In a Rut

I took a left onto McAlpin Avenue and my maroon Toyota Scion squealed with its turning wheels. It always did that; it had for years—couldn’t keep its belts properly tightened, so it always sounded like a fucking screaming banshee while driving at moderate speeds through residential areas. I would never be able to sneak up on anyone in that car.

I pulled into the driveway of my house—a two-story thing from the 50’s. It was nice, though ageing. I was surprised I could afford it—I wasn’t totally sure whether or not I truly could, honestly. Being a fucking teacher, I was always surprised when I could afford anything at all.

A droopy, hanging willow tree sat in the front yard. People had advised me to take care of it, to cut it down, said its ancient roots would compromise the structural integrity of the house, or worse yet, it could come crashing down during some storm, crushing my bones to dust and my organs goopy Jell-O while I slept, but I could never take the axe to it. Why would I do that? The damn thing was a beauty. I often wondered how elderly it was—it had to be older than shit.

Its brittle limbs creaked linguistically in the driving winter wind.

I pulled to an abrupt stop at the back end of my cracked, neglected stone driveway. My car’s squealing belts ceased, whimpering to a stop as if relieved. By force of habit acquired during high school driver’s education classes, I yanked upward the clicking emergency brake. I pulled the key from the ignition; Ronnie Van Zant’s voice stopped, no longer capable of singing about the smell surrounding me.

Exiting the vehicle, I grabbed my bag, lunchbox, and coffee mug and walked toward the salmon-painted, cracked steps leading up the side of my back deck to the backdoor. Before ascending that first step, however, I noticed laying in the back yard a heavy-breathing, plump doe. She was chewing cud, her mouth grinding in a counterclockwise fashion. She appeared completely apathetic to my presence.

I walked to the end of the wooden deck and stared into her eyes. She didn’t give a single shit; she kept chewing grass and staring into the distance, only occasionally making eye-contact with me if I became too noisy.

I walked inside the house, instinctively turning on the lights and the oscillating tower of a space-heater.

I was going to get that deer something to eat, maybe an apple.

Grabbing a Granny Smith from within a Kroger bag in the dusty pantry, I walked back outside and launched the shiny red fruit into the back yard. It bounced on the winter-hardened ground before rolling into the tall weeds lining the chain-linked fence at the very back of the yard.

The doe didn’t give shit. As the apple bounced off the hard dirt and rolled past her, she turned her neck with the traveling fruit, unconcerned with its beneficial nutrition.

“It’s winter!” I yelled at the deer, “It’s cold as hell! You could use some good food!”

The doe kept chewing.

I then noticed some movement from the other side of the chain-linked fence, over in the neighbor’s yard. It was another deer! Though this one was a buck—sporting proudly maybe six or seven points. He ran to the edge of the fence, prancing around excitedly. He made to jump the fence but couldn’t. It wasn’t that the fence was too tall, it was just that my neighbor’s yard was elevated above my own, and the buck would have to jump the fence and then land onto a steep grade. He was smart; he wouldn’t do that. He looked flustered, though—he was in rut. He continued jumping around, now huffing and puffing, lunging his antlers forward in frustration at nothing.

This got the doe’s attention. First twisting her ears like miniature satellites, she then adjusted her neck and lifted herself from the ground.

“Take the apple,” I said to her. She looked at me but didn’t pay attention to what I was saying. She walked up the slope to the edge of the fence, sniffing at the frustrated buck. She wanted to go to him—that much was clear—but she couldn’t jump from the slanted yard over the fence into my neighbor’s elevated yard.

For some time, the two of them followed each other along the fence. I watched at first with anticipation, but I eventually became bored, so I went back inside.

Upon closing the back door, the space heater turned toward me as if noticing my presence. I felt its heat, thankful to be out of the cold. I walked into the kitchen, grabbing my favorite cast-iron skillet from the cupboard and placing it on the gas-range stove. I twisted the knob, smelling the ejected gas and hearing the continuous click of the stove before hearing that engulfing sound—that poof—as flames arose and contacted the pan.

I grabbed the carton of eggs and some bacon from the fridge—it was going to be breakfast for dinner. I grabbed a couple packages of Taco Bell Fire sauce from the junk drawer; I would spread it across the tops of my fried eggs.

Just after I had cracked a couple eggs into the skillet, I heard a loud crash from outside in the street. Opening the front door, I ran outside, seeing bleeding in the street the buck from the neighbor’s yard. He had been struck by a car, apparently—being that he couldn’t simply jump the fence—while attempting to travel from the neighbor’s yard to mine.

I rushed into the street, kneeling by the heavy breathing, mortally wounded deer. He wasn’t going to make it very long.

I petted his coarse fur, feeling his ribs—exposed as a result of a sparse winter diet—as his chest heaved up and down, stressed and panicked.

He blinked. I looked at him; we made eye contact. I think he knew that he wasn’t going to make it very much longer.

Someone exited the vehicle that had struck the deer, which was a small, old green Ford truck, and walked over to where I knelt, then putting his hands on his knees. He was also breathing heavily; slobber painted his red, sweaty face. He aggressively removed his Cincinnati Reds baseball cap as if sending a message.

“Shit, man,” he said.

I continued looking into the buck’s eyes.

Abruptly, I heard from behind a clattering of cloven hooves.

I turned—it was the doe. She stood staring at me from my front yard, then slowly approaching the buck with concerned curiosity. I stood up, unconsciously gesturing toward her. Startled at my movement, she darted off, back into my backyard. Dry winter leaves crunched under her frantically prancing hooves.

“You need to watch where you’re going,” I said, turning back to the man who had struck the buck.

“That thing came out of nowhere!” he said, “Hell, I’m surprised I’m not more banged up than I am! Well, anyway—shit!—at least it’s deer season; I’ll throw this thing in the back of the truck and have it processed! At least I can get some meat out of it—some good-ass sausage and jerky! Hell, I’ll even send some back your way, if you want.”

The man then knelt, grabbing at one of the bucks’ legs, making to drag it across the road and throw it into the back of this pickup truck.

I was angry. I was going to kill this fucking bastard, I was sure of it.

Rising from the street, I clenched my fists, my knuckles cracking. Just as I raised my arm to punch the shit out of this guy, I heard from behind me a crackle; I felt smoke penetrate and sting my eyeballs.

Turning, I saw my house. It was on fire. Smoke billowed from the windows and chimney, fusing with the droopy branches of the willow tree. I had left the pan on the stove, and it had somehow caught flame and spread.

“Shit,” said the guy with the green truck, “Your house is ablaze.”

Turning away from him, I walked back inside apathetically.

End