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.