I’m sitting in my pickup truck minding my own business. What that looks like is a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee trying to take a selfie. They’re all coming out poorly—my smile looks more grimacing with each shot. My friend in the passenger seat is not cooperating. That’s the thing: I guess nothing’s photogenic once it’s dead. I suppose I won’t be, either. I’m leaning over to readjust him when the cruiser pulls behind me flashing its lights.
This situation is already precarious: we’re on a barely-paved country road, miles from civilization. And by “civilization,” I mean Pittsburgh. I slide my phone onto the dash as the cop approaches, roll down the window, and set my hands ten and two on the steering wheel.
“Good evening, officer. What seems to be the problem?”
“Turn off your radio.”
I’d been listening to Justin Bieber to get in the mood. My sons like him. He sounds better on the radio, especially when static from another station washes through. I turn the dial. Even though it’s light out, the cop sweeps his flashlight over my face, then peeks in the driver’s side window. He steps back, drops his hand on his service pistol, then hesitates and takes it away. His hand.
In this critical moment, I could be a good sport and say, “Yes, officer. It is strange that there’s a dead deer in the passenger seat. Allow me to explain why.” Just like he could be a good public servant, admit there’s no crime here, and move along.
In a surprisingly calm voice, he says, “If you could hand me your license, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”
I wasn’t driving when he decided to oppress me, so this can’t be a moving violation. I tell him so even as I dig into my jeans to retrieve my wallet. The glove compartment door drops down and I pass him the paperwork through the window.
He hesitates and takes it, then shines his light on the passenger seat again, as if in disbelief. Then the driver’s side door gets the spotlight of scrutiny. The cop is in his late twenties, about six foot, with a farmer’s tan from his short-sleeved blue uniform. And his stainless steel chronograph. The academy weathered his face into a numb mask, but a pair of curious hazel eyes peeks out. He has the same haircut as Dave Kaczmerek, our high school anti-valedictorian: short hair in a jagged part to the side. Like that was the best he could do each and every morning. I’ve already decided to call him that when Officer Kaczmerek says, “Turn off the radio. This is the last time I’ll ask.”
I comply.
“Have you been drinking this evening?”
“No sir. Not a drop.” I follow his gaze to the passenger seat. “I know it looks bad, but it’s not open. You can see that, right? It’s a prop.” A six-pack of Natty Ice is six reasons to rethink your choices in life.
“There’s a lot of blood on this door handle. That’s —”
“Blood all over the driver’s side door, too. You should see the inside. It’s not mine, though. Hey, do you know anything about Snapchat?” I start to explain that it’s a mobile application popular with the youth of today, but Officer K takes a few steps back and taps his walkie-talkie, unsure of how to call this in. He’s not going back to his car. Usually, they go back to the squad car and take forever doing something. I’m never quite sure what that is.
In the stern voice of an assistant principal, Officer K asks, “Sir, why is there a deceased deer in the passenger seat of your pickup truck? A very bloody one at that?”
It seems like the later you are, the more of a hurry you’re in, the longer cops take to write out that speeding ticket. Today, I’ve got nothing but time. “Have I broken a law, officer? I can tell you I went hunting earlier. I loaded the game into my vehicle, which was parked by the side of the road. I had my flashers on, and I thank you for stopping, but I’m fi—”
“I am giving you a lawful order. Explain…to me—”
“And I’m giving you a lawful answer. I spent the day working as a whitetail population engineer”—I point to the hunting license clipped to my baseball cap—“exercising my second amendment rights”—my rifle is on the gun rack behind my head—“and now I’m exercising my first amendment rights. I understand the blood isn’t tidy, but that’s not a law and order issue.” It’s going to be a major cleaning issue, though. I bagged a respectable four-pointer, and the cab is filled with an earthy animal musk. Sort of like a herd of goats. Luckily, he wasn’t in rut.
Officer K says nothing for a moment, just stares at me with his impassive, sick-of-your-BS cop-face. He draws an orange cylinder from his belt and lazily shakes it like it’s spray paint.
“What’s that? Mace? The constitution—okay.” I return my hands to the steering wheel and stare through it at the long asphalt shoulder, the tall pines. The trilling birds just emphasize how thick the forest is, holding all the sound.
In the patient voice I should have used when I was lab partners with Dave Kaczmerek, I tell the cop, “I am cooperating, officer. If you just could tell me what law I’ve broken, please.” A squawky message comes in over his walkie talkie. He hands me back my license and paperwork. I set it on my lap. His expression hasn’t changed.
He asks, “Mind if I take a look around your truck?”
“You’re more than welcome to search my truck after you produce a warrant.” A slight frowning tic pulls at his mouth. “And with all due respect, officer, this is a pickup truck. It’s an open, book, really.” I turn in my seat and gesture to the truck’s bed. “You can see inside … there’s a tarp and some bungees, and my cammies. Here’s my rifle, which I have paperwork for, on the rack, and you saw inside the glove compartment when I got my papers. There’s some gum wrappers in the wheel well and, of course, my friend here. He’s pretty harmless, officer.”
“You’re alone in a secluded area, in a truck whose doors are covered with blood. The inside of your cab is covered with blood, and there’s a hundred and twenty-pound dead animal jammed into your passenger seat. That is a textbook definition of probable cause.”
“Do you have a cell phone? With the Snapchat?”
Officer K leans his head to speak into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. “Calling to request an ambulance, I’m on Bonniebrook, near Chicora.”
I ask who the ambulance is for. Then it dawns on me, and I can’t hide the tremble in my voice. It feels like I’m winding up to something when I say, “You know why I hunt? To fill the freezer, feed my kids. I’m a family man. And you’re going to what, mace and tase me for no reason? Put me in the hospital for no reason?”
He might as well be staring at me with his face half hidden by sunglasses. A fly lands on his neck and spins around on the stubble. If I picked up my phone to record this, you’d think I was arguing with a statue. An angry statue. With a gun. “Okay, you want to know why there is a deer in the passenger seat of my truck. I get it. I really should have put the tarp down first. I didn’t expect this much mess.” Which is true. I might have to pick up new seats at the junkyard. “Do you have kids, officer? No? Well, that’s probably for the best. But as far as I can tell, I haven’t broken any laws here.”
To the walkie-talkie, Officer K says, “Dispatch, requesting backup as well.” To me, he says, “Animal cruelty, for one. Reckless driving. Poaching, and—”
“What animal cruelty? It was a clean enough shot and I am a licensed hunter. I know this isn’t the recommended way to transport game, but—”
He reaches behind his belt to unclip something, and his voice rises to a slightly higher pitch—the animal parts of me clench. How long has my heart been drumming against my ribcage? “Get out of the truck,” he says, but what he means is “I’m giving myself permission to hurt you.”
“Okay, you got me.” I’ve had my hands raised in surrender, and I keep them that way. “You want to know why. You said you don’t have kids, right?” I open the door slowly but stay in the cab. The cop’s hand is hovering near his service pistol, and the other grips his Maglite, his fingers sort of drumming. “The thing is, when my Sean and Trapper—my sons—were four, they loved her.” I point to the truck. As babies, it was how we got them to sleep, drive around the block with the old v6 purring. When they were little, old red here was a spaceship, a sailboat, a rocket. We’d picnic out of the bed every summer night if my wife would let us. “But my kids get older, and someone points out their old man’s oil-stained jeans, his dirty boots. They hear it when I say life’s going good instead of going well, and suddenly it ain’t nothin’.”
Officer K hasn’t changed his posture, but I can tell he’s relaxing just a hair.
“My boys, they’re in private school, you know where Saint—well, nevermind. I don’t know where they get their smarts, but it’s not me. I don’t like going inside that school, even for conferences. People like me stain the chairs. And Sean, about a month ago, he’s thirteen, he says, ‘Dad, can you wait around the block from school to pick me up?’ And I should have asked why, but I don’t, because we both know.”
Here, I turn and face Officer K, who has returned his Maglite to its belt loop and sort of hitches up his belt. He’s maintaining that pokerface, but his eyes say he’s willing to hear me out. “And I do it. Because I’m a rusty…river turd sailboat and that school is a spaceship. I mean, when you’re a dad and your kids are ashamed of you…the way I was raised, when life hands you a problem, you dig deep and fix it. I buy this”—I flick the Pikachu bobblehead on the dash—“changed my presets and put a spoiler on the back. When I hear them talking about this Snapchat, I add it on my phone. Didn’t know how to use it, still don’t. And then, this morning, I’m in a tree stand for nine hours, just turning all this over in my head. And along comes Bambi here, bang, you’ve got a deer, and a camera, and a truck. It all came together.”
“What?”
“What I mean to say is … after shooting Bambi here, I drag him into the cab and sat him like this. Messed up my shoulder doing it. The plan was to take a selfie of the two of us chilling in the cab like bros and post it on the Snapchat with the caption “Road trip with my new, deer friend.” And he’d be holding the six-pack. Well, between his hooves. Hashtag deerfriend. Like D-E-E-R … and I’d send it to my boys, prove the old man’s still got it. And then you drove up.”
For most of our exchange, he’s been standing with his hands on his hips. He lets out a long exhale and gives the cab a once-over, then the truck bed. Then, he says, “Sir, you’re free to go.” Officer K isn’t willing to give up a smile, but I can see him arranging this encounter into a story for the enjoyment of friends and family. To his shoulder, he says, “Cancel the request for the ambulance and the ten-ten.”
More than anything, I wish my boys were here to see this. Dad fought the law—and Dad won. “Thank you, officer.” I hope my story make his greatest hits collection. You’d think he’d at least offer to help clean up. He’s walking away, scratching his neck when I call out. “At the risk of … when I asked about kids, this look came on your face. You’re either trying, or you got one on the way?”
He turns back to me in that territorial stance men take when an unfamiliar car pulls into their driveway. “Fiancée’s in her second trimester,” he says in a flat, neutral tone that’s clearly a warning.
“You should know you get twelve or so good years, then your kids want nothing to do with you. We’ll end up on the island of misfit toys together, you and me. But you don’t give up on your kids, you work through the pain. I hope it doesn’t happen, and I wouldn’t wish it on you, but you’ll see. So, I’m just saying, be sure to hold onto those years.”
“Drive safely, sir,” Officer K says, but he’s bobbling his head like my words are pushing into his brain-folds. He takes his time returning to his car, and I wave as his cruiser rushes past me. I’m in a contemplative mood myself when I reach over to pull the seat belt around my passenger. I tell him, “You know what I should have said? Well, a number of things.” What I should have told him is that being a dad is a journey that takes you to the strangest of places. What I should have said is, “Officer, buckle up.”