When There Is Pain, All I Can Think About Is Milk

I look down at my hands and see red. Snot dribbling down my nose and tears gushing. I can’t stop them but I put myself in this position. I need to follow through. I push the bones aside and look down at my watch — there’s still time left. I can barely breathe as I pucker my lips to create a cool airflow. I let out a yell from the bellows of my stomach with breath hot enough to create fire but tears aplenty to quench them. I reach down for another piece and reluctantly bite into it and let the meat hop forward on my tongue until I force it down my throat with barely a chew. “God dammit” I think to myself. I start coughing in a fit of rage trying to clear my throat of this venom. My eyes are so blurred right now I can’t tell if the figures around me are laughing or cheering. I stare straight up in an attempt to stretch my throat to its maximum. And again, just like the last week and the week before that, the god forsaken bell rings. I hear a wave of applause and some gasps around me. The muffled claps sound to me like rain patter. I wish it was raining. I love the smell of rain. It could relieve me of this burning terror. It could sweep me away from my problems. I jolt my head forward back into reality and lick my fingers clean. Torturous. I organize the cutlery on my plate and fold my tanned napkins onto the table. Between the sniffles I manage to give thanks to the owners and sign the check for the “Diablo Wing Challenge.”

At home I plop down in front of my fridge and weakly open the door to take out my half gallon of whole milk. I chug, chug, and chug until the brain freeze catches up to me. It’s amazing how my tongue and throat are on fire but my brain is frozen. It’s an attack on all fronts that my head might just explode. I need more milk.

Eventually I fell asleep on the kitchen floor.

I woke up after a slit of piercing light burned through my eyelids. I sprung up, nearly knocking over the half empty milk jug and quickly brushed my teeth and dressed up to head for the bus. $3.00 to take the bus has to be extortion. A tax on the poor and environmentally conscious. But I’m sure I myself am assaulting these people crowded in the bus with my raging sweat. I honestly might still be sweating out the diablo sauce. I arrive at work, basic accounting for a tiny firm or a glorified excel sheet summation typer, and am met with stares and blank faces. Everyone is … tense? Fuck, I’m late for work which I only just now notice while checking the office clock. It’s only a few minutes but I’m late. I see the door to my manager’s office open up and he signals with his two forefingers for me to come over. My shoulders sink and my head falls a little, I sigh and drag my feet as everyone stares at me.

“Do you know why I called you in here?” My manager says sternly.

“Because I was late. I’m sorry.” I say with eyes glued to my red stained fingertips resting on my lap.

“Every minute you’re late you cost us money. And tomorrow it’ll be even more-”

“I understand, I’m sorry It won’t happen again!” I clasp my hands together in a symbol of confession.

“Good” he grins. “You’re free to get back to work now.”

I sit up from the seat and swing open the door to see everyone crowded around the door.

“SURPRISE!” they yell. “Congrats on your promotion!” Someone says.

I hear my manager laughing behind me.

“Ya know we planned to give you a little spook before the promo but with your late arrival it’s like the joke wrote itself. I don’t care if you were late by a few minutes you’re always on time! Chin up you’re getting a promo!” He slapped me on the back.

I didn’t know what to feel. Guilty over being late anyways. Stressed over the joke. Relieved over the promotion.

“How about we head to the new Szechuan place down the street? Doesn’t Rohan like spice?”

I nearly froze at that statement. How would they know?

“Yeah I heard about that too!”

“That place is expensive my wife and I just went there”

“Don’t worry he’s making 19 an hour it must be nice to be young these days”

“Gonna order the Chinese level spice there dude?”

“19? Looks like it’s on Rohan!”

“How does Szechuan sound Rohan?”

There were too many voices. All I could focus was on the fact that I was only making 19 dollars now. After working here for the last 4 years my first promotion is from 17.50 dollars to 19. It’s 9:12 A.M. I am worth $1.96 since I stepped late into the office. I can’t even afford the bus home right now.

The Saturday after our team dinner at a burger place I went to visit my mother in the morning. Her room is all white and smells of saline with a mix of cleaning products. Her window is slightly open which provides a cool breeze that allows the curtains to flutter. I briefly watch her from the door as she stares out of the window seated in a pianist's position before I say something.

“They tell me you haven’t been eating.”

“Hm? Oh Rohan can’t you see how skinny I’m getting? I haven’t been this slim since I was in my 20’s.” She does a little shimmy as I approach her bed.

“That’s not the point, I’m glad you’re happy but that isn’t good news.” She shrugs and turns away.

“And? Life is inevitable anyways, at least I’ll go out looking pretty again.” She chuckles.

“I hate when you talk morbidly it makes me uncomfortable.”

“It’s just life and I’m sorry that it makes you uncomfortable. What am I supposed to do, sit here and feel sad about it all day?”

“I want you to eat. At least give yourself a fighting chance!” I say, annoyed. I put my right hand on the railing of her hospital bed.

“Rohan, sweety don’t get upset on my behalf. God has a plan and I’m just his little pawn. Anyways, have you been watching any of those weird Chinese cartoons? Remember you showed me some gory stuff that one day?” I catch her smile fade as she turns her head again towards the window. I hate when she deflects instead of facing the issues at hand. I can’t tell if she’s delusional or coping. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to worry me.

“No, I haven't seen them since I was a kid. Also they were Japanese. Anyways, is there anything you want me to get you?” She perks up.

“YES! I even made a little list of a few things!” She hands me a folded note from her nightstand. I unfurled it and just seeing her neat handwriting almost left me in tears. I don’t know why seeing her list hurts. Maybe because it could be the last thing she could ever write? No, I think I’m feeling nostalgic. I remember the notes she used to pack in my lunch box because I was so forgetful as a child. Or the little drawings she used to make on random pieces of paper in the summer when we were lounging. There was one time in fourth grade we needed to submit name cards to put on our desk for everyone to easily learn our names — except it needed to be in cursive. I had just transferred to this school on behalf of my good grades and was never taught cursive where I came from. I was so embarrassed that I had all these good grades but couldn’t even do a basic writing task? I woke up in the middle of the night that same day and tiptoed to the living room to see her still awake watching some action movie. She was startled and probably a little agitated that I was up since, presumably, it was her wind down time. I explained to her the situation with tears flowing and she gave me a hug and warmed up a half full glass of milk. She busted out a pen from her “Ohuhu Markers Kit” and wrote my name on this long index card in the most beautiful penmanship I had ever seen. We never even had to write in cursive again: what was that about?

I left the hospital and walked away from this bleak setting before reaching into my tote bag to find my headphones. I have this theory in quantum physics that wired headphones have their own magnetic forces and space they inhabit that allow them, and force them, to wrap around any and everything you own — even the headphones themselves. I call it quantum entanglement. I chuckled while trying to unravel these demonic wires. I put them in and put on Kings of Leon since I’ve been obsessed with them recently ever since I heard my mom playing them a few visits ago. I mapped to the arts and crafts store that my mom wrote at the top of the list which was only a few blocks away. I arrived and it seemed to be locally owned but old. The place smelled of aging wood and the floor creaked as I stepped through carefully. I looked through the aisles while trying to find the art related items on my mom’s list. Watercolor paint, air-dry clay, A5 sketchbook, charcoal. Without even looking up and turning into a random aisle I bumped into someone.

“Oh dear, that’s totally my fault I should be more mindful when turning corners.” The old man with a raspy voice, scrappy gray beard and countable strands on the top of his head said to me. He dusted himself off and slowly reached to the ground to try and retrieve the list I dropped.

“Oh no you totally don’t have to reach for it, it was my fault for not even looking!” I said exasperatedly while trying to reach down.

“This old man needs to use these knees, don't you worry sonny.” He grabbed the list and gave it a once over. “This penmanship is beautiful, who wrote this?”

“My mom.”

He took his glasses that dangled from around his neck and carefully put them on. He took a close look at the list and then an even closer look back at me.

“I used to teach at the University of the Arts and I had a woman in one of my classes who used to write just like this. This writing is unforgettable. She would make the most beautiful portraits and behind the sheet of every portrait she would write a small blurb. I remember one that she made, actually the last one I saw from her, of a rendition of the ‘Creation of Adam’. It was a woman in the nude reaching out, paintbrush in hand, to a canvas that had the beginnings of a painting of a little baby. The canvas leaned away from her almost as if to fall over — or maybe that it was leaving her. Yet, behind her arms pulled her back as if to take her away from her art but the face of the woman was happy. That painting was entitled ‘Rohan’ and there was no blurb this time. I never saw her again in my class.”

I froze.

“That’s my name. But my mother never went to art school or took art classes? She grew up like 50 miles away from here without a car.”

“Hm. It’s been a while. Maybe it’s a coincidence. I don’t quite remember her name but this writing is unmistakable. Well let me help you get all these things. My name is Roger Wilkins by the way. It’s nice to meet you Rohan.” We shook hands, he rang me up and I was on my way back to the hospital. I rushed over eager to tell her all about my experience. When I arrived at her room the nurse informed me that she was asleep and it would be in my best interest if I returned in a few days since she needed the rest before a small operation they needed to do. I left the items on the chair by her bed and kissed her forehead. Her operation is scheduled for Tuesday evening and I was advised to visit no sooner than Thursday.

That night I went back to the family house which hadn’t been home to anyone in so long. My dad left us years ago and my mom has been in the hospital for the better part of the last year. I opened the front door and was hit with a waft of dust. I went to my childhood room and collapsed there. I layed wondering how much more of my mom I didn’t know. We spend so much time with our parents yet somehow we know so little of them and they know so little of us. Our head cannons can be so awfully wrong and yet we still claim to love each other. Whether it’s wilful ignorance or that love transcends this need for knowledge I am glad for the relationship I had with my mother growing up. I decided to text a childhood friend who I knew was still living in town to hang out.

And just the next day I already had plans to meet up with my friend Dustin and get ice cream. It was a particularly hot day and just the walk over had my olive t-shirt 3 shades darker. It was 10 minutes after our agreed time before I stepped inside the store to cool off. Just as I did I felt 2 strong hands slam on my shoulder and a strong shake came after. I turned around to see Dustin in all his sweaty glory and he gave me a strong hug. His glasses were fogged upon arrival but that didn’t stop him from talking.

“Rohan it’s great to see you oh my god it’s been forever since we’ve met up and honestly I didn’t even know you were still in town I was so hype last night to get a text from you and honestly I was surprised but I couldn’t leave my main man hanging I had to see you no matter what it’s actually so crazy seeing you in person again I thought I’d never see you again I actually was thinking about you just the other day and wanted to text you but I guess I forgot so it’s actually so crazy that you texted me yesterday.”

All in one breath. This is the Dustin I remember.

“Shall we get some ice cream?” He said out of breath. He guided me over to the counter.

I took a look at the flavors and saw “Neapolitan”. When we were younger Dustin used to come over and we would eat the Neapolitan ice cream my mom bought but we would always avoid the strawberry ice cream because it was “fruity” and therefore “healthy” and “disgusting.” My dad used to get so mad at night when he’d come home and be greeted with 2 spoons left of chocolate or vanilla and left with just the strawberry. He’d curse up a storm and my mom would have to calm him down. My dad used to be so annoying. I would tell Dustin the next day every time my dad threw a fit and we’d laugh about it and swear to leave even less ice cream the next time.

With my arms crossed I gestured over with a finger to the Neapolitan. “Remember how mad my dad used to get about strawberry ice cream?”

“Oh my god yes! I even remember one summer when he wouldn’t let me inside the house because I was a bad influence and I made you do annoying shit.” He giggled.

Dustin ordered a milkshake and I just got a scoop of coffee ice cream in a cup. We walked to a nearby park that had a large pond and watched people row their small boats and ducks fight over the random pieces of floating bread and plastic. We talked about our current hobbies and how Dustin was still playing League of Legends and how I don’t play pickup basketball anymore since I never have the energy. How Dustin got really into bird watching and showed me his Merlin App with all the birds he had spotted in town. About the most recent book I had read by a financial guru who swore that any reader could become rich in 2 years. On how Dustin recently got kicked out of a bar for getting into it with someone at the barcade for “cheating” at some stupid game. And I complained about my recent promotion and “raise.”

Dustin awkwardly laughed. “I mean it’s great that you got a promotion though. It means that at least someone is noticing you and your hard work and you’re getting somewhere in this world.”

“Yeah but a $1.50 raise? Isn’t that kinda like a spit in my face? I know people getting $10 raises or get free corporate lunch or have unlimited time off isn’t that crazy?”

“That’s true. It’s evil how hard we have to work just to survive these days. Meanwhile these old heads had it easy way back when while actively making our lives worse it’s funky stew pie.”

“Dude, do you still say that? Oh my god that brings me so back.” When I first met Dustin he was still learning English and one time my dad cursed up a storm and said “fuckin stupid” and Dustin could not make out the phrase and the best he could come up with was funky stew pie. It sounded so stupid and so funny that it became our inside joke phrase whenever things got frustrating.

“Dude we should hang out more. I’m sorry I haven’t reached out in a long time but it would be cool to see each other more often. I don’t really have many, if any, friends at all.” I said with a smile.

“Man I’d love to. I didn’t mention it earlier but the reason I was so hype and quick to see you was because I’m moving back to Vietnam really soon to help out with the family farm. I haven’t been able to get a job since college and my parents are getting really old and want to move back. I can’t afford to live here so I think I have to go back.”

“Oh.” I sighed and just looked down. I glanced over and realized his milkshake was untouched.

“Didn’t like your milkshake?”

“It was way too thick and I like my milkshakes liquidy so I let it melt.”

“That’s gross and defeats the whole purpose.”

He slurped it obnoxiously loud. “Mmmmmm tastes great to me. A milkshake is a milkshake.”

“Funky stew pie” I thought in my head as I laughed and looked up.

I didn’t get to see Dustin off before he left for Vietnam.

Wednesday afternoon I got a call from my mother’s doctor explaining that her situation was critical after what was supposed to be a routine procedure. I rushed over to the hospital to be by her bedside. She was hooked up to a ventilator with myriads of wires and tubes attached to her body like she was a marionette. Her heart rate was low and she was unconscious and all I could do was hold her hand while I wept over her as the nurse comforted me with a hand on my shoulder and some kind words. The doctor came in soon after to explain how she got an infection after the procedure and her body was struggling to fight it.

“I don’t want to worry you, but if I were you I’d prepare for anything. I tried to tell her to rest before the procedure but she insisted on working day and night on her art.”

“Ugh she’s so stubborn.” I said, putting my head down.

“It’s getting pretty late and visitor hours are about to close, Rohan. But in any case you should take the art. She said she was stoked to show you when you visited next — and well here you are.”

I contemplated declining as to just wait until she woke up. But part of me told me it may hurt more if I did. He handed me a yellow envelope and a small box. I left and sat at the bus stop and decided to open them while I waited. Inside the envelope were 2 sheets of paper. One was a charcoal drawing of a family of 3 embracing each other in what seemed like a photo studio scene. A father, a mother, and a boy. The other was a watercolor painting that made me almost drop everything. It was exactly how the man at the arts and craft store described it except in this rendition there were no arms dragging the woman back, and the baby was a finished painting in the canvas with its arm stretched out as well. The woman and the baby’s hand were held together. She finally reached him. On the back of the painting was my full name in the same cursive handwriting I remember from way back when. There was a little blurb.

“When I was in my youth I made a painting similar to this and entitled it ‘Rohan’

Even back then your father and I would argue so out of spite I titled this without his last name,

But now I understand that this is our family. And I will love you, us, no matter what.”

I immediately burst into tears. I had missed two buses before I finally regained my composure. It was Wednesday – how fitting. I rode the bus straight to the wing place.

I walked in and the server, embarrassingly, asked me for the usual Wednesday special. I sat down at the table and was given 22 wings. The manager came over with his timer and set it to 10 minutes. With hands trembling and tears already running down my face I grabbed the first wing and the timer set off. I had no appetite. I did not want to be here. But these challenges brought me comfort. For 10 minutes and only 10 minutes. Once a week. There was nothing else I could think about. Nothing else that could bother me. No other pain that could topple the pain I would subject myself to. For 10 minutes once a week all I could focus on were the wings. Nothing else mattered in those moments. The only way to disconnect. The first time I came here was in college after a break up and I wanted to win something, even if it was something so stupid as a wing challenge. My spice tolerance was abysmal but I needed something I could conquer without really sacrificing anything. I’ve been trying for the last 6 years.

8 minutes remain and I haven’t had a single wing. How pathetic my life has become. People are turning away in disinterest. But if I stuff myself with all of these at once then surely these next 8 minutes will be so intense that I won’t even be able to pity myself. Fuck it.

So with hands stained red and tears falling down my face I ripped another piece of meat into my mouth. I moved the bones aside and tackled the next two over and over until I couldn’t see anymore. Until I couldn’t feel anymore. Until everything had become so muffled that I couldn’t realize that the challenge was done. That I had, for once in my life, stuck with and completed something that I set my eyes on. I could barely remember what happened next since all I could focus on was getting home in time to puke my guts out.

I wrote these journal entries every time I felt like my brain was too loud. I had no one to talk to so the only outlet I had was this notebook my college therapist gave me. And I haven’t written in a while.

It’s been a few months since the wing challenge and I wanted to talk to my future self whenever I look back on this.

Hey future me.

1. How’s mom doing? Is she still keeping up her fitness routine and art routine? (scold her if she isn’t).

2. Are WE keeping up a routine? We promised we’d try to be active or play a sport at least a couple times a week.

3. How's Anime Wednesday’s with Dustin? What are we watching right now?

4. Are we married yet? Don’t answer if not— that’s awkward. Is it Iris? (I hope this lasts)

5. Where are we living now? Hopefully in a high rise now with the fancy lobbies and doorman. Is it decorated? Do we have mom’s art up?

6. Tell me what your best friend is like. How about your friend group?

7. When’s the last time you cried? Last time you laughed? Why?

8. What are our current hobbies?

9. How’s work, are you happy with it?

10. When’s the last time you ate? Eat. Drink your water. Live for the both of us.