Ask the Milkman
By Andrew J. Olson
Sweat beaded on the milk bottle sitting on the derelict porch steps. It was left there every morning at nine. The neighbors down the road thought it peculiar that the milkman had such a fond feeling towards the little boy that crawled out of the house, dirty and ragged, on the heels of the man who delivered their milk and cream. They would watch him out their kitchen window as he tussled the boy’s hair and gave him snips from his flask and hard candies from his pocket.
Wally awoke in the bed of his Ford. The yelling reached him clearly and he stepped down from the truck. The heels of his boots sent lapping rip-curls of dust against his worn jeans. Wally could hear his mother yelling, then her boyfriends’ responsive backhand. Wally walked to the porch and wiped the sweat from the milk bottle and peeled the foil back. He gulped the milk, trying to overtake the cream as it moved away from him. Wally lowered the bottle, wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and studied the broken and discarded needles lying in the dirt. He heard more yelling, but not that of the boyfriend. The voice was higher in treble, clearly enunciated, and drawn out. Wally heard the waltz of shuffling boots, heavy and pronounced. He cupped a hand over his brow and peered inside the back window. A priest stood, arms raised in defiance, facing the boyfriend. The boyfriend’s wide forearms, decorated in blue ink, reached for the priest. The priest feinted left and moved right, towards the corner of the kitchen. Wally thought the Priest had probably ran out on credit. Figuring the priest had run out on credit and decided to try to talk kindly to the boyfriend, as is their nature, Wally stood watching. The boyfriend caught the priest across the cheek with a right hook. The priest fell back, cowering and bloodied. Wally’s mother ran across the room and began flailing at the boyfriend. The boyfriend calmly turned around and embraced her in a bear hug. The priest moaned as the boyfriend carried her to a chair where he gave her a strong backhand. Wally could tell he had a mean drunk on, because he wasn’t fucking around. The mother’s hand dropped a peanut butter can. Wally recognized it right away. Since he was a child, Wally had watched his mother put money in that can. It all came from his father, which the mother informed Wally would come by and take them away some day. Wally heard his mother screaming and he followed her gaze. The boyfriend held a hammer and walked towards the priest who was struggling to stand. The hammer came down right below the priest’s left eye, sounding like it had done through a watermelon. The priest crumpled to the floor, folded money tumbling from his hand. Wally doubled over. The needles swirled in his vision, the vomit specks blotting out the dust on his boots. He felt a swelling against his chest, a constriction in his lungs and throat. He couldn’t breathe. He retched once more and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He picked up the bottle of milk, opened the back door and stepped inside. He turned around and locked the door. The bottom half of the priest’s eye was protruding from the indentation. His legs twitched slightly. Wally’s mother sat in her chair, eyes glazed, unmoving. The boyfriend finished his long pull from a bottle and turned to face Wally.
“Well whatha fuck ya lookin’ at boy?”
Wally moved faster than the boyfriend could react. Milk and blood ran down the side of the boyfriend’s face. He fell to his knees. Wally swung the broken bottle across the boyfriend’s exposed neck. Blood sprayed across his jeans, and the boyfriend lay prostrate on the dusty floorboards. Blood pooled about Wally’s boots.
“Mama…”
“Hes been gettin’ us money for years Wally, years…”
“Mama, was that…was that my….”
Wally’s little brother came through the front door carrying the milkman’s hat and his bottle of gin.
“Whats goin’ on mama?”
Wally spoke to his brother.
“Your papa is dead.”
Wally’s little brother looked to his mother.
“But we aint got no papa right momma?”
The mother looked at the young boy.
“You need to ask the milkman.”
- - -
Andrew J. Olson is current MFA candidate in fiction at Minnesota State University, Moorhead.
By Andrew J. Olson
Sweat beaded on the milk bottle sitting on the derelict porch steps. It was left there every morning at nine. The neighbors down the road thought it peculiar that the milkman had such a fond feeling towards the little boy that crawled out of the house, dirty and ragged, on the heels of the man who delivered their milk and cream. They would watch him out their kitchen window as he tussled the boy’s hair and gave him snips from his flask and hard candies from his pocket.
Wally awoke in the bed of his Ford. The yelling reached him clearly and he stepped down from the truck. The heels of his boots sent lapping rip-curls of dust against his worn jeans. Wally could hear his mother yelling, then her boyfriends’ responsive backhand. Wally walked to the porch and wiped the sweat from the milk bottle and peeled the foil back. He gulped the milk, trying to overtake the cream as it moved away from him. Wally lowered the bottle, wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and studied the broken and discarded needles lying in the dirt. He heard more yelling, but not that of the boyfriend. The voice was higher in treble, clearly enunciated, and drawn out. Wally heard the waltz of shuffling boots, heavy and pronounced. He cupped a hand over his brow and peered inside the back window. A priest stood, arms raised in defiance, facing the boyfriend. The boyfriend’s wide forearms, decorated in blue ink, reached for the priest. The priest feinted left and moved right, towards the corner of the kitchen. Wally thought the Priest had probably ran out on credit. Figuring the priest had run out on credit and decided to try to talk kindly to the boyfriend, as is their nature, Wally stood watching. The boyfriend caught the priest across the cheek with a right hook. The priest fell back, cowering and bloodied. Wally’s mother ran across the room and began flailing at the boyfriend. The boyfriend calmly turned around and embraced her in a bear hug. The priest moaned as the boyfriend carried her to a chair where he gave her a strong backhand. Wally could tell he had a mean drunk on, because he wasn’t fucking around. The mother’s hand dropped a peanut butter can. Wally recognized it right away. Since he was a child, Wally had watched his mother put money in that can. It all came from his father, which the mother informed Wally would come by and take them away some day. Wally heard his mother screaming and he followed her gaze. The boyfriend held a hammer and walked towards the priest who was struggling to stand. The hammer came down right below the priest’s left eye, sounding like it had done through a watermelon. The priest crumpled to the floor, folded money tumbling from his hand. Wally doubled over. The needles swirled in his vision, the vomit specks blotting out the dust on his boots. He felt a swelling against his chest, a constriction in his lungs and throat. He couldn’t breathe. He retched once more and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He picked up the bottle of milk, opened the back door and stepped inside. He turned around and locked the door. The bottom half of the priest’s eye was protruding from the indentation. His legs twitched slightly. Wally’s mother sat in her chair, eyes glazed, unmoving. The boyfriend finished his long pull from a bottle and turned to face Wally.
“Well whatha fuck ya lookin’ at boy?”
Wally moved faster than the boyfriend could react. Milk and blood ran down the side of the boyfriend’s face. He fell to his knees. Wally swung the broken bottle across the boyfriend’s exposed neck. Blood sprayed across his jeans, and the boyfriend lay prostrate on the dusty floorboards. Blood pooled about Wally’s boots.
“Mama…”
“Hes been gettin’ us money for years Wally, years…”
“Mama, was that…was that my….”
Wally’s little brother came through the front door carrying the milkman’s hat and his bottle of gin.
“Whats goin’ on mama?”
Wally spoke to his brother.
“Your papa is dead.”
Wally’s little brother looked to his mother.
“But we aint got no papa right momma?”
The mother looked at the young boy.
“You need to ask the milkman.”
- - -
Andrew J. Olson is current MFA candidate in fiction at Minnesota State University, Moorhead.
0 Responses
Post a Comment
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
