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Caught in the Headlights

CAUGHT IN HEADLIGHTS

A short story

By Jerry Bisantz

It was a hot day.  OK, what a way to start a story, eh? “It was a hot day?”  So mundane, so cliché, but, holy God, was it ever a hot day! It’s 1975 and I am driving my 1968 blue Ford Fairlane past Geneva, NY, in the Finger Lakes region, on my way to Watkins Glen, NY to see the love of my life, Anita.

A bit of a background check here. I am (at that time) a 21-year-old optician from Buffalo, NY, currently working at an optical firm in Rochester, NY, quite possibly the most boring city east of the Mississippi. I had met Anita at a Halloween party at a beer drenched, sweat filled pub called The Masthead when she was dressed as a doll.  Well, my heart went thump -thump -thump, and before we knew it, we were thump- thump – thumping at her apartment near Buffalo State University.

No one, I mean no one looked better in cutoff jeans than Anita, and I certainly worked very hard to remove those cutoff jeans when I courted her. A contagious smile, an incredibly vibrant personality, she was totally wrong for me in so many ways, because we were always vying for attention, me being a starry-eyed young actor who was getting lead roles in local plays and musicals in the Rochester area. And she… well, she was “Anita,” always on and always competing. But, by God, was I hooked.

We had spent a wonderful weekend three weeks before said “hot day,” that was pure bliss. If you do not know Watkins Glen, NY, let me tell you this; it’s a Natural Wonder of the World. Deep ravines with a rushing river, moss covered boulders, waterfalls everywhere. We had found our own private waterfall, stripped naked, let the water rush over us as we kissed. I mean, it was so romantic I feel embarrassed to tell you about it, but, hey, it happened, and it was dreamlike.

With visions of waterfalls and Anita’s wonderful derriere running through my head, loud rock and roll playing on my car radio, I was unaware of what was to come.

From the left side of my car, a stag deer attempted to leap over my vehicle. It crashed into my windshield. At 60 miles an hour, the poor deer flipped over my car, the windshield caved in on me, and I came to a screeching halt right at the lip of a deep ravine.

Shaken, I sat for ten seconds, checking to see if I was still alive. Picking glass out of my hair, I pushed the windshield away from my face and got out of my car. The sight I saw next is engrained in my mind for the rest of my life. The deer attempted to stand up. Blood, the deepest red I had ever seen, was gushing out of its side, pumping out with each beat of its heart. “Die!”  I screamed.  “Please, just die!” It was truly horrific.  The deer took two steps, bleated a sad and heartbreaking moan and crashed to the ground. Dead.

I killed this magnificent beast. Murdered by a 1968 piece of crap Ford Fairlane. Now, an undriveable 1968 Ford Fairlane.  I looked up and down the shimmering highway. No cars were coming by. The crickets didn’t seem to care at all for my predicament, just another day on the roadways of America. Finally, a small, rust covered truck slowed down. The driver, a man in his 50’s  with a long beard and yellow teeth, proceeded to roll down his window. Thank God! He can drive me to the nearest gas station, I can get the car towed, call Anita and tell her my plight, Hell, I was only 15 miles from her.

“Ya gonna keep the deer?”

Huh? What did he say?

“I said, are ya gonna keep the deer?”

Oh, OK, he’s asking about my murder victim. “Uh… no.”

The door immediately swung open. A spry young man on the passenger’s side leapt out of the car. The man (the father?) and the boy quickly walked to my victim.  “Yep, she’s a big one, alright. Sure ya don’t want it?”

“No, I don’t want the deer, but I would like…”

The father rushed to the truck, not even listening to me. He pulled the vehicle next to the deer. He and his son hauled the deer into the back of the truck. He tipped his baseball cap, said “thank you.”

And drove away.

He drove away. The son of a bitch drove away! This is 1975, my friend.  No cell phone. 95 goddamn degrees. All that was left was a smear of blood 5 yards away from me., a trashed car, and miles of highway. What to do?

What else can I do? I stuck my thumb out.

Twenty minutes later a kind man picked me up, gave me a ride in the opposite direction of Anita’s house and brought me to a gas station. I explained my predicament to the man at the station, gave him my credit card (yes, I was a real workin’  man in those days) and was assured that they would tow the car to a body shop, gave me a card for said  shop and let me know that I probably couldn’t retrieve my ride for at least a week. I asked him if I could make a phone call.  He led me into his office (no A/C!) and I dialed Anita’s number.

She picked up on the fifth ring. “Hello, Anita! I’m sorry I’m late, I got a real problem here.”

“What problem?”

“I hit a deer and my car is a mess. I need a ride. I’m about 20 miles from you. Along Seneca Lake. Can you pick me up?”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

“Anita, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“OK, great, so, can you come and get me? I’m really screwed out here without my wheels.”

Another pause.

“Umm… ya see, Jerry, I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but I’m seeing someone else.”

Huh??”

“Remember that actor we met three weeks ago at that summer stock theater?”

“The fat guy with the bushy mustache?”

“He’s not fat!  Yeah, Glen. I’ve been seeing him for the last two weeks.”

“Glen? The guy who totally sucked?  Who blew his lines right and left?”

“He didn’t blow his lines.”

“Uh… yeah he did. So, lemme get this straight. You’re seeing him?”

“For the last two weeks.  I’m sorry, it just kinda happened.”

“I can’t believe you are doing this. Right now. at this moment. I’m stuck out here.”

“Jerry, knowing you, you will get out of this mess in no time. This wasn’t easy for me, ya know, telling you this, but I …”

I slammed the phone, cursed as loudly as I had ever cursed in my life.

The gas station owner came in. “Hey! Easy on the language!”

I apologized.  What could I do? I was 50 miles from home, about 100 miles from Buffalo, where I really wanted to go at that point. I asked the station owner if there was a bus that came around.  He shook his head. I noticed a huge picture of Jesus and the bleeding heart on his back wall and quickly realized that my curses did not go over well.

What to do? OK, “Mr. Kerouac,” time to hit the road.

I walked out onto the steaming highway after buying a cold bottle of Pepsi from an ancient machine and stuck my thumb out. What the hell? I had the whole weekend. If I had to sleep in some field, who cares?

Car after car passed me by.  The sun was at its highest point. Had to be around 1:00 and the sweat was pouring in beads down my back on its journey to the crack of my butt. I’m from Buffalo, fer cryin out loud! I’m a cold weather guy.  This was torture, pure torture.

After about an hour of frustration a van came into view.  Loud music was blasting away. It passed me, and then, as if having second thoughts, came to a screeching halt. Great! He’s gonna play that game on me! I run up, he takes off, laughing at my misfortune.

He didn’t. He actually stopped.

The passenger side window rolled down.  The driver, wearing a bandana and carrying a beer in his right hand, shouted out to me. The pungent odor of marijuana lofted into the air.

“Dude! Where ya headed?”

I couldn’t believe my luck.  Maybe I could at least get to the Thruway!

“West! As far as you can get me.  I’m headed to Buffalo. My car hit a deer and I have no ride.”

“Buffalo? WE’RE going to Buffalo.  To the “Dead” concert! Hop right in!”

The side panel slid open. Three young ladies were sitting on cushions, passing a joint back and forth. I climbed in.

The young ladies were from Cornell, and they were very animated, very nice. One of them kindly offered a hit from the joint and we were on our way, music from the tape deck blaring Led Zeppelin and The Grateful Dead.

Not only did they take me to Buffalo, but they also dropped me off right in front of my house on Homer Avenue, my childhood home, where for some strange reason I felt obliged to nurse my wounded heart.

I never called Anita again.

A year later, I held a Halloween party at my apartment in Rochester. Into my house traipses Anita, with two of my Buffalo buddies. I couldn’t believe she had the nerve to walk into my life one more time, but she did.

Once burned, I hadn’t learned, apparently.  We dated on and off again for about six months and then I decided to move to Boston and say goodbye forever.

The last time I ever saw her was for a lunch date in New York City. I said goodbye to her by the mouth of a subway stop.  She wanted to start up again with me, and I said, “no way.”

A month later her grandfather died and left her over a million dollars. Go figure! She moved to London, bought two apartment buildings, became a professional landlord and dated many a man, judging from the postcards she kept sending me.

After not hearing from her for over twenty years she found me on the internet, informing me that she was going to see a short film that I had made that was showing in a festival in Cambridge, UK. Now, we keep in touch from time to time.

Life is funny. You never know what it has in store for you. I guess you just have to hang on tight, because the ride might take you anywhere…. a Grateful Dead concert, a searing blacktop highway, a Halloween party, or , for me, a happy home, and a great family.

So, remember: keep your eyes open.

There just might be a deer lurking about.

Reflections on the Water

Reflections on the Water

By Leo Racicot

When I was a kid, I thought every city had as many canals as my hometown, Lowell, did. Canals seemed to be everywhere, crisscrossing the majority of the city; in summertime, brief, cooling interludes between long stretches of hot pavement. I didn’t think this was odd because, well, canals were part of the town. It never occurred to me that most places didn’t have waterways practically everywhere you walked. No wonder Lowell earned the nickname The Venice of America. Of course, originally, canals, whether in Lowell, Venice or Amsterdam were sewers, depositories for a city’s waste. A friend who visited Venice recently was appalled by the stench wafting off Venice’s waterways as he and his wife’s gondola made its way along The Grand Canal. “P. U. That city smells!” They never expected one of the world’s most popular travel destinations to smell like the farm.

I can’t say I never smelled anything foul about Lowelll’s canals. But I accepted them and their stench as part of my city, Stinky or not, I found there was something romantic about canals. The sight of them brings a welcome calm to the urban noises surrounding you. The gentle edges of them lap against moss-covered stones, almost hypnotically. When out on walks with Buddy, he liked to pause to gaze into the depths of the canal that runs through Ecumenical Plaza between Saint Patrick’s and Holy Trinity Churches, watch for the occasional fish head popping up through the green surface, watch the flock of ducks swimming by. I loved these moments with Buddy for — he was walking me, not the other way around and was my guide. I loved the interesting places he’d take me. At the canal, we would linger in peace. The seamless teal of canals gave a lightsome lift to the red brick heaviness of the old mill city, a heaviness I find melancholy on rain-heavy days. The relaxation properties of canals are many: the controlled water flow, the ways in which the mere sight of them can improve mood, outlook. They also offer reflection and respite on long walks, a means of entering a peaceful zone in the brain, what scientists call blue mind. It was a disappointment if you were strolling along only to find the city had drained your favorite canal. Back in the day, Lowell would empty all canals each weekend, this, to inspect them for leaks, fissures, remove unwanted debris (usually grocery store shopping carts people had thrown in them, plastic bottles, plastic bags, dead automobile batteries and car parts). Sadly, a canal would prove irresistible to those wanting to commit suicide. I remember wondering what kind of a place Lowell was, hearing about the number of students who’d fling themselves off the roof of the university’s Fox Hall, overwhelmed by their studies and life, the number of bodies found in city waterways. An acquaintance of mine from the 1970s who went by the nickname, The Cowboy, one whole summer took to saying he was “Done Trying”, despaired of ever coming back to himself. On a lonesome winter Saturday, he threw himself into The Western Canal running between Suffolk and Dutton Streets. My sister, Diane’s, dear classmate and friend, Helena Murgia, purposely drove her car into the dark night waters at an early age. Her body was never found.

I took my Franco American sixth graders on one of Lowell’s popular canal tours. They got a kick out of weaving in and out of the waterways around Dutton Street. Of course, they loved getting wet in spite of the slickers the city provided; in their post-tour theme papers, every single one of them mentioned getting sprayed as their favorite part of the trip. Kids!

I remember a special night when my housemate and friend, Pete Starrett and I on impulse went on a Kerouacian ramble through the rocks and white water falls under ULowell’s University Avenue Bridge. We had no fear of falling as we navigated the slippery stones, delighted in hearing our voices bounce off the rusty iron girders of the tired, creaky old bridge. It was easy to fall a little bit in love with Peter, as everybody who knew him in those days did. He was so open to the adventures to be had, tall stick of dynamite that he was. As with Buddy, I’d follow Pete anywhere, knowing an exciting escapade lay ahead.

These days, whenever I see a flash of water cutting through concrete, in a television travelogue or in a tv show or  movie, my mind rushes back to those mossy depths, the tug of a beloved dog’s leash, the ghosts of a city that taught me where to find a sliver of peace amid the urban grit. The canals are still here, slicing through the old New England town just as they always have, holding the weight of my past in their brackish currents. They remain my hometown’s heartbeat, proof that even unattractive places hold an enduring beauty if only you know where to look.

_______________________

Buddy at Western Canal

Canal boat tour

Canal boats

Canal walk in fall

Joe and Leo alongside Merrimack Canal in 1969

Lowell canals postcard

Merrimack Canal

Peter at Cape Ann in 1992

Seen & Heard: Vol. 45

A weekly report on things I’ve read, heard and seen since last Wednesday. 

Headline: “A Forceful Rebuke: Democrats Sweep Congress, Delivering Blow to Republicans” New York Times, November 5, 2026. This was the front page of the Times two days after the election. (The edition on the day after was out too early to reflect any election results). This front page had two map graphics that used blue and red coloring to depict the shift in Congress. Then there were photos of the seven new Democratic Senators who won seats held by Republicans. Finally, there were four articles with headlines like, “A Signal Trump’s Era is Starting Its Twilight” by Peter Baker; “Vance Cites War – Johnson to Step Back” by Catie Edmondson (who wrote a stellar article about the 2017 fight over the location of Lowell High when she was a summer intern at the Boston Globe); “Seismic Change As Texas Breaks Grasp of GOP”; and a “news analysis” piece by Carl Hulse, “Congress to Dust Off Role as Check on the President.” 

Editorial: “Immigrants, long part of Lynn’s fabric, now feel under siege” Boston Globe, October 26, 2026 – This is another in the Globe’s series on Gateway Cities in Massachusetts. While the focus of the Lowell article a few weeks ago was the renovation of a downtown office building into housing, this Lynn article is all about how the federal government’s immigration policy is disrupting the lives of so many of that city’s residents. It cites many examples of longtime residents who have established businesses, or work regular jobs in support of their spouses and children here in Massachusetts, who have been snatched off the streets and disappeared, leaving their businesses to founder and their families to spiral into crisis. The city is providing what support it can, but it seems that is only marginally effective and often just triages the disaster that has befallen these families. 

Article: “Last-ditch effort to save Flock cameras in Providence” by Steph Machado, Boston Globe, October 31, 2026. There are 60 Flock cameras in Providence, Rhode Island, and the city’s police force say they are critical in solving crimes. However, the incoming mayor and city councilors are intent on ridding the city of the cameras. It seems the conflict in Providence mirrors that in Lowell with the two sides, the police and their political supporters versus those opposed to this data collection, each addressing a different issue. The police and their supporters say the strict policies they have enacted regarding access protects against abuse of the system, whereas others – like me – say that if your data resides on the Flock servers (which it does) or if you share your data with another department (which Lowell and Providence both do), you don’t really control “your data” because all those other points of access create a backdoor into your data. And this is not an abstract concern because the federal government in power now has demonstrated again and again that it will use whatever tools it has to terrorize immigrant communities and political opponents. 

Article: “Kennedy Backs Off Plan to Ban an Opioid: Allowing Some Kratom After Push for Donor” by Christina Jewett, New York Times, November 1, 2026. A couple of years ago a Lowell resident appeared before the City Council and urged the council to ban the sale of kratom in the city. I had never heard of kratom before that, but learned it was an unregulated drug that appeared in large quantities in some energy drinks sold at gas stations and convenience stores. The petitioner was the mother of a young man who had died as a result of ingesting kratom. So this past week when I saw this article on the front page of the Times, it grabbed my attention. The story explains that following the deaths of dozens of people who consumed kratom, the federal government, by Health Secretary Robert Kennedy, decided to ban the sale of kratom. That caused a guy who owns a company that sells a lot of energy drinks that include kratom to donate $3 million to Republican candidates and get a meeting at the White House. A few days later, Kennedy revoked the new rules and the regulation of kratom was short-lived. 

Obituary: “Craig Symonds, 79, Lauded Military Historian Dies” by Sam Roberts, New York Times, October 30, 2026. I confess to being unaware of Professor Symonds and his books. While I’m sorry he passed away, I’m glad I read his obituary. He was an expert on the history of the U.S. Navy and was a longtime history professor at the Naval Academy. He had twin areas of specialization: The U.S. Navy in World War II, and the U.S. Navy in the Civil War. While I’ve read much about WWII, I recognize that I don’t know much about the Navy in the Civil War. The common understanding is that all the important battles took place on land, but strategically, the Navy and its blockade of the southern states, was critical to the defeat of the rebellion. Similarly, seizing the Mississippi River, including capturing New Orleans in 1862, was primarily a Naval action even though Lowell’s own General Ben Butler had much to do with New Orleans, but it was the Navy who handed it to him.

Veterans Day Prayer

VETERANS DAY PRAYER

 By Rocky Provencher (Nov 2023)

Rocky Provencher was born and raised in Lowell. He attended city schools from the Lowell Day Nursery through Lowell Technological Institute (now UMass Lowell). He spent his career working in Lowell’s mills and was a long time Lowell Folk Festival volunteer. He recently shared this prayer which he has recited at recent Veterans Day events.

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On the 11^th hour of the 11^th day of the 11^th month—- Let us pray:

Dear Lord, we pray today for all those who have served in our nation’s armed forces. We thank you for their courage, their sacrifice, and their willingness to put their lives on the line for our freedom.

We pray for those who have returned from war both physically and emotionally wounded. We ask that you please heal their bodies and their minds, and give them the strength to rebuild their lives.

We pray for the families of those who have served, especially those who have lost loved ones. Please comfort them in their grief and give them the courage to carry on.

We pray for those who continue to serve today, both at home and abroad. Please protect them from harm and bring them home safely.

We pray for ourselves to never forget the sacrifices that have been made for our freedom. May we always be grateful for those who have served.

And please, dear God, show us how to build a more just and peaceful world.

Amen.