Missy needs it... my family needs it. You know how it is.
I don't have to explain it. You know."
They both knew.
It was already too late for the millions who'd been told it was good for
them, most of 'em too poor to buy the expensive supplements, unwilling to
pay half a day's wages for the imported stuff coming in from China. So they
took what they were given, even at first when it hurt their stomachs and
gave them heartburn and made them vomit.
Calcium couldn't be absorbed directly into the bloodstream, not easily, so
eventually they had to bond it to something else. The result was a sort of
microencapsulated calcium cocktail, thousands of tiny beads stashed inside a
souped-up antacid of some sort. Plop plop, fizz fizz and you had a nice
creamy milkshake cocktail. Or just stick em in your mouth and suck em like
candy, yum. Smooth and creamy. Indeed. The nice, smooth, creamy cocktail
that calmed your stomach also calmed your nerves.
The sedative effect was, of course, sneaky and cumulative, so it took a
while before anyone noticed, especially among pregnant women and kids, who
were sucking 'em down like candy, trading Anime cards in back alleys for a
taste. But this candy had a fizzy coating that made the whole thing
hyperabsorbable. Stomach to bloodstream, blood to bones, bone to bone
marrow. And the bone marrow never let go of the crap, leaving less and less
room for whatever it was bone marrow was supposed to do. Which was why Mom
got sick. And Missy. And Tony. All of em. While the sedatives were making
them feel nice and creamy, the stuff was also creaming up their insides.
The dealer knew this. They all knew this.
"But do I care, eh?" asked the dealer.
He looked the dealer in the eye once again, looked at the street-hardened
face, the greasy hair, the twitch in his left eye. The dealer knew, all
right. He knew. And he did not care. Still, he nodded and sighed.
"Ok, I am feeling pleasant and kind today, yes? I give you some, but you
tell Baby she come herself next time."
Reaching into his pocket, the dealer produced a small quart-sized carton,
from which he tipped a dozen thin discs into his hand. Robby was all too
familiar with them. Calprene, they used to call it. A thousand mills of
calcium plus phosphorus, vitamins, ribosomething, panasonic acid and
something else. Mom raved about it from the start. Better than the Calcinol,
she said. Easier on the stomach. And of course, the deciding factor, it was
free at the kitchen if you had kids. One pill a day would do it all. Or
maybe it was two pills a day. Hard to tell. Seemed like a hundred when you
weren't the one taking em. Caliprex. Phenocal. There were dozens of 'em, all
bullied through a barely functional FDA in a panic by a Pharmaceutical
industry that had the power to buy votes.
Now, of course, they were all known as "milk."
"I give you milk, yes, and you give Baby my message?" He nodded. The dealer
looked him in the eye, inhaled sharply, and spat in his palm before offering
the contents to Robby. He accepted them without batting an eye, shoving the
entire sodden mass quickly into his pocket to dry them on some old tissues
before they started to dissolve in his hand.
The tall gray gates parted behind him, and he quickly backed away, turning
around only when he'd reached the corner so he could walk more briskly.
Pulling his hand out of his pocket, he noted a thin coating of white foam,
wiping it disgustedly on his trenchcoat as if it were acid. This kind was
one of the worst--rumor had it that the stuff could even be absorbed through
your skin. He wasn't eager to test that theory. Neither, of course, was any
official corporate agency.
Who was going to notice? Or care? The poor white trash who needed the cheap
pills got sick a lot anyway. Wasn't till someone high up got a bone marrow
transplant from a Riversider that anyone bothered to notice what was going
on. And even then, if you had enough money you could buy yourself healthy
again. Sure, the news got hold of it, and the typical apologies were issued,
some companies went out of business. But even when someone got smart and
cloned a cow and there was milk again, people needed their pills, whether it
was killing them or not. So the price went up, the tabs got shipped in from
Asiacorp and Eurocorp, and Robby made sure Baby got her milk every week.
Whatever the cost.
Cost. Erf. He was glad he hadn't counted the money in the first place. He
didn't want to know how much he'd just spent for what was originally 10
credits worth of pills, whether it was his money or not.
He nearly walked into the closed door before he realized he'd done it again,
zoning out on the long, humid walk home. The door, predictably, was
unlocked, so he locked it behind him as he stepped into the hall. The house
was quiet. He knew it wouldn't last, so he tried to enjoy it as he walked
past the bathroom, noted that the girls were still shivering in the tub, and
turned to face Mom. She was still frying bacon. The horseflies were
thrilled.
"Where's the milk?" she rasped, grinding her cigarette out on the stove top
as she noticed him. "Baby needs her milk."
"Hold on," he said. "Let me sit down and..."
"Give Baby her milk!" she shrieked. The bacon forgotten, she grabbed for his
arm, but he instinctively stepped back and pulled his hurt shoulder away,
wincing as he reached into his pocket. Ten years ago, it would have been a
gun, but he'd sold that long ago to pay for Mom's habit. Now, as she snarled
and came at him again, his aching fingers found only a sodden mass of tissue
and half-melted milk, which he quickly tossed on the floor. it was a better
weapon than any pistol he'd ever owned; instantly, she cooed and fell to her
scabbed knees, grabbing as the little white discs rolled around the filthy
linoleum. One of them rolled under the refrigerator, and he left her there,
spasmodically grabbing under the water tray, and headed for his room.
Hearing the ruckus, Frank suddenly appeared from within Tony's bedroom,
shoving him aside without a word, hurtling his naked hairiness into the
kitchen to wrestle for the milk. Ignoring the shouts from the kitchen, he
made the mistake of looking inside. Buried in a tangle of filthy sheets was
Missy. She made eye contact with the ceiling and pretended he didn't see
her. He wondered if that tactic would work on Tony when he came home. He
decided he didn't care.
The fan was still whirring when he shut the door to his room, stripped naked
and collapsed on the bed. The air had cooled a bit, in stark contrast to the
atmosphere in the kitchen, which had apparently grown somewhat more torrid
with the inclusion of Missy and the girls in the wrestling match under the
kitchen table. He pulled the sheets over his head and buried his face in his
coat, ignoring the ache in his shoulder, trying to ignore everything else.
Someone screamed. The girls started crying. A dull clang indicated that the
remainder of the bacon had just been fed to the flies behind the stove. A
heavy thud indicated that Tony had won the rights to the milk under the
fridge.
Thankfully, things were back to normal within a few minutes. Mom ate her
milk and the flies drank their bacon and everyone calmed right down. Real
creamy-like. Even the girls stopped crying, which meant they probably got a
half-tab each. Through the wall next door, he could hear Tony arguing with
Missy over who got the rest of it. There was a slap, a thud, and then Tony's
door slammed, and there were no sounds but the purr of the fan and a gentle
rhythmic sobbing from the hallway.
He barely noticed as Missy whispered into his room and slid into bed beside
him, torn nightie riding up her leg as she pulled the sheets over them both.
Silently, he reached down beside the bed pulled the last milk wafer from his
coat pocket, reaching over her and placing it reverently between her
bloodied lips. She whimpered her thanks through a mouthful of foam, but he
shushed her, pulling her closer than was comfortable in the heat. She sobbed
bloody milk as he rocked her gently back and forth, listening to her fight
her gag reflex as she swallowed the pink froth, as much blood as milk by
now. She quieted down and fell asleep within a few minutes. He followed her
across soon after. He dreamed of cows.
He always did.
