*
Michael stood facing the rear ends of ten cows, listening to the wind blow against the west side of the old barn causing it to creak and moan and making him feel uneasy. The cows, all with their heads in stanchions, were busily searching out grain he had poured for each underneath blocks of hay. These were the last of three batches of ten cows. The hum of the vacuum pump had been going so long, he hardly even noticed it now. He was bored and hungry and wished they were through so he could get back inside the warm house. As he waited for his father to return with the milking machines, he compared the cow's tails, one with thin green manure on her buttocks, smeared by the windshield wiper action of her tail, and one with beads of manure in the long coarse hair. He knew how it hurt to get slapped by a tail like that, and he knew than the cows knew it too because they would start swishing their tails when anyone walked between them to connect or remove the milking machines. If they had a particularly messy tail, they were always much worse at swishing it. As he stood waiting, one of them arched her back into an awkward, strained position as she raised her tail into a tall arc to urinate. Michael noticed the pink fleshy slit that the urine came from and wondered if that was where the bull had stuck his shaft. It was either there or in her anus, he thought. A soft cloud of steam rose from the urine and Michael felt its warmth on his face and smelled the acrid odor.
The old barn had been there when his father bought the farm. Michael could see holes in the roof where shingles were missing and feel the wind through spaces between the boards in the walls. Two dim light bulbs overhead were all that pushed back the darkness. Michael looked beyond the cows and stanchions and saw the last bales of what had been a large haystack, partially lit now by the dim light that cast the constantly moving cow shadows. That was where Michael had found Tiger after her mother had abandoned her. She was newly born and her eyes were still closed. He had to feed her cow's milk with a doll's bottle. A lot of wild cats lived in the haystack, but Tiger was the only tame cat they had. Tiger slept with Michael, which his father didn't approve of, but his mother had talked his father into permitting it. On the far side of the barn, which was used as a garage and storage area for farm equipment, he saw reflections from the windshield of their new '52 Hudson. The barn door wasn't shut and through this opening he searched for the lights of cars on the nearest road a quarter mile away. He hoped for one of them to turn down their dirt lane. He imagined it would be a family with lots of kids, and they would have someone his age he could play with. Michael felt lonely on the farm even when Doug was around. He wanted someone he could talk to.
Doug was spending the night with a friend. If Doug had been there, they would be throwing rocks out over the gate into the darkness trying to hit a barely visible power pole. They would pretended they were major league pitchers, and that each hit was a strike and each miss a ball. Before they finished milking, they would go through a nine-inning game. Tonight, there was nothing. Tiger sat at his feet and Michael dropped to his knees to pet the half-grown cat.
A cow they called High Pockets was at the front of the barn. Why his father brought her in, Michael didn't know. She was dry of milk and her utter and four teats were small and wrinkled like a deflated balloon. The thing that was peculiar about her now was that a clear sticky fluid was stringing out of her rear end and sticking to her swishing tail. He didn't ask his father about things like this. They didn't talk much while they were milking. His father was always thinking instead of talking.
"Come on, Mike, get some belts on for me," his father's voice boomed above the sound of the wind and the hum of the vacuum pump. He had just returned from the adjoining milk house carrying a milking machine in each hand. The milking machines were heavy, rather flat, stainless steel containers with four cylindrical suction sups that dangled from black rubber tubes. His father was an impatient man, particularly when he was waiting on Michael.
Michael jumped, almost stepping on Tiger as he grabbed two black leather belts from a nail on the wall behind him. He pushed between the first two cows at the end of the barn and threw a belt over the last cow's back just in front of her hips. The long metal bar, which was attached to one end of the belt, went under the cow's stomach and hooked into a loop at the other end of the belt. The bar would support the milking machine. His father waited, obviously laboring under the weight of the machines, deep wrinkles growing across his brow. Michael knew he should have already done this, and as he put the second belt on the other cow, he could tell from his father's expression that he wasn't hurrying fast enough.
Michael hadn't prepared the cows for milking either, so his father put down the machines and picked up a bucket of warm water that he handed to Michael as he finished with the belts. Michael was still uncomfortable with washing the cow's udders, but he took the rag from the warm water, squeezed it, and washed the udder as best he could. This first cow's name was Bones. His brother had named her that because her hip and shoulder bones protruded so much they looked like they would come through her hide. She was also the smallest cow in the herd and didn't give much milk, probably because she was so nervous. He took each teat in his rag-covered hand and stroked it lengthwise. The udder and teats were firm with milk. To Michael, the location and size of all cows' teats were strange. He knew from watching his Aunt Alice breastfeed their new baby that a woman's breasts were on her chest and that the nipples were very small. He thought that heifers, with their teats between their hind legs, looked like they had four penises growing out of their udders. Their udders, he thought, looked like a scrotum, and sometimes he visualized the cows having testicles inside their bags. He was thinking about this as he was finishing washing Bones.
As Michael moved from between the two cows, his father moved in, sat one machine under the second cow and squatted beside Bones. He then took a teat full length in his hand and squeezed with his fingertips, pressing the warm flesh against his palm. At first there was nothing, then came the high-pressure splatter of a thin stream of milk on the cement floor. Tiger, having watched the ritual with considerable interest, ventured forward almost to the gutter, her neck craning and nose twitching. Michael knew what was going to happen and started to pull her back, but he was too late. His father bent the teat backward, aiming the next high velocity stream at Tiger's head, working it around until it found her nose. She jumped high in the air, shook her head and ran off sputtering. His father just laughed, saying "Godamighty. What a cat." Michael wondered why he had to do that to her every time, why he always had to be so mean to Tiger. Squeezing each of the four teats, his father left a little puddle of dirty milk from each on the cement floor. Unwinding a black rubber hose from the top of the machine, he shoved the end onto a nozzle on the vacuum supply pipe that ran the length of the stanchions. When he turned the nozzle handle, the machine hissed as air sucked through the cups. Then he lifted the milking machine into place on the metal bar. As he stood to move the belt back more on her back, Bones kicked him.
Michael's immediate reaction was to laugh, and he did before he could stop himself. He laughed because his father got kicked between the legs. He had started to back out when Bones kicked him. The kick was so dead on target that Michael thought that Bones must have known his father's vulnerability and had aimed for it. His father doubled over, at first, thinking he must be injured, found that he wasn't and turned to get even with Bones. He jerked the black rubber hose off the machine and the nozzle, doubled it, and saying "I'll teach you, you mangy sonofabitch," he hit her as hard as he could several times across the rump. Bones humped her back and walked as far as she could into the stanchion. His father was breathing hard, not so much from the exercise as from excitement. Michael was afraid and backed off several steps. He noticed that his father seemed to like to be violent, and to create bad situations so that he could be violent. His father then walked quickly past her as she kicked again but missed. He then reinstalled the rubber hose and, sticking his head in her flank and holding back her leg, which was trying to get at him ag
ain, with his forearm, he began hooking the machine up to her udder. Bones calmed down even though her hide still twitched where he had hit her with the hose. Grabbing a long cup by the end, he rotated it up to the end of her pink teat. The vacuum sucked the teat deep inside the cup, making a slurping sound. Michael listened to all four slurps and saw the four cups rise and fall rhythmically, sucking and massaging the teats. The hum of the vacuum pump rose and fell with the load demand. Milk flowed.
13Michael felt sorry for Bones but was surprised that his father hadn't hit her more. He usually didn't calm so easily when he got mad. Relieved, Michael walked to the end of the barn looking for Tiger.
A little later, Michael was watching the last two cows being milked at the front of the barn next to High Pockets. He leaned against the board wall with Tiger in his arms, rubbing cheeks with her, feeling the dampness of the milk still on her fir and her stiff bristled whiskers against the corner of his mouth. He was already thinking about supper and wishing to be in the warmth of his mother's kitchen. His father was carefully scraping the manure from behind the cows' feet into the gutter.
Michael watched a flash of headlights on their dirt driveway and felt a sudden surge of excitement. The bouncing lights forced dark dancing shadows on the wood walls. The pickup stopped beside the barn, and its lights went out. If it had been a car stopping at the house, he would have still been excited. But Michael moved away from the door, toward the back of the barn, watching for any sign of concern from his father. Michael didn't ask him who it was even though he was sure his father knew. If his father had wanted him to know, he would have told him. Michael didn't like this forced, purposeful silence but was used to it. He heard the slam of the door and some rustling around in the back of the pickup, like metal tools being thrown. Then a huge bull of a man came walking in out of the darkness carrying a small metal box in one hand and a long metal cylinder in the other. Michael recognized him as the artificial inseminator. Michael was afraid of him. He knew that the man bred cows, but didn't know what "bread" had to do with cows.
"How are you doing, Douglas?" the man asked, "Some wind we're having tonight isn't it?" his big red cheeks swelling like apples under his dark eyes as he smiled. He leaned the metal cylinder against the wall.
"Hello, Ben, hope that juice of yours is potent tonight," his father laughed as he shook the man's mammoth hand.
"Ah, you know my bulls' balls is always smoking. I mix their juice with wildcat piss. Runs around inside those old heifers just tearing the shit out of everything till it finds what it's after." He unzipped his coat as he spoke and leaned back laughing. His shirt pulled at the buttons and separated, exposing his puckered navel surrounded by black hair. "This here you're youngest boy?"
"That's Michael, all right. He's not as much help as Doug yet, but he's learning. Says he wants to see what this bullin is all about, don't you Mike?"
Michael didn't know what he was talking about. He just looked at the floor and turned to face the wall, thinking that Doug wasn't all that much help either.
"Did you ever see a bull that come in a metal box before, boy?" Ben asked, walking over to Michael and putting his hand on Michael's head, mussing his hair.
In spite of himself, Michael had a grin from ear to ear, but wouldn't show it. He just shook his head no.
"I've got a whole herd of bulls in that box," Ben said.
After his father took the machines off the last two cows, Michael got the belts and returned them to the nail on the wall. While the two men discussed something about which bull to use, Michael went to the end of the barn, opened the wooden gate and slipped in between the last two cows, letting them all out of the stanchions one at a time. Michael didn't exactly know what they were up to, but he was glad he had something to do while they did it. He just hoped they would leave him out of it.
"Leave these two cows up here locked up, Mike. Old High Pockets here on the end might need a little company. Big John'll raise hell, but it won't hurt her none."
High Pockets got her name because she carried her udder high, and it didn't look like she could give much milk. At one time, she had been one of the best milkers in the herd. She was also Michael's favorite. His father bought her two years ago, the first time Michael had been to an auction. Michael thought she was the prettiest cow he had ever seen. Big John got her name simply because she was the biggest cow they had. Through her head and shoulders, she looked a little like a bull. Michael let out the cow just next to Big John and as the cow left the stanchion, Big John tried to pull her head out too. When her head didn't come free, she lurched backward, beating her head against the stanchion and stretching her neck so much Michael wondered if her head could come off. High Pockets got excited too, and both banged their heads several times before settling down. Michael wasn't having any trouble finding work on his own now, and he got the old square shovel with manure caked half way up the handle and started shoveling the manure into the gutter.
"Come on over here, Mike. You might want to see this," Ben said. He was all business. He had pulled off his coat and rolled his left sleeve above the elbow. The lid was raised off the metal box, and he and Michael's father were fingering some small glass bottles with metal caps. Finally, satisfied that they had the right one, Ben sat it aside and pulled a long thin glass tube from his cylinder. Onto the end of the glass tube, he pushed a little rubber bulb. Then he screwed the metal top off the small bottle. While Michael's father held the bottle steady, Ben squeezed the rubber bulb, dipped the end of the glass tube into the bottle and released the bulb, sucking milky fluid half way up. Michael felt a little stupid watching all this. He had no idea what they were doing.
13While Michael's father held the tube, Ben put a rubber glove on his left arm that reached above the elbow. He walked up behind High Pockets and, pushing her tail aside, inserted his entire gloved hand in her anus.
Michael felt his head jerk in a spasm-like motion. He shook his head no, started to laugh, caught himself, turned his head away, then laughed out loud. Walking to the far end of the barn, he thought maybe Ben was insane and that his father would stop him. But when he looked back, the event continued to unfold, and now Ben had his arm in her almost to the elbow. His father was watching like this was the greatest thing he had ever seen. Michael had a feeling of impending doom.
High Pockets started walking. Since her head was held fast and the barn wall was to her left, she could only move into Big John and walk a circle with her hind legs into the stanchions.
"Whoa! Catch'em, Douglas. They're headed for the north forty." Ben, big as he was, was being dragged around the floor leaning forward, trying to keep his feet from getting stepped on. Michael's father wedged his way between Big John and the stanchions, and placing his shoulder in her side, strained to move her back around, all the time trying to protect the glass tube. Michael turned and looked off into the night, thinking maybe he would play with Tiger now.
"Come on, Son, don't walk away now. The bullin is just starting," his father said. Michael continued to walk. "Michael, I said get over here. Take this tube before it gets broken."
Michael was afraid. He didn't trust them. What might they do with that glass tube? He walked backward toward them, his head turned just enough to see what was going on. He laughed again, then smothered it and took the tube. Big John tried to kick, pawing with her right hind leg, but as she did, his father easily moved her back around. Michael stood behind them, still refusing to look, holding the tube at arm's length.
"This cow's so full of shit, I can't feel nothing," Ben said. Michael heard something plop on the floor and peeked just enough to see Ben pull his arm out so that part of his hand was showing. He was scooping green manure from inside High Pockets with his gloved fingers and letting it fall to the floor. Then she hunched her back and Ben jerked his hand out and stood back. High Pockets dumped the rest of the manure on the floor and at the same time added a steaming stream of urine. The mixture splattered in the gutter.
&
nbsp; "Now maybe we can get down to business," Ben said when she finished. He shoved his hand inside her again and immediately reached for the glass tube. "Come on, Mike, don't run from me now. She needs the semen in that tube."
Michael walked to him with his head turned to the side until he felt the tube leave his hand. Then he backed up to get a perspective on the situation. From this safe vantage point, he couldn't keep from watching. High Pockets let out with a moo, big, loud and long. He noticed that her head was turned around and that she was looking back through the stanchion, her big eyes bulging. She thinks they've gone crazy too, he thought.
Ben pulled his free arm back as far as possible to insert the tip of the glass tube just below her anus, the slit she peed out of, thought Michael. "Oops, wrong hole. Ah there we go." Ben worked the tube inside her, bending it slightly at times, all the while grunting and groaning as she moved restlessly from side to side. Michael was concerned that they would really hurt her and expected to see blood spurt out of her at any time.
"Come on Honey, move it over, move it over. Okay, okay, that's got to be it." He had it all the way inside her now, and he squeezed the little rubber bulb.
"Ahhh," he said. "Home at last." Then he slid the glass tube out and handed it to Michael's father. Michael was astonished. What had Ben done to have such a look of satisfaction? Michael remembered what the bull had done to the heifer in Mr Olson's field, but he still didn't understand what was going on. High Pockets must be sick or something, with that stuff running out her backend.
Ben removed his arm from High Pocket's rear end and stripped the rubber glove from his arm. "God, it makes me feel better than preaching a good sermon when I know I've hit the target. I won't be back to fix her up again. You can bet on that. I got a bull's-eye that time. What did you think about that, Boy? Wasn't that something?"
Michael just walked back to the far end of the barn, looking for Tiger.
"Let them out, Michael," his father said.
He released them and followed the two cows out, then shut the gate again. By then, Ben was already starting his pickup and his father was scraping manure into the gutter.
"Get the water hose," his father said, "We'll spray the gutter, wash the machines and be in the house before you know it." Michael had a sense of relief but was still confused about what had happened. He was too embarrassed to ask his father what they had done.
13His father turned off the lights and Michael pulled the lever on the vacuum pump and listened to the hum die. He noticed for the first time that the wind had also died down. As they walked to the house, he saw light through the kitchen window, and he felt the first few drops of a fall rain. His mother was putting supper on the table. If she found out what his father and Ben had been up to, there would be bad trouble, he thought. He could never tell her what had happened. He would just try to forget it. It already seemed like Ben had never been there, like maybe he was a ghost or something.
Walking That Short Distance, Childhood Enlightenment in the '50s Page 3
