I twice had a deer hit me. No, really, I was at a complete
stop. Both times. Same car. Deer ran into me.
It started one late night when I decided I was going to take
a shortcut home. I was wondering to myself if I should take said shortcut
because it was dark and that might mean there were deer out on the prowl. The
road was a direct shot to my house so I turned off the highway onto Gunbarrel
Rd. That’s right, I lived on Gunbarrel Rd. and that wasn’t in Texas. Although,
I’m sure they have plenty of roads named after guns, and gun parts.
The stretch of road from the highway to my mother’s house is
4.2 miles. Oh, the trouble you can get into in only 4.2 miles. Like a deer
jetting out in front of you. I see the deer and hit the breaks, coming to a
complete stop only inches from the deer which is standing in front of my car
giving me that deer in headlights look, then BAM. Something hit the side of my
car. Holy shit, it was a second deer. Damn deer.
My heart is pounding and I’m sitting stopped on this paved
stretch of country road, surrounded by open cornfields. The moon is full, the
only reason I saw the first deer to begin with, giving me enough light to
assess the damage of my little tank of a car. It was a 1993 purple Honda Civic
and it had been through so much at this point, like the cow that almost
completely destroyed it. I digress, that is another story for another time.
Although, once again, not my fault.
The only damage done to my car, Toughens, was the drivers
side electric mirror was broken off and hanging by the power cord. My heart
slowed and I finished the drive to my mother’s, pulled into the driveway,
parked, and heading into bed.
The next morning I was abruptly woken up to my mother
barging into my room and asking, “What happened to your car?”
The comfort and warmth of my little twin side bed made it
hard to pull the covers off my head, that and how do you explain that you were
hit by a deer? The conversation normally goes as follows–
Me: “A deer hit my car.”
Other person: “Oh, you hit a deer, that sucks.”
Me: “No, I was at a complete stop when the deer ran into me,
that’s how the mirror was broke”
Other person: Hysterical laughter.
Only when it was my mother there was no hysterical laughter.
She was kind enough to fix my mirror with some funky black glue. It held like a
champ. The only down side was when I was driving on the Interstate at 80 mph it
shook a little more then it should have.
Here I am driving around with this mirror glued back on, too
busy running around to get it fixed, and it stays like that for 8 months; at
which point I decide that I’m sick of this whole shaky mirror on the interstate
syndrome. I finally break down and call my mechanic, Lavander, who tells me he
has to order the part and will call me when it comes in.
He calls. I take my sweet time making an appointment to get
it fixed. The part sits on his shelf for 6 weeks while I busy smoking pot.
Don’t judge, I was in high school with nothing better to do. Work and pot, what
else is there at 18? And I know your asking yourself if I was high when this
supposed “deer” hit me. I was not. Nor was I the second time a deer hit me. I
often wonder if it was the same deer.
Six weeks after Levander told me the part was in for my car
I was hit by a second deer. No, I was at a complete stop when the deer ran into
me. I was driving, late at night, on the same stretch of lovely paved country
road, Gunbarrel Rd., on my way to my mother’s house, when by the light of the
full moon I see a deer run out in front of me. I hit the breaks, coming to a
complete stop only inches from the deer which is standing in front of my car
giving me that deer in headlights look, then BAM. Something hit the side of my
car. Holy shit, it was a second deer. Damn deer. That last thought being
followed by the strange feeling of déjà vu.
I assess the damage by moonlight and notice that this time
the deer took my mirror clean off. I finished the drive to my mother’s, pulled
into the driveway, parked, and heading into bed.
The next morning I was abruptly woken up to my mother
barging into my room and asking, “What happened to your car?”
I guess now would be a good time to get that mirror fixed.
