Milk

When I was fourteen, nothing interesting happened.

I didn't realise at the time. My base level of interesting was all screwed up. Because nothing interesting had happened when I was twelve or thirteen. So I thought some of the things that happened when I was fourteen were interesting. But they weren't interesting.

I bought some shoes. Probably. And I probably thought that was interesting. I might have told people about it at the time. I might have told the anecdote with verve and creative flourishes. What was the salesperson like? What kind of socks was I wearing? Did I have any second thoughts?

But that's not interesting.

I was fourteen on December 13 1996. You probably don't remember what you were doing on that day, because nothing interesting happened.

It was my birthday. I found it interesting at the time; all the cake and bows and cards. But it wasn't interesting.

I'd have to wait until fifteen before anything interesting happened (I entered a pact with a milkman).

***

When I was fifteen, something interesting happened.

I realised it at the time. My base level of interesting was still all screwed up. Because nothing interesting had happened when I was twelve, thirteen or fourteen. But even so, I could tell that this particular thing was interesting. By anyone's standards (except perhaps Batman's or Roy Keane's).

I opened the front door to bring in the milk, which was in a white polystyrene box with a numbered dial on the front.

The polystyrene was (I assume) to keep the milk cold, no matter how hot the ambient temperature was. On this particular day, it was quite chilly. But there was no point in having a separate non-polystyrene milk container for cold days. No point at all. It would have been an annoyance.

The numbered dial could be moved around to indicate how many pints of milk we needed. Quite clever, really. No need to write a note every time. The late 90s was an exciting time for milk pint request indicator technology.

I opened the front door to bring in the milk (or bring the milk in, depending on your persuasion).

But the milk and its polystyrene container weren't the only things on our doorstep. There was also a man there. He was wearing an apron, and white overalls. He was the milkman. He had a beard. He might still have a beard for all I know.

He was sitting on the doorstep, and as I opened the door he looked up as though he'd been expecting me.

"Finally," he said.

"I'm sorry?" I said. (I don't think I actually said that. I was inarticulate and impolite as a fifteen year old. I probably said "What?")

"I've been waiting for ages. It's freezing out here."

In retrospect, I should have suggested he construct a man-sized white polystyrene storage box. That would keep the heat in. But I only thought of that later.

"I need your help," he said.

"Oh right. What do need?" I asked.

"Someone who can keep a secret."

"Oh. Right." I didn't know if I could keep a secret. But I didn't voice these doubts, which suggested I probably could.

"I need to tell you something."

"Why me?"

"You've got something about you."

This unnerved me, because 1) I didn't think he knew anything about me, and 2) he had a beard, which I had been conditioned to associate with sex offenders.

"I think you can understand," he continued. "I need someone I can trust."

"Oh." I didn't know if I was someone he could trust. But I'm writing about it now, which suggests I wasn't.

"You see these numbers?" he asked. "On the dial?"

I did see the numbers on the dial, on the white polystyrene milk bottle box, so I nodded.

"You see they go from one to four?"

"Yes," I said. I'd noticed that before. I'd wondered what would happen if you needed more than four pints of milk. If you were having a party or something.

"There's a secret number. No-one else knows about it. Just me. And in a minute: you."

"Oh," I said again. As I said, I wasn't very articulate as a teenager.

"Look," he said. He turned the wheel.

The mechanics of the wheel were like this: There was one white plastic circle with numbers printed on it. In front of this was an opaque blue plastic circle, blocking all of the white circle, except for a hole cut in it. As you turned the blue circle, the hole would reveal, and highlight, a specific number.

If you turned the blue circle until the hole was over the '3', for example, the milkman would be able to see the '3' and would leave three pints of milk. Simple, but ingenious.

So, as I said, he turned the wheel. It was over the '2', but he rotated it, revealing the '3' and then the '4'.

"You see?"

"Yeah." I had seen that before. I wasn't impressed.

But he continued to turn the wheel. The hole in the blue circle now revealed nothing but plain white plastic beneath. I felt a bit disappointed. I could have done this myself. But then, as the wheel had turned three quarters of a complete circle, a new number appeared.

"You see?"

"Yeah," I said - this time impressed.

I can't remember exactly what the number looked like. I think it was something like a funky 'H', but with some extra bits.

I looked up at the milkman, hoping for some more explanation. But something was different. He was... flickering.

I don't know how to describe it exactly, but his whole body was disappearing and reappearing at speed. A bit like a Star Trek effect. He was smiling. I wasn't.

I quickly turned the wheel back to '4', and the flickering stopped. "Are you OK?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm fine."

"What was that?"

"I think... I don't know, but I think... that the secret number transports milkmen to another dimension."

"Oh."

"I tried it before, and the same thing happened. I think it's some kind of magic. Or just science that seems like magic."

"Right."

"But I always turn the wheel back after a few seconds. I get scared."

"Yeah, I suppose you would."

"Can I trust you?"

"I think so."

"I want to go all the way to this new dimension. But I need someone here to man the number wheel. I just want fifteen minutes there. In that other world."


"But why me?"

"I told you. You've got something about you."

"I don't know what that means," I said, thinking about closing the door. "Haven't you got any friends or family that can help you?"

"I haven't got any friends. I haven't got any family. That's why I want to go to a new dimension."

"You think there's going to be friends in this new dimension?"

"I don't see why not."

I fiddled with the handle of the front door, thinking.

"So will you help me?" he said.

I was getting scared and bored, so I said "Yeah, OK".

"Just give me fifteen minutes," he said. "Then turn it back to 4 and I'll come back." He reached out his hand to shake mine.

I didn't move.

"Come on," he said. "It's a pact."

I shook his hand.

He steadied himself, dusted off his apron, and gave me the nod.

I rotated the wheel once more, to the strange new 'H'-ish number, and he began to flicker. Seconds passed and the flickering became faster. Strange particle ripples swept up and down his body, brightly coloured, faster and faster, until at last, with a smile on his face, he disappeared.

I checked my wrist (I wasn't wearing a watch) and went back inside.

But suddenly I remembered, and opened the door again.

I took the lid off the polystyrene box, and picked up the two pints of milk inside. I put the box lid back on and went back inside. My dad had been waiting ages for his Fruit 'n Fibre.

***

When I was sixteen, nothing interesting happened.