Dear John

Every time the spinning, twisted body turned my way its eyes met mine and said something like “not cool, man” or “that was a little much.” Or I thought they did. The thud of the deer hitting the truck’s grill woke me from a near dream state. It skittered across the road and into the ditch like a venison dreidel. I’d just killed something. Someone to something else. It probably had a family. A deer mortgage. A doe mistress. I’d taken it all away. The grill sneered. It picked the hair from its teeth. The blinking amber lights on my roof didn’t mean warning: wide load ahead anymore. They said:

Got one. Got the fucker.

I rolled down the window. Crisp January air whipped and squealed through the cab. My eyes refused to stay open. This wasn’t safe. I needed to go home. I needed the money. “Watch out for deer.” I called into the radio.

Portrait by Andrea Hooge for #POBEshow 2015