AiRMail 7/9/24

Entirely fiction.

​                                                            Cow Tunes
He was pretty sure it was not because he was high, but one morning Allan noticed the cows dancing. Some of them shifting their back legs, almost in a shuffle. Switching tails, heads bobbing, weird shoulder movements. In the days that followed, this happened with some regularity, especially when he put on the Stones or Jefferson Airplane. If he played Hendrix or Pink Floyd, though, the herd would get seriously agitated, until he reverted to some group like the Byrds or the Grateful Dead.
            It had come back easily, the mechanics of milking. The old barn was peaceful, and Allan actually liked the smell of fresh hay, fresh manure, detergent, and fresh milk. So much preferable to rotting jungle and napalm. He took pleasure in dipping his arms in the warm sudsy water, rubbing each udder with gloved hands, stripping each teat with a few strong tugs before attaching a suction device. Every go-round with the twelve cows took about three hours, but he could stretch it out with gentle strokes and conversation.
            An unexpected place to find himself, the home farm; he thought he’d left it behind for good. When he’d come back to the states six months before, he’d moved in with his girlfriend, but last week she kicked him out. She told him sleeping under the bed was not normal. She said don’t come back until you pull yourself together. She said when the baby comes, I won’t have you waking it with your nightmares.
            The baby. How did that happen? Of course, he knew how it happened, but he’d used protection. Maybe the kid wasn’t even his. Allan didn’t care if it was his or not. He didn’t really want the responsibility, financial or otherwise.
He couldn’t believe he was stuck in the same place he’d meant to flee. Inside the house he could barely stand the prattle of the five siblings still at home. Almost as unbearable were his parents’ silent resentments. Had he been an idiot to think his life would change? Three older brothers were already married. The younger two were college material. So he’d enlisted, his duty he thought. Allan had no skills, no special talents, no smarts. Sure, the cows liked him, but it was already decided that the twins would inherit the farm, Jann an experienced horse woman and Joanie with a knack for business.
            ‘I’m screwed,’ he said. ‘I’m always the one to get screwed.’
            Poor you, the cows all said.
            Allan thought he heard Gert interject something like someone in the family had to serve. She swung her neck in a wide curve for emphasis. Allan made a mental note to halter Gert. A basic rule: control the head if you want to control the body.
            But she had a point. Someone in the family had always served. His father in World War II, his grandfather in the Great War. Before that his ancestors had fought in the Franco Prussian wars, which had sent them fleeing to the United States. His mother’s great-grandfather served in Sigel’s all-German corps during the Civil War.
            Well, what of it? What now? Aggie clomped her hoof, always the interrogator.
            At times it seemed the noise Allan wanted to escape was in his head. But in the barn, at least, he could block it out with weed and music. He brought his cassette player in every day and began racking up a nice collection of tapes. In some strange way, it took him back to bored afternoons on base with his buddies. He could say this for himself, he knew how to lay low when volunteers were needed for unpleasant tasks, and he knew how to get along, even if he never really fit in.
 
            As the days passed, Allan came to discover that with certain bands, the cows grew still and actually produced more milk. He got to know their favorites, mostly long recordings: Aggie liked Light My Fire, Bertha went in for Whiter Shade of Pale, and Hilda relaxed to Hey Jude.
            With production up, Allan got to imagining better things for himself. Was there a market for a traveling music man who could increase a dairy farm’s milk production? That was funny. But maybe his sisters would see fit to cut him into the family business, assuming the old man ever met his demise. It didn’t seem impossible.
            One lazy afternoon, Allan woke to the sound of cattle stomping and moaning. His heart was pounding madly, a refrain going through his mind to the beat, VC VC VC, who’s hit? who’s hit? who’s hit? But Allan was in northwest Maryland, not southeast Asia. He’d fallen asleep with a joint still lit and now the whole dairy operation was literally about to go up in flames. ‘Shit, I’m screwed,’ he said to the cows. ‘Like always.’ The cows couldn’t have cared less. They were in a mood to stampede. Allan grabbed the nearest thing at hand, a six-gallon milker bucket, almost full. That doused the nearest blaze and gave him time to grab the fire extinguisher.
            The old barn survived, as did all the cows. Allan suffered a few surface burns, but two years in the army had paid off in muscle strength and survival instincts. The ancestors, if not his father, would be impressed.
That night Allan’s girlfriend came by with sugar cookies and a bottle of Chianti that only she liked. Her baby bump was beginning to show, and she invited Allan to stretch his hand over it. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t so different from massaging a cow’s udder, but instead he pulled her head close to his chest and kissed her neck. My hero, she whispered, without a hint of irony. Then she invited Allan back to her apartment. Maybe they’d get married, Allan thought. Maybe things would work out.