Intro

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Welcome to the full time of day. It's just so glad that you could join us. Sit down, relax, and enjoy.

Deer Xing

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Deer Crossing By Cliff Aliperti Alex, you seen the deer? Webb called. He was in his driveway, mostly tucked behind the old Ford F one fifty, a hand me down from his father, and leaning over to grab a cigarette from the little Nissan beater he used for his daily commute to the garage. Deer? I asked. No. You been hunting upstate? Nah, season doesn't start for months yet. I mean the deer in the sump. The sump was the fenced in overgrown area directly across the street from our neighboring houses. When Connie and I first moved in thirty two years ago, it was Webb who had directed me to toss tree cuttings and dead bushes down there deep among the existing foliage. Never actually saw any water collected at its pit, so always been kind of surprised slash relieved the town never cleared it out to build more houses. We have some deer pass through? I asked, edging my way closer to Webb from my front lawn. I was exhausted. Just wanted to get back to my couch after running out the trash, but Webb had me curious, even if I didn't quite believe him. Pass through, Webb answered. Nah. There's a family of em living in the sump. They're down there right now. Imagine that, I said, stroking my chin and imagining. I couldn't. Bull, I said, though not enough bull to keep me from joining Webb in his driveway, engaged and craving further info. Deer sightings had grown, but remained infrequent. More common further east on the island, but not so much here, forty miles outside Manhattan. Rabbits and grey squirrels were our suburban wildlife, with less reputable raccoons and possum taking over the night shift. An owl settled high in the tallest trees of the sump about three summers ago, and was considered exotic. Deer were rarely spotted near the more wooded areas tucked around town. Last night seen effortlessly scaled a tall fence, but our sump had rusted barbed wire stretched over top of its chain link sections to keep out deer, kids, and even us. There's a break in the fence down the other side, Webb said, presumably reading my mind. Besides, the babes can just squeeze out between the gates right here. He pointed directly across the road at the big gates, a fat chain that the town had padlocked years ago, putting the kibosh on any yard waste disposals too heavy for us to hoist over top. An old Buick crawled towards us, giving three quick taps of its horn as it stopped alongside us. Marvin Donald leaned over to manually roll down the passenger side window. You boys see the deer? Old Man Donald asked. He had been old man Donald for as long as I had lived here. Hell, he was probably only my current age back when I first moved in. The old man part certainly wasn't a stretch these days, though his use of boys had curdled well past expiration. Just talkin' about it, Webb said. Old family. A buck of doe and at least three Vaughn. Rascals raised hell in my garden overnight, old man Donald said. Trampled wifey's rose bushes, too. Neither of us replied. Gonna have to go, old man Donald said. I imagined him scrunching his face and shaking his fist, but that was just the physical toil it took for him to lean over and roll up his window before driving away. Old bastard, Webb said. I feigned a hunting pose, pretending to aim a rifle at Webb and asked, You gonna bag some on the sly? Do old Marvin the service? Poor form in that pose, Webb said. I dropped my hands and nodded. Webb's family had a cabin upstate where they went hunting every fall. Never really my thing. I grew up keeping hamsters and mice as pets, every death a household tragedy. My mother took me to see Bambi in the theater when they re released it. I cried, of course. The whole theater did, or so it seemed. So while the camaraderie of a shared bottle was tempting, I'd never tagged along to tote a rifle. Connie held some sway there too. First time I mentioned the possibility decades back, she reminded me of when Webb had strung up the carcass of an eight point buck by its hind legs from a tree in his backyard. Our dog went berserk one morning coming upon that horror show. Connie asked me to talk to Webb, and the following year he strung up his kill inside his garage. Something about rigor mortis and getting the meat just so, as Webb had put it. I was never sure if the switch to the garage was an actual concession on Webb's part, or whether old Buddy had just woke him up way too early those couple mornings before I found the chance to speak to him. Honestly, that dangling corpse probably got to me just as much as it did Buddy, so in reality, I'd pretty much washed my hands of ever going from the start. Though I still hypocritically enjoyed venison meatloaf next door every Thanksgiving weekend. Just so indeed. Negative on the hunting, Webb said, flicking his cigarette to the street. I still like shooting, but not the killing so much anymore. Especially now. Why's that? I asked, puzzled and a little surprised. Those deer down the sump. They might poke out some during the day, but they roam at night. I tell you, Alex, they come right up to my car if it's quiet enough out here. They're not afraid? I don't give them anything to be afraid of, Webb said, suddenly all Zen like. All right. Head it in now. Well, I'll keep an eye out, I said. I did. Obsessively. I asked Connie if she'd seen any deer, but she hadn't. I was disappointed by her general lack of interest. I asked her to keep her own eye out. Didn't take my eye long. At Nature's nightly three AM call, I noticed light piercing the tiny window on my front door, so I approached intending to see who'd set off the sensor outside of Webb's place. Figured it'd most likely be Webb grabbing his first smoke of the early morning, but I always made sure there wasn't somebody out there up to no good. Probably my bladder distracting, but at that moment, Deer hadn't crossed my mind. Until I stood on my tiptoes and peeked out the front door window. There he was. The buck, big antlers already. Stood tall as a dinosaur on the patch of front lawn between mine and Webb's houses. His thickly muscled neck jerked up and we seemed to make eye contact the moment my own gaze came into focus. I was as frozen as he was. Friggin' beautiful. With suburban sights such as Webb's truck in the background, and the fire hydrant just off the road. The appearance of this alien creature was truly surreal. I kept still and held my stare, and after a time that surely wasn't as long as it felt in the moment, he surprised me. Instead of running off, the buck just lowered his head and resumed chomping at my lawn. Guess it was due for a mow. I would have stood there forever. Seriously, I felt like I was at the zoo, and some wild animal from a distant land had bewitched me just by existing in my presence. But I was past fifty and really had to go, so I lost this particular game of chicken. Of course, I stopped by the front door on my way back, but the buck was already gone. Webb's sensor light was off. I crept to our front window in the den and peered between a couple slats in the blinds. There he was, crossing the road under the big white L C D street light glow. He turned his head back and I don't know how, but the big fella met my eyes again. This was enough for him to sprint away, down the side road, presumably to find one of those openings in the fence leading back down the sump. Good thing he had gone because I wasn't going anywhere until he had, not once I was free of distraction. I returned to bed, but I couldn't get back to sleep. Saw a deer out there, I mumbled to Connie, who rolled away from me and groaned. The big buck, I added, awestruck. And then I lie there, awake for the next three hours, terrified by hyped up visions of roadkill. Truly awful stuff. Not the more familiar raccoon splatters, but deer parts and car parts and driver parts, heaps of them. I convinced myself that someone needed to call the town to have them plant some of those deer crossing signs in the neighborhood. I couldn't imagine this ending well. I grew used to the deer being around over the next few nights. By the third or fourth sighting, they weren't even a novelty anymore, just a part of the local nature, like the rabbits and squirrels, though the deer didn't have to graze so nervously under our owl's shadow. My favorite view, one that felt like it broke my reality, was that majestic buck standing right there, just behind the chained gates of the sump, staring across the street at us. Forget my zoo memories. It was as awe inspiring as something like that grainy black and white snapshot of the Tasmanian tiger from way back. It just shouldn't be. It wasn't until the following weekend that I spotted Webb outside again at a convenient hour. I popped out to see what was going on with him. Getting used to the deer, I mentioned. I love 'em, he said, beaming a little too bright. They come out late at night when I'm out here in the total quiet. Come right up to me. I pet one the other night. Well, I said, surprised at how much the old web had been tamed. The deer too. I'm worried about them, I said. Worried? Yeah. Cars race down this block, well, except for old man Donald. I keep imagining a terrible accident happening overnight. That guy, Webb said, his expression turning hateful. Old man Donald called the cops on him. On who? Someone speeding through? No, he called about the deer. Webb lit a cigarette with a flourish of irritation. He says the town is coming for them. I told him I told him, you mess with them deer, old man, there'll be hell to pay. I dunno, Webb. Uh the deer are great and all, but I'm not sure they're worth a neighborhood war. Whatever. Uh you know, I've I've been here nearly forty years. Forty years before something interesting happens. Something I dunno p nice I get ya, pal. Oh well, it'll all work out for the best, I said, not adding that I hoped the best was better than my nightmares. Webb glared at me. And then I stopped seeing any deer. After a few days, I'm ashamed to say the novelty faded, and I began to forget them. Then one night, just after 2 AM, I was awakened by a loud car backfire. As I lay in bed, it occurred to me what I heard had been too loud for any car backfire. I got up and went to my front door where I noticed Webb's sensor light was on. I didn't see any activity that might have triggered it, but then I realized there was a good deal of light shining from the inside of Webb's garage. Something was up. I grabbed my slippers and flipped on my own porch light as Webb's had since dimmed. Outside the night was very quiet, allowing the cricket chirps to boom and the low distant cry of the owl to settle over my chest. At the very moment I triggered Webb's sensor light, I slipped in his driveway, catching the hood of the F one hundred fifty to keep myself from falling. I looked down and saw some sort of thick liquid pooled beneath me. I thought motor oil, knowing Webb often tinkered with his dad's old Ford, but I dabbed two fingers into the dark puddle and it didn't smell like oil. I knew it was blood. I heard a chain clinking from Webb's garage and heard somebody grunting as if struggling, presumably with the chain. Just before the interior of Webb's garage came into my view, I had another one of my terrible thoughts. What if Webb had old man Donald's ankles chained together and the octagenarian hung upside down from Webb's garage rafters, the rest of his blood draining to the floor below. Rigor mortis, Webb would say. Gotta get him just so I took a deep breath. Webb I called before I entered. Webb, what have you done? It wasn't old man Donald. It was that big, beautiful buck that had entranced us over the past few weeks. Webb, what have you done? I repeated, this time my voice cracking. I saw the police come and cut the bolt on the gates, he said, giving one more yank before strapping his end of the chain to a heavy duty hook at his workbench. They hustled all the deer out. They didn't take them anywhere, just tossled them away down the street. So what happened now? I asked. This fella. He came back to say goodbye to me, Webb said. A tear leaked from Webb, rolled down his cheek like he was standing along a littered seventies highway. It was a first far as I knew, Webb having never seen Bambi, I imagined. I just couldn't let him go, Webb cried.

Outro

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Cliff Aliperti is from Long Island, New York. His fiction has appeared in After Dinner Conversation, The Razor, fiction on the web, new to Bruce Review, and he has stories forthcoming in Stanshin and the Bookends Review. Previously, Cliff ran the classic movie website Immortal Ephemera. You can find more about Cliff at Cliffaliperti.com. He's also on Blue Sky and Twitter, or X, at iEphemera. Buffer Off Frequencies is a production of Humdrum Industries. Artwork by Tony Trent. Music by Lashman. Audio narration and editing by me, Riley Trocbapio.