The Downstream

The record player in the corner playing "Rock the Casbah" skipped every two seconds but it took three minutes for anyone to notice. Being in rural Wisconsin, there was loads of beer, plenty of cheese, and everyone's children were there too, making a racket because they had nowhere else to be. With all that going on maybe nobody noticing the music kind of made sense.

Then the shit hit the fan.

I saw our four-year-old, Emily, holding one of the Johnsons’ cheese curds in her little hand, moving it toward her mouth. I leapt out of my chair, bolted over, and swatted it away. The cheese curd flew through the air, Emily screamed, and every head in the community center turned toward us.

“It’s not polite to take other people’s cheese, Emily,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“But we ate Uncle Dean’s cottage cheese last week!” she protested.

“Just do as I tell you.”

“I’m not going to—”

I grabbed her arm and pulled her outside. A roomful of disapproving eyes followed us out. This was serious.

After a firm talking-to — no candy for a month if she didn’t listen — we sauntered back in smiling as if nothing had happened. In a small town, you have no choice but to get along with your neighbors.

Emily ran off to play with the other kids. I sat down with the Johnsons.

“Sorry about that.”

“We understand,” Big Mike said.

The Johnsons. Nice folks from downstream. We play Sheepshead at their place every Thursday night — we pretend not to notice how their hands shake when they hold the cards.

“How’s Robert doing?” I asked.

“Just made shift manager at Rayburn,” Mike said.

“You should be proud.”

“We are.” Their smiles carried a mix of pride, and, of course, that other thing.

I wanted to help out. “I’m heading down to Sheboygan tomorrow. Need anything?”

“Maybe a few DVDs?” Sheila said. “Those things are worth their weight in gold these days.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Tremors, if you see it!” Big Mike winked.

“Touche!”

We both chuckled — the kind of laugh that says we can still jive each other once in a while, even under the circumstances.

I told them we had to get going. Our cows don’t milk themselves at 5 a.m., and neither do theirs.

We might not chase the latest trends in Elkhart Lake, but we’re doing all right here. My father thought the dairy business was dying — everyone switching to oat milk or some new-age nonsense. Inflation changed that. With ground meat at $55 a pound and eggs at $20 a dozen, good old cow’s milk became the only protein most folks could afford. Suddenly, our land, right where the glaciers left their rich soil along the kettle moraine, made us productive again. Hollywood celebrities started drinking big glasses of Wisconsin milk on TV after their workouts, calling it “wholesome.” Little did they know.

We’ve gotten used to the war and used to Rayburn. The war against Iran has been going on for twenty-three years now, so it's been about twenty since the internet was shut down. Which was about the same time Rayburn moved in.

The whole village got its hope up three years ago, when the downstreamers got their day in court. Practically the whole village drove over to Sheboygan for the trial — Elkhart Lake Dairy Farmers vs. Rayburn Rare Earth Processing.

The judge looked grim as he read from a statement. “I regret to inform the plaintiffs that according to Executive Order 9391, this case has been declared a matter of national security and will not be heard by my court. Furthermore, I would like to remind everyone, as you should all know already, that discussing matters of National Security is a criminal act under United States statute 37,423, and violators will face life in prison.”

Back at home, I turned on the TV to one of the three channels. The three networks weren’t vulnerable to Iranian computer viruses, or misinformation.

“America loves Wisconsin cheese!” the USDA ad said.

Everyone’s drinking the downstream milk.

But not us, we have our own supply. Don’t tell anyone.