" I had always known I'd kill a deer with my own hands and eat it too, if that became necessary. That's the kind of vegetarian I was...'"
first deer
by laine perry
The first time I saw a deer my dad was in the middle of a swerve on an island road. He missed it. I saw the cotton tail disappear off to the side of the road, the deer taking cover in the forest of trees. The second deer I saw was stripped naked and hung upside down in my Uncle's garage. I didn't eat meat. I tasted some of my Aunt's venison stew anyway, because I was curious to know what exactly had become of that deer. It was a bad taste. It tasted sharp and acrid and dirty. I had always known I'd kill a deer with my own hands and eat it too, if that became necessary. That's the kind of vegetarian I was. I didn't want to eat meat so I didn't. There were plenty of options so I took them. Later on when I married a mid westerner who was coming down with a severe case of alcoholism I found myself in Iowa where I almost met my third deer. Lou was a hunter, and proud of his skills. He reminisced frequently about his teenage years when he had hunted often with his best friend Dave on the family's farm. I kept telling him to go, asking him if that wasn't the very reason we moved back to the Midwest? I knew Dave lived on that same farm running it as his own. One afternoon Lou came back filthy drunk. He was smiling like a ghoul. My jeep was covered with mud. “I got a deer,” he said proudly. “Where is it?” I asked, not really believing him capable of standing up straight long enough to aim at anything on the move. I looked in the garage, and around the back of the house. I even looked inside the jeep fearing the worst. Lou just stood there glassy-eyed, wavering. “It's still out there,” he managed. “What in the hell do you mean Lou?” “I haven't gotten it down yet. I'm going back,” he said. “Why?” I asked. Lou didn't really have any idea of what to say. “Where is it?” I asked. “Dave's acreage,” he said. “It's fine,” he said. “Why would you do that?” I asked but it was like asking a one year old why he peed his pants. He never went to get that deer. I sometimes think of it hanging there in the trees waiting to be spent in some reasonable way. I picture the deer sighing as I sigh, wishing that Lou would behave as a reasonable person. We are both still waiting. It's only Lou who's moved on.
(illustration: john richen)
I drink too much. I'm cranky, and I laugh all of the time. I only have one pair of shoes: black converse. When I grow up I'm going to comb my hair and smoke a hooka. More of my stories can be found in the Smokebox Archives.
The first time I saw a deer my dad was in the middle of a swerve on an island road. He missed it. I saw the cotton tail disappear off to the side of the road, the deer taking cover in the forest of trees. The second deer I saw was stripped naked and hung upside down in my Uncle's garage. I didn't eat meat. I tasted some of my Aunt's venison stew anyway, because I was curious to know what exactly had become of that deer. It was a bad taste. It tasted sharp and acrid and dirty. I had always known I'd kill a deer with my own hands and eat it too, if that became necessary. That's the kind of vegetarian I was. I didn't want to eat meat so I didn't. There were plenty of options so I took them. Later on when I married a mid westerner who was coming down with a severe case of alcoholism I found myself in Iowa where I almost met my third deer. Lou was a hunter, and proud of his skills. He reminisced frequently about his teenage years when he had hunted often with his best friend Dave on the family's farm. I kept telling him to go, asking him if that wasn't the very reason we moved back to the Midwest? I knew Dave lived on that same farm running it as his own. One afternoon Lou came back filthy drunk. He was smiling like a ghoul. My jeep was covered with mud. “I got a deer,” he said proudly. “Where is it?” I asked, not really believing him capable of standing up straight long enough to aim at anything on the move. I looked in the garage, and around the back of the house. I even looked inside the jeep fearing the worst. Lou just stood there glassy-eyed, wavering. “It's still out there,” he managed. “What in the hell do you mean Lou?” “I haven't gotten it down yet. I'm going back,” he said. “Why?” I asked. Lou didn't really have any idea of what to say. “Where is it?” I asked. “Dave's acreage,” he said. “It's fine,” he said. “Why would you do that?” I asked but it was like asking a one year old why he peed his pants. He never went to get that deer. I sometimes think of it hanging there in the trees waiting to be spent in some reasonable way. I picture the deer sighing as I sigh, wishing that Lou would behave as a reasonable person. We are both still waiting. It's only Lou who's moved on.
