Photo by Alexander Sinn on Unsplash
I was jolted awake by a collision that echoed like a hard paddle slamming a bloated stomach, followed by the scream of brakes. I sat up abruptly and smacked my head on a tree limb. The spruce needles stuck my eye as I saw the doe carcass flying from the highway and landing with a resounding grunt then skid scratchily across the gravel of the roadside rest area. The driver of the pick-up rolled into the area, the wheels crunching the gravel and climbed out tentatively. A small man in a gray stocking cap and blue MICHIGAN sweatshirt walked slowly up to the carcass and squatted down. Looking up and down the empty highway, he finally reached into his pocket and produced a phone before he stood up over the motionless animal. He took a series of photos of it and the crumbled bumper then clicked the skid marks of the crash out on the highway. He stood a moment under the light going over his steps, then shrugged and snapped his fingers while walking to his truck. He reached in and grabbed something which he tossed into the garbage can. Nodding while he climbed up into the truck. and rolled back onto the highway. I turned and watched as rolled back onto the highway. His taillights disappear around the bend up the road.
How I wished I had a truck to haul the deer to a butcher. Burrowing deep into my sleeping bag I was able to fall back asleep and dream of the rich taste of the venison – sweetened by the acorns and herbs the deer had ingested during its life.
In my dreams I argued with myself – on which side of the altercation I stood.
Two enormous crows dropped from the pale sky, their shadows washing across the gravel like fighter-bombers. Swift as the descent was, their landing was astonishingly graceful into the fresh deer carcass, with wings spread wide and flapping carefully. Their haunting cries from the trees had been an exuberant scratch upon the tranquil roadside scene, stirring me awake in my warm sleeping bag. Dome-like heads jabbed the air like prize fighters, before diving into the glowing red wound with wide-open beaks, ripping the flesh with powerful tugs.
Couldn’t recall a finer specimen of road-kill. Gut aching and growling, my last satisfying meal was a distant memory somewhere along the back country roads in south Michigan; garbage picked from a dumpster in an alley behind a local fast food establishment in the early morning hours where I was well hidden in the darkness from prying eyes. It was the day after the garbage truck flipped two days of garbage into their grinders. I stood in fresh garbage, always breathing through my mouth to avoid the strong sour stench, able to kick the shallow level of trash to the side so I could squat without dirtying myself. Not only were the offerings fresh, but some were still warm; more discarded surplus hamburgers and French fries than uneaten leftovers from customers. Sitting on my haunches, I munched away without any opposition from rats, who had been picked up by the garbage truck. For the last few days I’d maintained myself with that lovely memory It was the perfect meal – no rats, no cops chasing me off .(Come on, officer – garbage is garbage and no one cares but maybe the rats who don’t take kindly to a big dude taking claim to what they felt was rightfully theirs.)
I bowed in deference and felicitation to the vigorous, squawking crows, obviously well fed because their palates were less picky than mine.
Stretching my legs which were tight and tingling from spending the night curled and cramped. My faded jeans had a new ragged rip scarring the left knee, dusty and stiff with two week old road grunge. My body odor was familiar by now and wasn’t an issue until some unsuspecting stranger stopped to offer a ride. Declining automobile rides became easier than feeling self-conscious and making the driver regret his decision to lend a hand. I always muttered a thanks and, “Not quite fit for company in a closed arena.” Pick-up trucks became the target, where I could stretch out on the bed and let the air rush over me sweeping the stench downwind. The carcass smelled better than I did.
Running my tongue across coated teeth did little to diminish the taste and grit of roadside dust. My shadow reached across the ditch and into the long weeds that bordered a green forest glittering with dew. After pissing a pitiful puddle, I swallowed thirstily and surveyed the area for water. I hadn’t planned on taking so long getting north, but hit a traffic dry spell.
The last ride was in Indiana and he let me lay in the back of his pickup as was my hope, then proceeded to slam his truck up over a hundred, the whole time screaming at the top of his lungs in between gulps from a quart of Old Milwaukee beer. Upon climbing out of his truck as he stopped to turn onto a dirt road, I said nothing. Despite our physical size difference he had the power of the truck. Memories like those had to be erased; otherwise I would never get in another vehicle.
Because of the delay in my trip my pocket change ran out a few days before.
I laughed out loud at the ravenous crows just as one tore a long string of meat from the carcass. Wings flapping madly, lifting off in panic, it dropped the meat to the ground.
I shuffled over curiously and picked it up, wiping the dust off by dragging it across my jeans, then searched for maggots. I doubted they’d taken up residence so soon, but it pays to be careful. After passing inspection, I almost bit into it, imagining ripping a piece off with a well-timed combination of clenched teeth and quick yank of my arm, mimicking the crows. It replayed in my mind more than once. I held it an inch from my lips. The scent was sour but instead of turning my stomach, it brought a series of echoes. I knew the risk of Hepatitis E when digesting raw venison but I was awfully close. “Nothing’s fuckin’ easy.”
One of the crows screamed at me from a nearby limb, its anger evident before it dove like a bullet through the air.
I ducked just in time, feeling the rush of its body across my head. I chuckled above the carcass as I dropped the piece back into it. “You can have it. A reward for slapping some sense into me.”
Struggling to muster enough saliva to swallow in hopes of settling the stomach cramps I grabbed the ragged backpack that held all my belongings. I double-checked its contents to make sure everything was there. Just a habit. Inside was a plastic grocery bag holding a blue knit shirt, a pair of khakis folded carefully on top of a scuffed pair of Bass loafers, a pair of white jockey shorts and tan socks, a Ziploc baggy, holding a travel-size cylinder of shaving cream, a blue Bic disposable razor and a plastic container which held a small tube of Crest and a toothbrush. This was my civilization uniform, which, when donned, allowed me to apply for jobs or mingle in restaurants or bars when I had money. I used public laundromats as soon as I got paid. Bathing in lakes or at truck stops was also part of my routine.
It was ten miles to the next town. This was my regular migration north and I was familiar with the alley behind Burton Diner. If there were no rides I would arrive in the dead of night so I could fish through the dumpster without interference. Veteran’s Park of Sawyer offered a smattering of trees, beneath which I could sleep incognito until dawn.
Still a hundred and fifty miles to Wood’s Farm, where blueberries would soon be ready for picking. It provided a bunkhouse and offered a minimum wage to pickers. Then I would head a few miles south and pick apples for a month before heading to Florida for the winter. A picking career. It was a way to subsist after being laid off from a factory job to begin with. Now too many years to be described a job. Seems I picked it as a career or it picked me. Routine drives familiarity, which allows one to ignore the passing of time. Even if I wanted a change no one could accept me after this amount of time on the road. They expect home addresses and resumes. My next task was to find something to eat – some breakfast to sustain my trip to the next town. A life on the road reduces long term planning. Minute by minute becomes a mantra.
The trash can at the far end of the roadside area held the driver’s bag. It was my best chance for food. The familiar red slash with a wide yellow swoop on tan paper stared hopefully out through the metal straps of the basket. My mouth imagined the saltiness of fries first and foremost. The smashed bag was bugless, another positive. Unfolding the top of the crunched bag I found the remains of a Happy Meal – a full chicken nugget and an empty bag of fries from which I quickly licked all the salt and then savored slow miniscule bites of the ice cold nugget. I wondered if the driver had a child in his truck.
Finished with the nugget, I slung my rolled up sleeping bag over my shoulder and stepped onto the desolate two lane highway. The faded blacktop was a whimper of civilization in the natural world. My stomach purred like a cat being stroked. I was an invisible tenant struggling to survive on one of the many well-traveled roadways that I shared with a smattering of animals and people.
The argument I was having in my dream came back to me. More shiny black crows had appeared, coordinating their beak dives into the carcass in a well-orchestrated dance routine. They were willing to spread the wealth.
The early morning sun reflected off the crumbling road. I caught a glimpse of a pair of deer chewing the edge of a cornfield. The longer I wandered the roads, the more difficult it was for me to distinguish differences between people who gave me rides and the animals with which I shared the topography. Maybe that was the way it was meant to be.
The rumble of a truck came from behind me. I turned and caught the truck from the last night heading my way. He waved at me as he slowed and turned around in the rest area. Pausing as he stared at the deer. The crows ignored him. Then he pulled out and rolled toward me.
“I thought I saw someone in the trees,” he smiled through the open passenger side window.
“Great eye sight.”
“I’m heading for Sawyer. Hop in.”
“To save your nose, I’ll climb into the back,” I explained as I tossed my sleeping bag into the bed.
“Suit yourself.”
“Thanks,” I called as we pulled off.
Sometimes surprises happen. Sometimes they don’t.
After receiving his B.A. in English from Colorado State University, C.W. Bigelow lived in nine northern states, both east and west, before moving south to the Charlotte NC area . His short stories and poems have appeared in Full of Crow, The Flexible Persona, Literally Stories, Compass Magazine, FishFood Magazine, Five2One, Crack the Spine, Sick Lit Magazine, Brief Wilderness, Anthology: River Tales by Zimbell House Publishing, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Midway Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Temptation Press Anthology - Private Lessons, Poydras Review, Cleaning Up Glitter, The Blue Mountain Review with a poem forthcoming in Glassworks.