We All Just Stood There, Fiction by Gary Campanella
We All Just Stood There
Gary Campanella
I was driving back to Green Lake from the Oshkosh airport at three in the morning when I hit a fucking deer. I shouldn't have been driving Tom's car, but a bunch of random shit happened, and so I was.
The airport was closed, but that was the plan. I was out at the edge of the runway, parked on the dirt road by the fence where the runway ends. It's all just cornfields out there. I met up with a guy who flew in on a tiny Cessna. He taxied to the end of the runway with no lights on, got out, and threw a nylon bag over the fence to where I was waiting. I never got a look at him. It was dark, and he wore a plain black hoodie, hood up, and a runner's mask over his face. He didn't say a word, just tossed the bag and got back in the plane and took off, all in about two minutes max.
I grabbed the bag where it landed and threw it on the passenger seat and hightailed it out of there. Inside the bag was a kilo of pure, uncut Columbian cocaine. The good stuff. It was a clean drop.
Back at the house, Debbie was waiting with a baker's scale, a box of bags, and a half-pound of speed. We decided to keep the cocaine pure, only cutting it with a little speed to give it a longer high. We figured to sell it off fast to the dealers at UW. We figured to clear about eight grand, maybe ten, even after keeping a little for ourselves. We figured it was enough cash to get me and Debbie set up in LA before the motherfucking winter hit.
After the drop, I slammed Tom's '68 VW Bug into fourth gear and revved it along the dirt road. When I hit the county road I ripped a hard left toward home, forgetting to turn on my lights.
I should mention I was drunk. I drove squinting to see the road, not even realizing that my goddamn headlights were off. The deer came out of nowhere. For the deer, it must have been like the Bug came out of nowhere.
Speaking of nowhere, it had been another stupid night at Shit Lake. I could barely stand it. I was drinking whiskey with Mick and RJ and Big Head Lynch. Head had brought the bottle and we killed it in a couple of hours, smoking dope and watching the Bucks play the Pacers.
He left after the game, just before Debbie got home from work. Debbie soon complained that it was cold and so we fired up the woodstove even though all we had to burn were old pallets that RJ stole from behind the Pig. He had brought them over a few days before, and Debbie and I had chopped some up with a sledgehammer and an ax. We had a great time doing it. When I went to light the stove, Mick saw that we hadn't bothered to remove the nails and he called us both fucking idiots and pulled them out himself. But fuck him.
Debbie and I have been together for two years. Things have been good, even though we can't catch a fucking break. I haven't been able to find regular work and Debbie makes crap as a waitress at the Olive Garden. We are shacked up in the house I grew up in, in the bedroom I grew up in, though technically my brother Mick owns the house now.
It's all been one big shit show since I was a teenager. Me and Debbie decided in September to get out of town, to move to California. It's a big step, leaving town with each other, but the way we see it, we got nothing much to lose. I told Debbie I didn't want to lead her down some rotten road, but Debbie encouraged it. She said having nothing is like having everything. We can do what we please.
RJ lit another bone. It was his stuff for a change, but of course he helped himself to our chips, and then started borrowing cigarettes from us. He called them "smoky treats" so he didn't have to feel like such a leech. After a little while, he left for his night job at the brewery.
I had worked that day too. I'd fucked up my truck, almost losing it in a ditch pulling stumps for some farmer out near Appleton. I ground up the gears and burned out the brakes in the process, and so I dropped it with Ed on the way home. RJ picked me up and brought me back. Mick was home all day, as usual, but I wouldn't even think of calling him for a ride. For an older brother, he's a useless fuck.
After RJ left, the night felt pretty much over. We were watching the fucking news, and Mick was bitching about the rich guys screwing us, and Debbie and I were curled up on the couch. The wood stove was roasting the room, and we were drifting towards sleeping there, when two things happened. First I got a call from my guy that the shit was coming in that night. It was supposed to have been the day before, and then it got changed to a couple of days ahead, but then it was right away.
So my truck was fucked up, and I was too. I didn't want to use Debbie's car in case I got caught, or in case someone spotted it. I wanted to keep her out of it, and we were going to need that car to get to California.
Mick was pretty much passed out in his chair by then, so I decided I would just take his car. This was better than asking him because that conversation would have got heated and stupid real fucking fast. If I got nabbed I knew Mick would be pissed, and rat out the whole lot of us, and probably get himself killed in the process. But he was my brother, so I was just gonna take his car, and deal with any fallout shit later.
I had a few hours to kill so I cracked a beer and Debbie and I cleared off the kitchen table for the scale and the bags and the speed. We agreed from the start that this whole thing was one and done, even if it went smooth and even if we were tempted to do it again. All the pills and powders in the world weren't going to make us stagger through another winter in Green Lake.
The drop was at three and I was gonna leave for Oshkosh at two. I was gonna get there in plenty of time, scope it all out a bit, and wait. Mick drove a beat-up Honda Civic with an American flag decal on the back window. It was about as unsuspicious as a long-haired, scraggly-bearded asshole like me could look at three in the morning. Mick kept a loaded 38 under the driver's seat.
At midnight Debbie went out to get us some coffee and when she came back the second thing happened. This guy Tom rolled in behind her. Tom lived on his parent's farm, way out of town in a trailer without electricity. He was kind of a grease monkey and I should have brought my truck to him earlier, but he's also kind of a weird fucker so I avoid him.
I'd brought the truck to Ed's Repair Shop, which was where all the regular people take their cars, even though I knew Ed would charge me a ton. Tom would have done it for cheap, probably just for parts and a case of beer, and the chance to hang around Debbie for a few hours. When it came to Debbie, Tom was like a dog waiting for some scraps to fall off the table. That night, when he saw Debbie at the coffee shop, he asked if he could come by and get us high. Debbie doesn't know how to say no, so over he came.
I asked him what the hell he was doing, and he said he had just got off work. I didn't even know he had a job. I was gonna ask him what job he had, but I didn't really care, and I was concentrating on how big a complication he was, showing up like this.
In the end, I decided he was cool. It was kind of stupid, sure, I mean, I'd taken pains to keep Mick and even RJ at arm's length on this deal. You never know who you can't trust until you can't trust them anymore. But I had an idea.
After we got high, I asked Tom if I could borrow his car to run an errand. Tom agreed after a bit, without ever asking what the errand was. He was like that. I mean, part of it was that he loved to show off his cars. He always had a few that he was fixing up or waiting to sell. I'm sure he figured why wouldn't I want to drive his wheels rather than the pieces of shit that Mick and Debbie drove. I think he even said that. Debbie also stoked him up a bit, telling him that if we ever wanted to put a gang together he would be the perfect getaway man. Me and Debbie are a natural team like that.
At two I got the keys from Tom, and I grabbed Mick's gun from under his Civic seat, and I headed out to Oshkosh. The heat was blasting in the goddamn thing and I couldn't figure out how to turn it down. I ended up rolling down the window and driving fast with the cold air blowing in. He had some country shit playing on his stereo, like a CD, and I didn't want to mess with it, so I turned it off and drove with the sound of the wind, and the manure smell from the fields.
Tom had the thing running smooth, and I cruised to the airport in 30 minutes.
I hit the deer on the way back, about a minute after turning on the main road. There was something like a flash, and I saw its black eyes when its fucking head thudded into the windshield.
I hit the brakes after the impact and the car spun out and landed in the ditch by the side of the road. I wasn't wearing a seat belt and I got pretty much knocked sober.
I got out of the car and looked at the damage. It was bad. The windshield was cracked like a spider web and there was a bloodstain at the center. The trunk was smashed in and sideways and it was hanging off the passenger side. The wheels were free though, and since the engine is in the back on those things I was able to start it right up. The clutch seemed kind of messed up, and the steering was whacked, but I got it into reverse and backed up through the mud of the ravine and up to the road.
I stopped there. I was facing back towards the airport and I tried to flip on the lights but only one was working and it was shooting off into the cornfield. As I turned around I saw the dead deer in the road and paused again. Motherfucker.
You can't leave a deer in the road. It could kill someone. But you also can't hang around with a kilo of coke in the car. I guess I would say it was my moment of truth, but I really didn't think I had a choice. I had to deal with the deer. I turned around again and limped the Bug over to where the deer was lying like a burlap sack of potatoes.
I got out of Tom's fucked up car and looked around for any sign of an oncoming police car. Or any car. Nothing. It was near a full moon, and even though clouds were rolling in, I had enough light. I grabbed it by its neck and started dragging it to the side of the road.
It was a small doe that died with its eyes open. Both of its front legs were broken in half, and there was blood on its nose and head where it smashed the windshield. Its back legs were curled under it, almost like a fetal position. It was still warm.
Dragging it was harder than I thought. Deadweight, I guess. Or maybe me being dead drunk. Also, my right knee hurt from the crash. Anyway, I dragged it a couple of feet and then stopped to catch my breath and look around. It was November, after the harvest, and the cornfields were a stubble of broken stalks. It was an ugly time of year. I dragged it a couple more feet and paused again, and then I got one of the worst drunk ideas of all time.
I knew Tom could gut a deer, and I knew I was going to owe him a car, so I figured I would bring him the dead deer so the meat would partially pay for the car.
I heaved and dragged the fucking thing a few feet at a time, over to the car. Then I tried to figure out how I was going to attach it. There was no rope, only a handgun and a kilo of cocaine, so I decided to shove it into the back seat. I'm sure I looked like a fucking idiot shoving and pushing and cramming the thing into the back seat of a VW Bug, but I kept at it and finally had it stuffed inside. I got the driver's seat folded back to almost upright, and I started back to Green Lake.
The car was sputtering and the left front tire was almost flat, but I kept going. At any speed higher than thirty the entire front end and trunk started to vibrate, and I was afraid the trunk cover would fly off, or the whole front end would shit the bed.
I kind of tiptoed through Picket, and then Ripon. Both were ghost towns.
I was on the home stretch when it happened. Not the cops, which I was expecting. But the deer. The fucking thing woke up. It started heaving and snorting and making this awful donkey-like sound. Then it started kicking and thrusting itself, and I got rammed up against the steering wheel, and one of its broken legs hit me in the face a couple of times. It was chaos. Blood and hair were everywhere. It quieted down after a minute and then started up again. By then I had stopped the car and stumbled out the door, falling on the ground.
It was still thrashing and so I grabbed it by the snout and neck and tried to smother it. That didn't work 'cause it was all too bloody and slippery. I tried to strangle it by cramming myself into the backseat and putting my knee on its neck. There was blood now everywhere and the thing was almost screeching in agony. I was as freaked out as the deer. It was like I was torturing the damn thing. I fell backward out of the car and sat on the ground in the middle of the road. My clothes were covered in blood and brown goo and everything stunk.
I caught my breath just long enough to remember the gun. I went around to the passenger door and got it off the floor. I clicked off the safety and went back around to the other side and held the gun to its freaked out head. I pulled the trigger and more chaos ensued as its head exploded. There was blood and gore everywhere. It would never come out of Tom's upholstery. But at least it was really dead.
I sat back on the ground and rested for what seemed like a long ass time. I still saw no cops or even another car. Fucking Wisconsin. More than ever I wanted out of there.
I rolled into the driveway at about 4:00. By then it was fucking snowing. Debbie and Tom were awake, watching TV. I came in looking like a serial killer, holding a gun and a brick of cocaine. They both jumped up and stared at me, too fucked up to believe their eyes. Debbie of course thought the drug deal went bad and someone was dead. I don't know what the fuck Tom was thinking. We all just stood there.
Debbie screamed something, and I told her it was ok. I told Tom I destroyed his fucking car by hitting a deer, but that I brought him the deer.
The commotion woke Mick up and he came out of his room, all grouchy and bleary-eyed, and saw me, and all the blood and Debbie freaking out, and Tom bolting for the door and the deer.
Mick said, "What the fuck!"
We stared at each other.
I said, "Shit happens, man." I smiled. Stupidly.
He turned, started towards me, turned around, and turned back. He said, "What the fuck!" again.
I shrugged and turned to Debbie. She still hadn't moved. I said, "I got the coke. We should get to work."
Mick almost went epileptic at that one. He said, "I want you out of my house. Get the fuck out of my house!"
I ignored him.
In the next few hours Tom would cut up the deer, and Debbie and I would cut up the coke. The snow turned into a blizzard and the temperature dropped into the teens. The three of us took turns cutting up the rest of RJ's pallets, with me taking out the nails this time, and we fired up the stove.
In the coming days, the Wisconsin winter would come and stay. After paying off Tom and fixing my truck, we didn't have near enough money to get us to California, but we did have enough for more cargo from Chicago. We decided to cut Tom in. Mick could go fuck himself.
Gary Campanella writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His work has appeared in print and online publications. He holds a BA in English from Ripon College and completed graduate studies at the University of Massachusetts and Emerson College. He lives and works in Los Angeles.
Inquiry
The following has been provided by the author:
What is to become of the great Midwest? Cultural and economic change are shifting the region like the rich rolling hills themselves. Safe harbors seem harder to find, roots find it more difficult than ever to take hold. The characters in this story drift across that landscape.
When I lived there, I was keenly aware that the region was always a place for rovers. Before the Europeans, Wisconsin was home for Menominee, Oneida, Chippewa, Potawatomi, and others These people moved, gathered, traded and flourished during bountiful summers, and hunkered through the terrible beauty of the north country winters. Whether the wind or the hills or the people, I always felt the kinetic need to keep moving.
The changes facing the region are therefore fine. More than fading agriculture, what challenges the Midwest is bad decision culture. The characters in “We All Just Stood There” are plagued by bad decision making, not loss of hope, and not really by loss of opportunity.
I want to contribute to the dialogue of hope that courses through this most hopeful of nations. The folks in my story can easily be dismissed as “losers in the midst of losing.” But I believe they are more than that. First and foremost, they are here. They live with us. They are part of the fabric and fiber of our community. As importantly, they relentlessly hope and strain for good cards in the crappy hands they get dealt, in a card game they don’t understand. There’s poignancy in that, and there are social questions too: What does their state of affairs mean for them, for us, and for our future?
We jokingly referred to our region as the Great Mid-Waste. But that was inaccurate. People, I find, hang on. They make do. The great strength of the great Midwest is that people never stop trying, no matter what. This story is about that spirit.