Young Buck
A Short and Sad True Story
The digits lurch to the surface like the omniscient telling’s of a magic eight ball; they teeter somewhere between 3.5 and 3.7 before finally landing on 3.5. The scale’s depleting battery make for an annoying lull when punctuality is already not my strong suit. My agitation is further distressed by the incessant crinkling of the Ziploc bag as I prepare to fill it with today’s work. Soon, my nerves are tempered by the pungent bouquet that seductively trails itself along, dancing its way into my nose. Scents of orange, pine and hops waft from the bag as I lacquer the self-sealing bag with saliva, for closure.
Time to go.
The moonroof opens slowly with its robotic, mechanized sound. I shove the bag into a comfortable wedge between the car’s roof and the moonroof’s window. It is Sunday. As with every Sunday, I play my usual musical selection of Oldies: The Temptations, The Elgins, Mary Wells, just to name a few. No matter the mood you start with, Oldies can transport you away to some past lover or deep into the tender valleys of your own heart. I both love and hate that about them, but it is my Sunday ritual.
In the heart of Hollywood, Petra, Felix and Anton are patiently awaiting my twice-weekly visit. The beastly hangovers must be cured, and I must get paid. Nicknamed, “Ze Germans,” because they are, well, in fact German. They just moved to LA a year ago. I remember being outraged that they preferred to mix with tobacco. What a travesty. Soon enough, I would try it and like it, a lot.
What? Sometimes, I’m both hypocritical and open-minded. And?
Petra is literal royalty in Germany, but she thankfully doesn’t act it. She has an overbite and sometimes when she is deep in thought, she sinks those forward baring teeth just beyond her bottom lip. I notice it. Often. I want to push her teeth back in. She is delightful, fun and as ideal a customer as any humble heiress would be. The boys, Felix and Anton, are under her sisterly-like care as they are even newer to the transient city of LA.
I chose the scenic route on this splendid Sunday trip that I am already thirty minutes late for. Mount Olympus. God-like in its architecture and its elevation. It not only proved to be picturesque and calming, but a bona fide shortcut through the canyon. And what “self-employed” delivery driver doesn’t appreciate a good alternate route?
I take the sharp right onto Mt. Olympus Dr. It is approximately an hour before sunset and the sun is gleaming into my eyes. I push the sun visor down aggressively, pissed that I once again forgot my sunglasses that my optometrist admonished me for not being better about. This whole light-eyes thing is a sham, I think.
As I ascend the mountain of the shortcut Gods, I spot a majestic young buck. It was so odd to see him on the sidewalk. Nature mixing with modern human terrain always gives me a twinge of shame in my own humanness. The greed and over-commercialism of my species.
Everything slows. Each tread on my tire seemed to lick the ground, causing it to stick and move slowly. Suspension. The buck’s eyes widen with alarm and confusion as I slowly rotate my head in his direction, in fascination of his beauty and this encounter. Struck with a hypnotizing paralysis, I had no inkling of his next maneuver. Suddenly and swiftly, he turns his head to the left, away from me and my car, and catapults his entire body over an iron gate just next to him. It stood about 4-5ft high. The gate was black and shiny as fresh, slick oil. Ornate, sharply pointed post caps sit atop the posts of the gate.
I lose all rationale and briskly pull my car over. I throw the car in park and never bother to turn my wheels in the advised direction to avoid rolling down the hill. A fall from grace. As I reach the terrified animal, I see that he is still alive. It is a horrifying sight. He is suspended in the air. His arms and legs, dangle helplessly. The deer is saved by the concave curvature of his wide hips. The hollow crevice of his right hip is somehow sheltering this pointed post cap from piercing his hide.
I am 5’4”, 120lbs. I am a big, strong woman. . . on the inside. My first inclination is to help this glorious creature. I wrapped my thin, piano fingers around his ankles and attempted to hoist him over the gate.
The sun is beginning to set. My hands are dank and dampened with musk. I am not alone. A sweet young father and his little girls pulled over to help. I called the humanes society, but it’s been three hours and no sign of them.
The deer’s body becomes limp with defeat. He is tired. Scared. Confused. A trail of saliva trails, snail-like from his open mouth. Slowly, he slides onto the iron gate. Impaled. Gone.
I collapsed into the driver’s seat, my hands still thickly coated from the deer’s hide. Petra awaits. I have a job to complete. As I circle the steering wheel to get back on the road, I contemplate the circle of life. I ask myself, “How was this a part of a cycle of nature?”
