Condensed Milk

On a sunny April morning, 1930, a handsome man was driving along a railroad mound, whistling. The telegaph poles lined up in a row beside him, forming a peaceful and melancholic scenery. The man wondered why his model T pickup refused to wind up well in the morning and hardly ever in the evening. Perhaps the car didn't like waking up early as much as him.

"Gush, where is the world going... Another strike at the railway. It seems someone has nothing to put on his plate today. The economy is a complete slump."

As if expressing its consent, the truck cracked and squeaked under its cargo: some twenty jars of fine condensed milk. Or, at least, they looked like condensed milk.

The man had made great profit out of it lately; unlike wine, he had no need to hide milk in a dugout and wait until it got pitch-black at night to drive this special cargo to the town.

"I'll pick a newspaper from a boy later and look who scored what. Then I'll have a battered chicken at the diner, no, something less heavy perhaps." The stones on the road shone like diamonds. What an error if one mistakes them! The driver laughed to himself.

They would not catch him, of course. If the things went wrong with the milk, he would start selling rubber balls or wooden balks instead. Whistle, whistle...