I am the guy in the car behind the car that hit the deer. This is a story of the events that unfurled from that momentary lapse in the survival instincts of a 4-point buck, which misjudged the speed of a clapped-out 1986 Ford Taurus headed south. In the deer’s defense, the Taurus was moving well given its 193,000 miles when the odometer broke years ago and its perpetual cloud of burnt oil that suggested a need for a new set of rings. These are the moments where Oscars are born, apparently.
For the previous 18 months, I had been working in Pittsburgh, and commuting each weekend the four-and-a-half hours each way to my wife and youngest son in the Southern Tier of New York. My wife had an excellent teaching job, the opportunities for an archaeologist at my level were limited, and my son was soon to start college. As awful as this arrangement may seem, I had previously been working in Michigan for three years, with an 8.5-hour drive to get home.
It was a strange way to live. I had a basement apartment in Natrona Heights, about 15 minutes from work. I had a lot of free time in the evenings during the week. I read, ran when my asthma allowed, carved my own set of duck decoys, built my own row-boat, and started to dabble in creative writing.
The initial leg of my commute home was State Route 28, from the PA Turnpike to I-80. The road traverses the hilly terrain of Armstrong, Jefferson, and Clarion Counties, and passes through a number of small towns. It is two-lane for most of the distance, with an occasional passing lane on the most severe climbs. It is an exciting, winding road when there is not a truck in front of you. When I told a co-worker how much I enjoyed this leg of my drive, his wet blanket response was “I’d be worried about hitting a deer.” I responded with completely fake data that your odds of hitting a deer do not change appreciably whether you are going 50 or 65 mph. On the purely theoretical level, I continued, the less time you are on the road, the lower your chance of hitting a deer. The faster you travel, the less time you spend on the road, ergo the lower your chance of striking a whitetail. I am not sure he bought the argument, and I left the conversation with a tiny worry lodged in the back of my skull. That worry did not change my speed on State Route 28, but it oh so slightly lessened my enjoyment.
So, anyhow, by working extra time on Mondays through Thursdays, I was generally heading home by 2:00 on Friday afternoon. Depending on weather and how early darkness fell, I would leave Corning on Sunday afternoon or evening for the return trip. On the day the guy in front of me – okay, let’s just go ahead and identify the driver as Joseph – hit the deer, it was about six o’clock on a clear summer evening. By conventional wisdom, it was probably still a bit early to be worrying about deer.
In terms of wrecks, it was not spectacular. Joseph hit the deer with the front-center of the vehicle, and the deer was flipped to the side of the road. Joseph made a slight bobble upon impact, and then calmly and smoothly guided the Taurus to the shoulder. I had braked when I first saw the flash of the deer, and I pulled over 50 yards behind the Taurus. I ran up to verify that nobody other than the buck was hurt. My employers at the time were very safety conscious, and I had in my car two or three Day-Glo safety vests and a hard hat. I pulled on a vest and hat, and grabbed a second vest for Joseph. I then checked the deer, which was dead, not suffering.
Joseph’s car was a mess. The front grille was pushed deep into the radiator, and steam and coolant were spewing forth. This car was not going anywhere anytime soon. Even if a replacement radiator existed somewhere in the county, Joseph was unlikely to find a mechanic working on Sunday. I suggested he carefully roll it downhill to a church parking lot.
Now, let’s be perfectly honest here. Much of western Pennsylvania beyond the Pittsburgh core is Appalachian in its history, demographics, a Christian-based worship of firearms, and a simmering racism just below the surface. The old joke is that Pennsylvania is Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Alabama in between. You still see a lot of Confederate flags flown with pride in western Pennsylvania. As Joseph’s car was clearly not going to be repaired any time soon, if ever, I had two thoughts. One was simply here is guy who has had a moment of bad luck, and I should help him if I can. My second concern was here is a black man — from Ohio, no less — that might likely run into further bad luck if abandoned in the front of a church in small-town Armstrong County. There was no guarantee that the local police would help. Indeed, the police might view Joseph as one of those uppity folks (they would not use that exact noun) who kept disrupting the rallies of their next President. As a good Christian – in the Golden Rule, macro-sense, not in the verse-twisting, OCD, fanatical sense – I offered Joseph a ride to Pittsburgh. I had seen his Carnegie Mellon parking sticker.
I explained that I was headed that way regardless, and that I was not on a tight schedule when I got home. I pointed out the obvious that he would be sitting at least an hour-and-a-half if he could rouse a friend in Pittsburgh to come get him. I gently (and unnecessarily, upon reflection) implied that there were much better situations in which to be a young, black man.
You could almost see Joseph running down a checklist. Any NRA or Trump stickers on my car? A gun rack? Is Chris a conceal-carrier? Does he sound rational? I think when he saw a copy of Wake Forest Magazine on the front seat, he was reassured he was dealing with only a harmless liberal.
The magazine was handed to me by Linda as I was about to depart Corning. It was the annual Writing Issue. Linda has an unshakable commitment that I should be a writer in or before my retirement, and she felt that the Writing Issue might provide a little nudge. As I have now written this story and many others, Linda has been once again proven correct.
The magazine became a prop for conversation once Joseph and I had dispensed we brief bios. He was an MFA student in film at Carnegie Mellon, from Cleveland, but did not know LeBron personally, thanks for asking. I was an old archaeologist limping toward retirement.
“I was accepted” he said “at Wake Forest. I decided was not ready for such a huge change.”
“Yep, it is a hard school for a black man. It is unimaginably white and rich, but unapologetically liberal. I mean, I came from a Middle-Class family, but it was a whole different world, even after spending two years at UVA, part of my tour of the whitest colleges in America. Wake loves its athletics, and black student athletes are often smothered with good-intentioned — read paternalistic — attention. It reminds me of a project years ago, where we had to get a crew across Lake Jocassee. The client got us in touch with a boat driver, who has obviously an American Indian. One of our not-too-bright, not-too-sensitive crew asked, “so what kind of Indian are you?” The response was an eloquent “Lonely.” I think that probably is a good adjective for the few blacks at Wake Forest. Wake was a weird place, but I guess the education was solid.”
“And they have kept track of you” Joseph noted with a nod to the magazine.
“Yep, they keep track of anybody who might someday contribute – nope — or send another generation to attend –nope. That usually goes straight to the bin, but I read the Writing Issue.”
“Do you write?”
“Well, I write gobs of technical reports and articles for professional journals, keeping the resume fresh. I think I am a decent writer, and in the past year here I have started submitting some stories to literary journals and web sites. Submittable.com has become somewhat an addiction. I get periods when I really like writing, and then it goes away.”
“So, what are you working on these days?”
“Well, uh, I don’t want you to react badly, but I have been working on a piece tentatively titled Why I Had to Kill Bill Cosby.”
“Alright. Okay. Tell me more.”
“It is a confession to be read upon the author’s death. It tries to very carefully explain that this was not a racial crime, although the author was white, but instead a basic act of justice. He acknowledges that vigilante justice is not generally the answer, but argues quite convincingly — or so he thinks — that Cosby’s acts of rape, his acts of arrogant denial of responsibility, and his godawful fucking hypocrisy cried out for extraordinary action. He argues that it was important to all races, especially the females of all races, to show such crimes will not go unpunished. The killer acknowledges how the murder has changed him for the worst. He explains that this was not a ploy to gain world notoriety. And the story gets into the gun control debate. I have him kill the Cos with a bow and arrow, to avoid clouding the message with partisan bickering over gun control. A rifle would have been much simpler, but the debate would have gotten side-tracked. He points out that several states changed their statutes of limitation for rape in the aftermath of the killing. The confession talks about how he knew he could get away with it. The cops would not look too hard to find the killer, he had no direct ties to any of Cosby’s victims, and he was not aligned with any fanatical racist or super-feminist groups. He was simply one guy who had reached his breaking point and who was particularly sickened by the Cosby situation.”
“Can I read it? I’d like to see it.”
“Surely you can’t be serious.”
“I am, but don’t call me Shirley.” I think I fell a little bit in love just then.
“Sure, but … well, it is still kind of evolving. Ugh, doesn’t that sound like something you might hear on Oprah or Dr. Phil? Still evolving? How about: I finished, it sucked, and I am trying again? I had the basics fleshed out, but then had the idea what if this guy finds he likes it too much, and then has to change all of his self-justification? The reader would go from understanding – if not fully endorsing – the Cosby killing to revisiting this guy’s real motivations. Is this just a psychopath looking to obscure his pleasure motive? If that is true, am I, as a reader, still allowed to applaud his actions? So, I have this guy next killing Joel Osteen, one of those money-hungry, self-worshipping, manipulative, false-hope-peddling televangelists. Stones him to death.”
“Stones him?”
“Yep, and here we’re almost getting into murder as performance art. The method resonates with the faithful. Reinforces the message that this guy Osteen was a false prophet. You might find this interesting. I did a flash fiction version of Why I Had To Kill Bill Cosby. . ., in part because I wanted to try writing flash fiction. I know. I had the unmitigated gall to think that my first work ever of flash fiction would be worthy of publication, that I should even share it with anybody.”
“Cojones.”
“Yep, my wife just shakes her head. She is from Scotland, and my too frequent acts of I-will-give-it-a-try are not what she is used to. So, it was like 300 words on the contradictions going through Bob’s mind as he aims his bow at Bill Cosby. In the original version, Bob does the deed and then looks ahead to hunting down Joel Osteen. Now, understand, I did not know if this was a good or bad piece of flash fiction, but I figured various editors would clarify the situation, so I responded to 6 or 7 calls for flash fiction. The first journal to respond — keep in mind that the journal only published fiction — included summary remarks from five of their readers/reviewers. All five took issue with the fictional stalking of Joel Osteen, but none had any problems with killing the Cos. I actually double-checked, to make sure I had not accidentally submitted to The Driven Snow, you know, the literary journal of Bob Jones University.”
“So, that set of comments; was that racial, or some sort of ranking of egregiousness or venality of the sins?”
“Egregiousness? Venality? Damn, somebody nailed the SATs. No wonder Wake Forest wanted you. But I digress. I was not sure which it was. It was just bizarre.”
We were doing the mandated slow down, coming into New Bethlehem. 55 to 45 to 35 to a ridiculously slow 25. And they have their own police. I allowed “I’m always careful here, and I’m white.”
“Damn, you are. You sneaky mother fucker. I hadn’t noticed.”
The trick through New Bethlehem is to stay tight to the vehicle in front of you, because you go from 25 to 35 to 55 with a passing lane of limited length just south of town. If you let a bit of a gap to open up, you cannot close that gap and get past the slow poke(s) before the passing lane disappears. You drive this route 50-75 times, you learn all the tricks.
“You’re not too big on religion I take it?”
“Don’t get me wrong just because I advocate stoning some phony preachers to death. I think the problem with religions – plural, and I think this is true of all our major religions – is that they have lost touch with the core messages, which are shared by all religions — be a decent person. Treat people with respect. Be tolerant. Support you community. Help those less fortunate. Those are pushed aside when folks began to use the minutia of their religions to create and maintain power for an elite few. That is yet another story I am working on: the establishment and growth of the Community of Common Good as a non-religious vehicle for pursuing being a good person. That idea, in turn, came out of a series of T-shirts I have yet to produce including “Who would Buddha shoot?” “Where is Jesus’ sister?” “Is your prophet all profit?”
“Well, fuck me.”
“I am not crazy. Don’t reach for the door handle. I don’t hear voices, per se. I just have ideas that can bounce around my head for a long time. Maybe my wife is right – she usually is — that I have spent my life getting ready to write. At times I feel back in high school, at the start of a cross country meet, with real loathing for the starter. Just fire the pistol god-damn it. As Marvin Gaye would say, let’s get it on. I find any conversation is improved if you work in some wisdom from Mr. Gaye.”
“Oh, a student athlete. Track too? What distance?”
“The longest possible. 2-miler in high school, 6-miler in college. But the marathon and half-marathon were my best races. You? Not to assume every black man was an athlete, but you’ve got the look.”
“800, occasionally the 1500. Once I even ran a steeplechase in college because . . .”
“the team needs the points and there are only two other people entered. Done that.”
“And it was your worst experience ever on track, I bet. For me, the 1500 was pushing it, and then to throw in barriers and the water jump. And you know black folks can’t swim for shit. Thanks Coach”
“Oh yeah. I was lapped by a Kenyan from the University of Richmond. But, hey, I got third place points.”
“That race just ain’t right. It’s just unnatural.”
“Oops, a moment of silence please, while we see what type of killing device Veronesi is selling this week. I wish they would just be honest in their advertising. This tactical shotgun will shoot the junk clean off the buckroe intent on raping your women and livestock.”
“That would be a tactical testicle shotgun then.”
“I mean look at this place. Do you think he really needs the LED motion sign? You don’t think these folks can find this place when the Attorney General gets them all hyped up on the latest fear. El Salvadorian gangs, messed up on pharmaceuticals and looking to help blacks rape white women. I’m sorry, all their fears have an element of rape or possibly the need to someday overthrow the government, probably because the government has allowed too much inter-racial rape. But I digress.
So talk to me about film. How did you end up chasing that dream?”
“Well, I know I am supposed to say something about the first Spike Lee movie changing my life forever. Or Sidney Poitier in To Sir, with Love. But, I gots to admit, and I recognize that this is a little unusual, it was Blazing Saddles that blew me away.”
“Stand back while I whip this out. . .”
“So you know it? I mean, it was genius of social commentary without losing the humor. It was just saying ‘this is how good a movie can be, even without taking itself seriously.’ I knew then, I wanted to get into film. I wanted to be making that.”
“Well, let me ask the obvious question. Do you feel pressure that the films you make have to be, gots to be, must be relevant to addressing questions of race? I mean, has Spike Lee set a bar for all aspiring film writers and directors of color? Do you ever wish that, like Steven Colbert, nobody saw color?”
“Shit, that sounds like an exam question. No, no. I mean, I would not want to be complicit in continuing the under-representation of black talent in the industry, but I do not think that black directors can only make black movies.”
“Under-representation of black talent? Wait a second, I saw Car Wash.”
“Oh, fuck you. You asked the serious question. Now you are going to run down that list of Blaxploitation movies? That Shaft, he’s a bad mother . . . hush your mouth.”
“So you’re a film guy: you might enjoy this. Linda and I were sitting on the couch this afternoon when an advertisement for the new Roots came up. The tag line for the advertisement was “Roots Reimagined for a New Generation.” I told Linda, if they want to reimagine Roots for a new generation they should have blacks play all the white roles (a la Hamilton, the musical) and have whites play all the black roles. Linda immediately imagined the outrage when white folks saw blacks whipping whites, and rich blackmen raping poor white servant girls. “Excellent, you should do that” she said. I am not a film maker, producer, or anything, so I just filed it away with ideas I would probably never pursue. I mean, how would I do that? Oh yeah, when I am back on the studio lot tomorrow, I’ll run it by one of the Warner Brothers.”
“Mother Fucker, he exclaimed at the risk of sounding like a stereotype. It could be done. I think the Alex Haley estate might even give us the rights for free. And talk about prompting a re-energized conversation about race. I’d love to see it.”
“I would really like to see it from behind the screen in a large movie theater. You know, so you could see who cringed and who fought to hold back a little bit of a smile. If you had a cringometer . . .”
“A cringometer?”
“Okay, so some people might pronounce it ‘cringe-o-meter’ but let’s not quibble. Something to gauge discomfort. You know, all humans should cringe at the sight of any other human being flogged or raped. But I bet there would be patterning by race. I bet a lot of white folks would cringe more than when they watched the original, and . . .”
“I bet a lot of black people would take glee in Denzel Washington whipping Matthew McConaughy. Talk about this in your car ads, Matthew. Oh yeah, we have to do this.”
“Now you’re sounding like Linda. Joseph, you go ahead and do it. It is all yours. I release all rights to the idea with this hand shake. Just invite me to the opening night.” And he did.
Roots 180 opened four years later. Joseph had filmed and presented a sampling of the most famous scenes as his MFA project. The scenes went viral, the response had been huge, and he was able to find financial backing from several of the expected sources, including Oprah, Spike Lee, and Rob Reiner. Yes, Spike “Do The Right Thing, Jungle Fever” Lee. I guess the right thing in this case was to back an obvious winner. I even received a screen credit as a creative consultant, which means I once talked to Joseph about the idea while driving the Trump gauntlet.
Joseph and I spoke often, either face to face or on the telephone. I would pick up the phone to “Where the white women at?” Or Joseph would be greeted with “as a dedicated Ted Cruz supporter. . . .” An ongoing bit was that the MFA after Joseph’s name must mean he was officially a Mother Fucking Artist.
I wish I could claim that I realized similar success in creative writing. I did not do terribly. My first year of really trying, I had three pieces accepted for web publication, one published in an actual printed, bound journal, and one in an issue of Georgia Outdoor News(watch out Pulitzer, I’m coming for you). I eventually made a little money at it, and, I think, I got to be a tolerably good writer (“think again” murmurs the Editor). I have not quite made The Community of Common Good into something editors should see, flash fiction Bob has been declared dead, and I do not see the Cosby piece coming together. It turns out that creative non-fiction is my strength, so either I become Bob or I let both of those ideas die on the vine.
So many ideas. It is most appropriate to quote Hedley Lamar here: “My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.” Some have worked, most have failed, and a few are in limbo, to be revisited eventually. It is doubtful that any of my creative ideas will ever match the success of Roots 180. What does this say about ideas, and how we can know which are really good and which are simply different? I haven’t a clue. I just keep pitching unabashedly, in hopes that Linda or Joseph or some as yet unidentified editor will say “this one works.” I just keep pitching unashamedly, hoping that Fate, a 4-point buck, and a clapped-out 1986 Ford Taurus headed south will find me again if I have a real winner.
An archaeologist, Chris Espenshade branched into creative writing in 2017. He’s had more than 30 works accepted for publication including flash fiction, creative non-fiction, humor, political satire, fiction, and poetry. Chris lives in Wellsboro, Pennsylvania.