The wonders of milk

This is a short story about how even the smallest of changes can open our eyes and (in a comical way) teach us about ourselves.

The Wonders of Milk

Every man, no matter how spurious he may appear to be, has a side of genuineness about him. Take, for example, a man with whom I am very little acquainted: the milkman whose second job (and one I doubt pays well) is a bookseller. The milk I receive is of such low quality I wonder how I can continue drinking it and survive; I have little doubt that it is mixed with chemicals to make it whiter, water to make it go further, and sugar to make one think it came from a sweet cow. I am no curmudgeon and yet I find myself frustrated with this man with whom I have such a minimal relationship. If such a person (with whom I cannot claim even friendship) can beget such agitation I can only wonder what a wife shall elicit in me one day. No matter, back to the story.

 

Today I was returning from college when I could no longer keep myself from the bookstore I pass every day. In I walk and before me, helping a customer is my milkman, except he has no milk stains and appears to be no longer laconic. I stifle all impulse to gasp and scuttle behind the nearest shelf, which houses such books as Menopause, What Next? and You’re  Beautiful Because I Say You Aren’t (and find myself oddly engrossed in the latter title) when a small cough brings my head up with a snap. My milkman, nay, bookman, is staring plainly enough at me, wondering, no doubt, that I need to spend more time in such sections. I recover my dignity and ask him what book he would recommend. His face, now thoughtful, takes on a look of delight, and I follow him. He leads me to a shelf of classics (most of which I have read), picks up Catcher in the Rye and hands it to me. “You remind of Holden,” he muses and turns to leave. In utter disbelief do I realize a) that my milkman is educated; b) that he makes more money than I do; and c) that he thinks I am similar to the protagonist who is frustrated by so much around him. He is insightful! I think to myself as I make my way toward the front of the shop. “No book, sir?” my milkman asks politely. “Not today, no.” I am unable to devise a lie at this time, and I realize I owe it to Holden to not appear phony, so I reply, “I have read this before, and either way I have not the money to buy it.” I do not wait for his reaction and instead make for my apartment.

 

 I become curious as to why I stepped into that bookstore today; I could have gone in any other day and time and yet I chose that very moment and encounter a man whose sole purpose appears to be silently poisoning and extorting me. I become nervous too, for what shall I say to him in the morning when I buy my milk? Perhaps I will slip a note under the door saying my mother has moved in with me and her lactose intolerance prevents me from purchasing any more of his wonderful milk. No, I chide myself. There is no need. A thought occurs to me suddenly. Perhaps he did not recognize me! It would make good sense, too. He only said I reminded him of Holden; there was generally no surprise at seeing me, the type you feel when meeting an old friend out of nowhere. Yes, I am convinced that my milkman/bookman did not recognize me, and I decide that my mother still lives far away and milk is a necessary addition to my day.

              

 I sleep well, and in the morning when I wake up and hear a knock, I open the door, and smile brightly�"but to a boy I have never seen before. I am too stunned to speak; of all the possible outcomes of this morning, this was the one I had never thought of. “Mr. Holden? Good morning, sir. I am the new milkman. The old one told me your name was Mr. Holden, am I right, sir?” I am dumbfounded by now; I manage a weak nod and take the milk the new boy offers me. “What happened to the old milkman?” I venture to ask. “He has decided to study, I believe he told me, sir.” No more questions, I think to myself. I do not know the old milkman’s name and now I wish to know his whereabouts and dreams. I shut the door and take my milk to the kitchen, all the while thinking only of the one man who could no longer spoil my mornings. As I drink my milk I realize that there is no slight disparity between the earlier and newer milk. This milk is fresh and unmixed, I think to myself, and then I find myself first baffled, then saddened that I shall never have cheapened milk again. 

                                               

Author's Note

1. Do I write well? Is there something that I can improve upon? Is my writing too wordy? Too simple? Confusing?
2. Is the story interesting? Funny?

Thank you so much!

Reviews

[Tabitha Third]

I do think you write well. It's very engaging, and I like your choice of words, although some of them may not be to everyone's taste (too complicated!). :P

Perhaps breaking your work up more into paragraphs would improve readablility, as it looks a bit intimidating to some 'as is'. (Such a big block of text...)

The ending felt like a tiny bit of a let-down for me, but it started off very well. The first few sentences were the funniest, in my opinion. I also liked the bookshop scene...

The standard of proofreading seemed to decline as the story went on, and there were a few minor mishaps towards the end (e.g. 'who's' instead of 'whose') but nothing too major. It also seemed to get less 'wordy' as it went on...coincidence? Or being very engrossed in your story?

Your writing may be a tad too wordy for some, but I enjoyed it. Good work. :)