The Milk of Life

FICTION

by Elana Marcus

          The Museum of Active Landmines was so understaffed that they handed me an orange vest and a name tag without even looking at my résumé. That was good for me, because I wasn’t qualified, but at least Mom would be proud. She threw her coffee against the wall that morning because Dad was late on child support again and I was just sitting around playing video games, too stupid, she told me, to get a job and help out for once. Now I was standing in a circle for my first-ever staff meeting, surrounded by all these landmines, and for the first time in my life, I felt all important.
          “First order of business,” my new boss, Mr. Johnson, said. “We’ve got a field trip coming in today. Middle schoolers. And I don’t want a repeat of what happened last time. I’m looking at you, Nelson.” Nelson bowed his head in shame. “Sure, kids can be cruel, but you can’t let them get to you. Next time they try to convince you to let them touch the landmines for ‘educational purposes,’ look ’em right in the eye and say, ‘Not today, punk!’” Some people started giggling. “I’m serious, folks. It was a close call. Any day on this job could be your last. One wrong move, and this place goes poof.” Now everyone stood up a little straighter. “Listen, I founded this museum because I love landmines. I think they’re beautiful. Those round silver tins with a circle in the middle like a breast. Just one look at those things and I’m back in the cradle, sucking my mother’s tit, drinking the milk of life. And what a paradox; a thing resembling that which brings you into the world can just as easily take you out. Man, it brings me to tears.” Someone handed Mr. Johnson a tissue. “Now, get out there and knock ’em dead. But don’t actually knock anything. Or we’ll all die. Okay. Go team!”
          The middle school was required to send the museum a list of “class clowns” who were most likely to touch a landmine, and they each had a designated employee to stand close by and make sure that they didn’t. I got this girl Sue. She kept doing this dance that she called “the mad shit shuffle” where she’d flail her arms around and kick her feet in all directions. It wasn’t ideal, given the landmines. Whenever I’d ask her to stop, she’d say, “Don’t tell me what to do, or I’ll tap the dang tins.” Truth be told, I saw a lot of myself in Sue. Always finding the point of leverage when arguing with authority. Usually, it was something right in front of you, hiding in plain sight, like all those landmines. I did it with Mom all the time. Sue had yet to realize that she was playing with a pro.
          “Well, if you keep doing your little dance, I’m gonna tap the tins,” I said.
          “Oh, yeah?” Sue said.
          “Yeah, and then no more dancing for you, or any of us!” I was into it now. My orange vest glowed with an authority that Sue was no match for.
          “Okay, so do it then,” Sue said.
          “Huh?”
          “Go touch the landmine. I’ve been a bad girl, dancing where I shouldn’t. Now it’s time for my punishment. Touch the landmine, like you said you would.”
          She was good. Of course, I had no intention of actually touching a landmine. What was the point of all this if I couldn’t go home at the end of the day and shove my name tag in Mom’s face? I tried to remember what worked on me in middle school. Sometimes all it took was the fear of a threat to get me in line.
          I started inching closer to a landmine with my finger outstretched, one step at a time.
          “Don’t make me do it,” I said. Sue just stood there with her arms crossed. She wouldn’t budge. Now I was about an inch away from the thing. That’s when Nelson ran over and tackled me to the ground.
          “Not today, punk!” he shouted right in my ear. It was only when he got off me that I saw the landmine fall off its podium. He lunged at me so fast, the idiot, that he knocked the thing over.
          The alarms sounded and Mr. Johnson bolted from his office like he’d rehearsed this scenario countless times before.
          “Everybody run!” he called. He ran over and crouched over the landmine, shielding it with his body. “If this place goes down, I’m going down with it!”
          Nelson seemed to have hurt himself from the whole tackling me thing, so I grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him away as fast as I could. He was a big guy, so it took a while. I watched Mr. Johnson, crouched over the landmine. At least a minute had passed, and the whole thing became kind of awkward.
          It turned out to be what was known in the landmine community as a “wild card.” The explosion was delayed indefinitely. It could go off in a minute, an hour, a month, even years. Strangely enough, it drew in quite the crowd. I came up with the idea to start selling T-shirts that said, “I survived the wild card at the Museum of Active Landmines!” They sold like hotcakes. Mom cooked me breakfast every morning before work and kissed me on the forehead as I left. I knew there could come a day when I wouldn’t return home, but after a while, it stopped bothering me. That was just life, and it rarely got better than this.