Beginning: Place 2

It’s late afternoon at the game preserve. There are several groups of people here this time, mostly families with children throwing bread to the ducks. The wildlife is excited; the honking and quacking drowns out the sound of traffic in the distance. The sky is a cotton candy blue and this time I’ve brought you with me.

I’m sitting on a wooden bench chained to what looks like an oak tree (I’ll try to verify that with my field guide when I’m finished) and I’m watching you throw a piece of bread to the ducks. Your mom and I forgot to bring any with us so when the couple next to you offered a slice, you tried to eat it. Luckily, mom was paying attention. She’s showing you how to tear off a piece and toss it to the hungry birds. The first shot you take leaves your hand early like an errantly gripped curve ball and the small wad of bread lands on top of your head, bounces to the sidewalk. I laugh out loud and people look at me like I’m some kind of creepy thirty year old guy on a bench in a park, out of place…which I suppose I am.

There are a few large black ants making their way up the bench. I take the quasi- Oates approach, but instead of squashing them I flick them far enough away that they can’t crawl up my pant legs. While I’m flicking away, the mallards, there might be fifty or so, start honking like a city traffic jam and about a dozen take off from the bank that slopes upward toward the forest, and dive swiftly into the pond. It’s a concert of a thing, there’s communication going on and I wonder if anyone else is listening. I stop writing to take a look around and I realize there is. Just up the grassy hillside at the edge of the treeline is a bobbing white object, a tail. In a few short moments I can see at least two brown bodies, enough to prompt further investigation. I hop off the bench, leave the ants to their tiny blitzkrieg and begin to climb the hill. About half way to the trees I can make out four deer. One is a buck, looks to be a four point as far as I can tell. The rest are doe. I try to take a few pictures with my cell phone but the distance is too great and it’s difficult to see them. Next time I’ll bring a camera. I slowly reach the treeline and I can tell they know I am here. The buck looks at me wearily, sizing me up, trying to decide if I am a threat. They move cautiously as I do. I am trying not to scare them. They are trying not to be killed.

I want to bring you with me, show you the deer, but you’re off exploring other parts of the preserve so I watch them with as much awe as I can muster, pretending that I am like you, a child again, pretending that they are new, that I haven’t driven into one on a foggy night near a farm in Venango County crushing it’s pelvis and the passenger side fender of my friend’s Honda Prelude. I am pretending that I felt more remorse for the animal than the car. I am pretending that they are innocent and that I did not derive any pleasure from pulling the trigger of my 30-30 Winchester rifle, firing a bullet through its forehead to stop the wailing – its legs already crippled. I am pretending that I didn’t feel like a man when I began sawing its stomach free with an 8 inch blade and that I didn't feel strong when I dragged it several miles through the woods leaving a trail of burgundy and fur behind. I am pretending that there is more to the relationship I have created with them, that there is something deep within the events that have shaped it. I am pretending to understand Joyce Carol Oates and Henry David Thoreau. I am pretending that understanding this matters, and I am beginning to believe that it does.