Near the door to the milking parlor, Brett Wickwire did a careful job of hosing off his rubber boots. He didn’t have to think about it; it was automatic. He didn’t want to track cow manure into his minivan and stink it up.

The vaguely handsome young man was used to the smell of the milking parlor. Like all of them everywhere, no matter how clean they were, this one still carried the same relatively unpleasant odor, a combination of raw milk and manure. Whether he liked it or not, he was used to it. That counted for something, even though he occasionally wondered how he could drink milk anymore. There were people, he knew, who think milk comes from supermarkets. He wondered how many of them would quit drinking it after a visit to a dairy farm.

Ed was still busy running wash water through the milking system as Brett finished up. “Can you come back tonight?” Ed asked as Brett headed for the door.

“Nothing else on the schedule,” Brett replied. “Sorry to rush off on you but I’ve got to get cleaned up and get over to Salem. I should be back in plenty of time for the evening chores.”

“Glad you could help out at all,” Ed replied. “I’m hoping Tony will be back in a couple days.”

“No big deal,” Brett replied. “See you later.” He headed out the door into the relatively fresh air outside. It still smelled of manure, but at least it was outside and he’d be gone in a couple minutes.

Dairy cows are demanding taskmasters; they require frequent milking on a regular schedule. Ed milked twice a day, every day, at the same time each day, and at that Brett thought Ed was probably stretching it out a little compared to some people. But that was the way Ed did it, and it wasn’t Brett’s concern. It took two people, Ed one of them, three hours to do a milking, and right at the moment Ed didn’t have anyone in his family to help out. That was where Brett came in – he was an occasional substitute milker on half a dozen dairy farms in a ten-mile radius. He’d grown up on a dairy farm so he knew what had to be done and how to do it.

Out on the gravel road, Brett heaved a sigh of relief. He almost felt like rolling down the window for a smell of really fresh air but it was still April, cold out there, and the minivan had been sitting long enough that the heater wouldn’t put out anything for a while. In fact, he figured he would start feeling it just about the time he got to his folks’ home. He didn’t have time to waste; he had to shower, change clothes, and get on the road to his other substitute job: teaching. It was a hell of a note, he thought; by the time he got done with everything, not counting travel time, he would have spent about as much time teaching as he had milking. He would have made more money from milking, especially given that Ed paid him cash under the table so no taxes were deducted.

The hell of it, he thought, was that the cows were less obnoxious and perhaps smarter than the fifth graders he would be facing. Certainly they were less trouble. The smell almost evened out; he knew that Salem Elementary shared with many other elementary schools a vague smell of stale milk and urine.

Brett didn’t have much time so was driving fast and mostly hoping that there weren’t any deer moving. He never knew for sure; deer had a real talent for appearing out of nowhere, and as old as his minivan was, hitting one would likely total it – something he really couldn’t afford. But then, he couldn’t afford to be late to Salem Elementary either; there was seventy-five bucks riding on it.

Fortunately, no deer showed any desire to commit suicide this morning. He slid to a stop by the back door of his folks’ house, shut the van off, and scurried inside, stopping only to leave his rubber boots in the mud room. “Do you have time for breakfast?” his mother asked as he rushed through the kitchen.

“Not now,” he said as he rushed for the stairs. “Can you make up an egg sandwich or something for me, please?”

“Sure,” she replied as he thumped up the stairs. He peeled off his jacket, jeans, flannel shirt, and underwear, then headed naked to the upstairs bathroom; it wouldn’t do to spend all day in a classroom smelling of raw milk and manure, especially around city kids.

Fortunately it only took a few seconds for the water to get warm, and he didn’t fiddle around. In something less than two minutes he was done with his shower, dried off, and headed back to his bedroom to complete his quick-change act. The sarcastic side of his mind thought he’d done quicker costume changes, but those hadn’t included a shower.

In only a couple minutes more he was dressed for his day job: long-sleeved knit shirt, slacks, tweed jacket; it would have to do. He left his milking clothes draped on the chair in his room; he’d need them again later today.

It wasn’t long before Brett was back in the minivan, driving with one hand while eating his mother’s sausage and egg sandwich on a muffin with the other, a travel mug of coffee in the cup holder. A glance at the clock told him that he had just enough time to make it to Salem, barring interference from deer or cops.

With the sandwich eaten he could drive a little faster, so he did. He took a sip of coffee from the travel mug, then put it back in the holder, wondering once again why he was doing this at all. The answer to that, he realized, was simple: he needed the money.

Since he was single, living at home, and had no major expenses, he didn’t need the money all that badly right now, but he knew from experience that tougher times would come. His work was spotty, and he was trying to build up his war chest to make one last swing at his real dream: a decent acting job. He’d tried once and failed miserably; he’d had to hitchhike home from Hollywood with only a slack backpack and not a penny in his jeans. If it hadn’t been for a friendly trucker, he might have starved along the way.

Brett had caught the acting bug young, in high school productions. He’d been able to go to college relatively cheaply, on a combination of scholarships and grants, with the intention of being a teacher, but along the way he’d also taken some drama classes and gotten involved in college productions. He thoroughly enjoyed it; he was a good actor, picked up roles easily, and learned his lines – sometimes considerably extensive and difficult ones – with an ease that seemed almost eerie to others. If that wasn’t enough, he’d also joined the community theater in his college town. When he graduated, he decided that since he was young and single, there was no reason he couldn’t take a swing at the big time.

Even his dismal failure to make it in Hollywood didn’t take away his love of acting, of the theater. For some unknown reason it had struck deep into his soul and stayed there. At least at home he was able to repair his financial situation and pay down the balance on his credit card with his part-time jobs, and keep his edge by working in the odd community production here and there.

For the most part the pay was lousy, and it also meant a lot of time traveling, but he had both the flexibility and the desire to do it. In the last four years, he’d played a number of different places in a five hundred-mile radius, usually just a handful of performances, hardly ever with a run of more than a couple of weeks, and sometimes just a couple of evenings. Along the way he’d picked up a reputation as a good, solid, and reliable regional actor who could do just about anything competently without requiring excessive rehearsals, but that reputation and a buck could buy him a cup of coffee only in cheaper diners and fast food joints.

Although he loved the theater life, over the past year or so it had become increasingly clear that he couldn’t keep this up forever. It was about time for him to grow up.

There was a deadline in his own mind, and it was not very far off. It took thirty years of full-time teaching to be eligible for full retirement benefits. If he didn’t want to be old enough to draw Social Security while still teaching, he needed to buckle down and look for a full-time position, but doing that would mean the end of his dream. Oh, he could still do community theater on a strictly amateur basis, and maybe do odd pieces of regional stuff in the summers, but he realized that it was all he would ever do; there could be no more chances at big screens and big stages.

He wasn’t quite ready to cave in yet, but he could see it coming.

In recent months there had been times when giving up his dream and selling out to normality didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Things like a wife, a family, a home, and all the good and bad that went along with it were a dream, too. He could give up substitute milking and manure, neither of which he would miss, not at all. Maybe he could do high school drama productions and perhaps pass along some of his beloved avocation to some kid who could really go all the way.

But damn, it was hard to realize the dream of going all the way himself.

The best thing that could be said about it would be that he might be able to give up days like today: up this morning at three-thirty, three hours milking, an hour changing clothes and driving. Then there would be six and a half hours of trying to keep kids under control and maybe teach them a little. On top of that he’d face another hour changing clothes and driving, and another three hours milking. That added up to a fourteen-hour day. He might pocket as much as a hundred and forty bucks, which wasn’t a lot of money for the time involved. While neither the substitute milking nor the substitute teaching was an every-day proposition, the days he had to do both were ridiculously long. But in another couple days he might be sitting on his dead ass, looking for some short-term acting job that would probably be for less pay but considerably more fun as well as more rewarding personally.

After some fast driving, a couple of short cuts, and running one really stupid four-way stop sign, Brett pulled into the Salem Elementary teacher’s parking lot with a couple of minutes to spare. He didn’t sub at Salem very often, but he wasn’t in a position to turn down any work he could get.

The halls were alive with kids who were still getting to class, or avoiding it – sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. He checked in at the principal’s office; he knew Gloria, the principal, as he had subbed here before. “Good to see you here today, Brett,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve got a tough one for you today, Sarah Napolski’s class. They tend to be a little wild, so you’ll have to exert some authority.”

Brett desperately wanted to quote Admiral Ernest King, who, when named Commander in Chief of the U.S. Navy in World War II, reportedly commented, “When the going gets tough they always send for the sons of bitches.” There were some principals Brett might have quoted the Admiral to, but Gloria wasn’t one of them; he had to content himself with, “I can do that if I have to.” In a way it was just another act, he added mentally.

“Let me know if you have any major problems,” she replied. “There should be a lesson plan on her desk.” She shook her head and added, “I think Sarah wanted a break from the class, so she managed to stretch a dentist’s appointment into a full day gone.”

“If a dentist’s appointment is a relief from her class, then that class has got to be something else.”

“Just remember, no yelling and no corporal punishment.”

“Can I snarl at them?”

“Snarl all you like, just don’t draw any parental complaints.”

The class was just about as bad as he had been warned. There are kids – especially at that age – who see a substitute teacher as an opportunity to run wild, and these kids had a group attention deficit problem worse than most. It didn’t take long for Brett to find himself contemplating just how docile and compliant cows can be. He managed to avoid yelling, but there was certainly some snarling and chewing some kids’ asses to keep a modicum of control in the class. While Sarah had left him a lesson plan, it was one that had him in midair, with no clear place to pick up from and no clear place to go. As it worked out he made it to noon only by the school’s phys. ed. teacher giving him a break in the morning, and then an all-too-brief lunch period in a crowded, noisy lunchroom with screaming, playing, and shouting going on while he ate a lunch portioned for children. It was not very satisfying or relaxing.

The saving break that afternoon was when he spent a half hour doing an off-the-cuff one-man performance of The House by the Graveyard for one class, a children’s theater presentation he’d done a couple years before. It involved three characters, one of them a ghost, but by changing his voice and position, and wearing a hat part of the time he played all three parts. Somehow, it worked for the kids, even the more recalcitrant ones, and it killed half an hour. With luck maybe one of the real little monsters in the class would have a nightmare tonight, but he wouldn’t hold his breath on that, either.

Brett was probably happier than the kids to hear the final bell. Gloria caught up with him on the way out. “So how did it go?” she asked cheerfully.

“Could have been better, could have been worse.”

“Since you’re still here for the final bell, it definitely could have been worse. Those kids have run off a couple subs this year already. Can we call on you again for them if it’s needed?”

Brett really wanted to say, “Not just no, but hell no,” but it was seventy-five bucks less withholding for taxes and other foolishness, and as always, he could use the money. “I suppose,” was all that he could reply. If he didn’t have anything else going, well, it would be better than nothing. Only a little better, but better.

He didn’t waste much time getting out of the building – the buses were still loading and he wanted to be gone before they got on the road. It seemed that if he got out behind the buses from almost any school he had to stop behind them about seventeen times before he could get moving, and Salem, he remembered, was worse than most. He was going to have to drive like hell to make it back home, change into his milking clothes and get over to Ed’s before Ed got too far behind schedule. That wasn’t going to be easy; while the deer were pretty much under cover this time of day, this time of year, the roads were busier, there were more cops out, and there were other school districts with buses stopping at the most inopportune times.

So, it was more hurry. Under the circumstances he would have liked to stop someplace for a quick beer to settle his nerves, but right now he couldn’t even think of taking the time. He was behind schedule, but only slightly, when he again slid to a stop by the back door of his parent’s house. He jumped out of the van and ran inside. At least this time he wouldn’t have to mix in a shower. “So, how did it go?” his mother asked as he headed for the stairs.

“It went,” he replied. “Those kids don’t need an actor for a sub, they need a retired Marine drill sergeant.”

“Not good?” she called up the stairs after him.

“You could say that,” he replied, peeling off his clothes as he went up the stairs. “Right now a balky cow seems preferable to me.”

It was quick-change again this time, but really quick-change. In a couple minutes he had his milking clothes on again and was headed downstairs. He needed to hang up his tweed jacket and slacks, but that could wait till he got back.

His mother was waiting as he thumped down the stairs. “You should be done about six-thirty, right?” she asked. “I’ll hold dinner for you.”

“Thanks, appreciate it.”

“You had a couple of calls. They want you over at Peterboro tomorrow.”

“Oh lovely,” he stopped for a moment. “Another full day, since I’ve got to milk at Ed’s again, as far as I know.”

“You didn’t have anything else on your schedule, so I told them yes.”

“That was the right thing to do. Anything else?”

“Yes, Diane Graveline called, and wants you to call back.”

“Oh, crap,” he shook his head. While substitute milking was one of the things he did to make a buck, he tried very hard to avoid working for Graveline Dairy. It was a huge mega-farm operation with about twelve hundred cows, and they milked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. What was worse, they didn’t pay subs very well; their regular milkers all liked mariachi music and most spoke only Spanish. Brett had never asked, but he had always figured that the Gravelines didn’t do a very careful job of checking green cards. Fortunately, they didn’t call him to sub very often, which was good. “Did she say she wanted a sub?” he asked after that moment’s reflection.

“No, I think you’re safe on that,” his mother replied, understanding his reluctance perfectly. “It’s something to do with a theater. She didn’t go into any details.”

“Why the Sam Hill would she call me about a theater?” he wondered out loud.

“She wasn’t real clear about it, other than the fact that she wants to pick your brain or something.”

“Beats me,” he said. “I’ve got to run. Call her back for me, please, and tell her I’ll get hold of her after dinner.”

A few minutes late Brett pulled into Ed’s. Ed was just getting everything started. “Beginning to wonder,” the old man said.

“Salem is a hell of a drive, but I hurried as fast as I could. Peterboro tomorrow, that’s closer so I shouldn’t be cutting it as tight.”

“That’s good. Kids treat you all right today?”

“Not particularly. Unfortunately, they don’t let us use whips or cattle prods.”

“Damn shame,” Ed shook his head, not slowing down what he was doing in the slightest. “Sure as hell wasn’t like that when I was in school.”

Brett turned to the milking. It was something he’d done a lot over the years. His dad had run cows for most of his life, and Brett had just about grown up helping with the milking, and had decided early on that he didn’t want to be a dairy farmer. For a while it had looked like he was going to get sucked into it anyway, but then the government had come along with a dairy herd buyout program in an effort to support milk prices, and selling off the herd just about paid off the mortgage. Now, his father only did grain farming and custom field work for other farmers, and after everything was said and done was probably better off than he had been when he’d been running cows.

Thank God I’m not going to get stuck with that, Brett thought as he dealt with the routine. Once in a while off and on is one thing but every goddamn day forever like Ed has to do is another, worse even than dealing with a bunch of fifth grade monsters like I had to do today.

While Brett was busy all the time for the next three hours, it was repetitive work, nearly mindless, and it gave him more of a chance to think than he’d had in the classroom. When you get down to it, this really sucks, he thought. Whatever else happens, I can’t go on like this. Maybe I’d better just say screw teaching, screw milking, and screw the theater. Maybe I could get a job in a factory, or maybe be something like an insurance agent, but if I did, I’d really be up the creek. Something has to give sometime.

He continued picking at the problem much like he’d done for weeks, but in the back of his mind a question occasionally popped up: Diane Graveline? Theater? What could all that be about?

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