fiction: DEERHEAD & I

by Savin Kann

WAKE UP. Shave beard. Go on daily jog. Step over the deerhead crumpled over on the sidewalk. Run past the blocked off area of Schenley Park where they store deerhead victims and see how high the pile has grown. Take a left on Panther Hollow Road to get to Fifth Ave where I run past the empty university to return home. Pass the doorman who is now a deerhead. Shower. Today I need to stop by the grocery store, the butcher, and if I have the time I can maybe window shop and purchase myself a little gift. I’ve been good lately, plus it’s a special occasion. Tonight Daniel said that he would cook dinner for me if I picked up the ingredients, and this time he seems like he might actually do it.

People were confused at the sighting of the first deerhead. A man was found dead in the park with a deer head in place of his own head. A week later there was another. And then another one the next day. Then the next hour, and so on. I don’t really remember how long it has been since then, but deerhead deaths are more sporadic now, and a lot more random. But they will always appear quickly. As the Doe Covenant, the cult of those who remind us constantly that we must have done something to bring this on us, have put it on their propaganda posters One minute they’re your friend, the next they’re a deerhead. I’ve been in line for coffee and will look down to get my wallet out of my pocket and when I look up the patron in front of me has been deerheaded and is a pile on the floor. It really reduces the wait time.  

I start by walking off to the grocery store. I think that living in the city really has that perk that I can walk to anywhere, and it reduces how much food I buy because I know that I will have to carry it all back. Really helps the wallet and the body image. Daniel says that he likes me slim, and I know that we aren’t committed or legit or whatever but I think it’s so strange how I want to follow his rules. He works in some sort of finance job, but fancies himself as a revolutionary because by day he analyzes numbers for the bench company that invested in his firm and by night he goes to nightclubs that he considers to be underground where he wears shirts with cool slogans and surrounds himself with people who read political theory so that he can absorb their knowledge through osmosis. But I guess it’s nice that he has his job and his hobbies, the bench business is booming apparently. That’s good news, tonight we can have roast lamb with a mossy green herb coating. Right off the bone, that is when it is most succulent. 

I think that there is something beautiful in the way that we all continue to live amongst the risk of becoming a deerhead. There is a constant dread that clings like summer heat, yet we just continue going about our jobs and lives. There’s something I love about moving languidly through the aisles like I’m the woman at the end of Stepford Wives. But today the produce is rotten, so I can only guess that there weren’t any deliveries. One of the employees is hawking rotten cabbages to the patrons, telling them that there are plenty of people who would have found a way to use the rotten vegetable so why couldn’t they make the damn effort to use it themselves? Though I wish that there were more fresh herbs for me to pick and forage through, I have settled for the dried ones. Plus I have some basil and rosemary plants at home that I can use. The usual set are sitting outside, a group of old ladies who speak some language I can’t decipher and they stop when anyone gets near them. Today is no different as they pause when I walk by. I want to ask them why they think they’re so special, and really let myself yell at them. But it’s not worth it so I move on. With a canvas bag of groceries in tow, I make the five block pilgrimage to the butcher shop. I would have gone to the meat section at the supermarket but it was surrounded by flies and caution tape and I decided that it would be best for me to move on. 

Along the way I wait at a crosswalk only to see a blue sedan come careening down the street. When it goes past and runs through a stop sign I see that the driver has now become a deerhead, everyone knows the protocol for this. The car coming up on the opposite side of the road smoothly swerves away and the one behind it politely stops and waits so they can move on with their day. The deerhead car hits a telephone pole and crumples with almost no effort. Smoke quietly curls up from the car and gasoline fills the air. Up front the driver is slumped over the wheel and traffic moves past them like business as usual. I guess that it’s The Authority’s problem now. I continue my stroll until there’s a meaty, pheromonal smell in the air. I have arrived at the butcher, who always upsets me but it’s fine, Daniel is going to cook lamb for us tonight.

I don’t like the butcher. His mustache is made of grease and his face is always scrunched. I don’t like to look him in the eye because I know my reflection will get trapped there and ultimately I’m his. One time I sneaked a glance and saw the outlines of everybody he’s ensnared writhing in agony in the gray of his iris. The worst thing about him is that he thinks he is cool because he knows how to fuck and take apart a dead animal with equal precision. And then I freeze right outside the door because what if he doesn’t have any lamb? And I just stand there looking like an idiot while the weird music he plays (that he listens to because he’s so cool) just continues and all the other customers are yelling out orders for meat and shoving me aside. I had made all of these plans for tonight and it could all come crashing down with one accident. It’s kind of like that actress who had planned out the most beautiful and elaborate suicide she could think of but her dinner didn’t react well to her stomach acids and it bubbled up and she had to go throw up and died with her face right in the can. 

I don’t want to be the one with my face in the can at the butcher’s.

The chopping block is at the end of a long hallway filled with shelves of giardiniera, imported pesto, and canned oysters. I pick up the canned oysters, the brine is delicious. 

“Hello sir,” I say.

“Well well well! Look who’s back.” He says, and I only see the grin and his grease stache because I refuse to look past his nose. Instead I focus on the meats, and the pattern of fat in the soppressata and the artful arrangement of pistachios in the mortadella.

“Can I please have a rack of lamb?”

“No fair! I’ve been waiting!” a man at the end of the counter yells. “This used to be an establishment where people would take the time to notice me. Now I’m nothing.”

“Be quiet,” the butcher says. “You can wait. I’m dealing with my new favorite customer.” He says this with a smile, and I wish I could ignore it. Like this guy I knew whose arm lost most of its feeling and one day he got a small cut but didn’t realize it and it got gangrenous and pus filled. I want to ignore his gangrene smile, but it’s irresistible, like his lamb rack. 

“Oh it’s fine, he can order,” I say. “I’m in no rush.”

“He can wait,” the butcher says. The man runs out crying. “You got here early,” he continues. “I still gotta separate the rack from the rest of the body, you said you got time?”

“Yes sir.”

The guinea pig has an interesting social ritual where they need to figure out who is going to be the dominant member of the herd. They will usually mount or hump each other, and within every pack there needs to be a leader of the herd. The butcher will lead the herd. The crying man will be the bottom of the pack. He will be the last to get the hay, veggies, and pellets. I assume this makes me somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy, it’s a comforting thought.

“You know that guy used to be kinda fun,” the butcher says, grabbing the skinned and hairless animal to prep and sell it to me. It’s such a lovely shade of pink, like a gentle blush on someone’s cheeks, and it’s a lovely contrast to the stained gray cutting board it’s on.

“But-”

THWACK

“- He’s turned into such -”

THWACK.

“ – a whiny bitch lately. God sometimes I -”

THWACK

“ – wish his day of reckoning will come,” he slides the lamb around to get a better angle.

THWACK.

“- And he becomes a fucking deerhead.” He wraps the meat in delicate layers of parchment and places it in a paper bag before printing out a receipt. “That’ll be $35.88. Hell stay tuned little man, maybe someday I’ll have a special on venison.” He gives me that gangrene smile that sends me lower in the pack.

“Thank you sir,” I hand him $40 and tell him to keep the change and run out with my package. I feel something metallic clang around in the bag. Shit, I forgot to pay for the canned oysters. 

The sun has made the decision to peak out from the clouds now, and it spreads out over the streets like roadkill. Up ahead a man on the street is handing out flyers and yelling something I can’t make out. I just need to keep my head up and continue walking as quickly as I can. 

“You!” he yells. 

Keep walking, keep walking, keep walking. It’s a member of the Doe Covenant, I don’t want to interact with him.

“Young man! Do you pray each night out of fear or of respect? Are you tired of living with those whose actions make God turn us into deerheads?” 

Fuck, he caught me. Once these guys see you they tail you until you answer their inane questions. I turn around and face him. He’s lanky and with one errant breeze he could topple over. I clutch the lamb tightly because I can feel anger physically rise through my body and snake around my organs and into my head. I want to beat the shit out of him. Beat him with the lamb rack so bad that his rotten brain would fit right in with the crap lining the shelves at the supermarket and oh god I just want to give him a concussion that makes life flow by like the rivers surrounding us. But I breathe. I breathe and I let my shoulders relax. Today is going to be a good day, Daniel is going to cook lamb for us.

“Out of fear sir, I’m scared of what happens to those who interact with me. I pray that it stops soon.” I grab one of his flyers “Thanks!” He recoils immediately and I continue my stroll. I think that it’s healthy to indulge in a giggle every once in a while.

Once I’ve reached home and safely pack the groceries in the freezer, I make myself a lunch of canned oysters and toasted rosemary sourdough rolls that I’ve been saving for a special occasion and grab my basket to use the laundry machines in the basement. There’s only one machine left, and I toss everything in along with a laundry pod. The ones I use are so bright they hurt my eyes, and I wonder if this is how audiences felt when they saw the first technicolor film. I seat myself on top of the washer and do my needlepointing. Daniel once told me that it’s cute I keep needlepointing, and said I must be listening to him because he thinks it is important to make the most out of life because you never know when you’re gonna die. As the Doe Covenant always reminds us, One minute they’re your friend, the next they’re a deerhead. The radio in here is blaring the afternoon news. Mainly reports from The Authority on how many documented deerheads have popped up as of now, and today’s grand total is 7. I think that’s so amazing because that means I have seen 43% of today’s deaths. There’s not much else to report on today. A new kindergarten has opened in Bloomfield, and the Mothers Against Guinea Worm annual charity ball went off without a hitch, with not a single attendee becoming a deerhead. I’m not a big fan of the reporter, her name is Macy St. Tracy and she speaks like someone in a 1940’s film and I think it’s because she doesn’t feel confident in herself. Somewhere in her head a voice must be telling her that she needs that silly transatlantic accent so she can move up in her career. The news used to broadcast live on television, but Macy’s co-reporter Johnathan Willoughby got turned into a deerhead mid-broadcast when no one was noticing him and the channel decided to stop airing. 

One of the other tenants in the building is also here, and he’s just staring at me when he needs to be focusing on his own laundry. Why can’t he just leave me to my own devices? Is he looking at the pattern on the canvas? It’s a great design of the titular character from Die Geschichte vom Suppen-Kaspar in his more thinner stages so that I use less yarn. But it’s fine, he can watch me do my craft. The other tennant folds his own laundry into the most perfect squares with each article of clothing having hospital corners, the whole time just staring at me. I don’t get why he feels the need to make each item so perfectly folded, he’s just gonna ruin it sometime this week. I can try to do that with my laundry whenever it’s done but I don’t think I care to. Besides, I don’t have the time. I need time to put my face on, and it takes at least 20 minutes to get to Daniel’s place, and that’s without any deerhead related incidents.

Daniel’s apartment is in a nice neighborhood, and I know he can barely afford it. He keeps coupons in the pockets of his Larrimors khaki pants and his apartment is filled with every design trend he can think of. Normally he would have taken me to this week’s chic restaurant so that he can order bone marrow with garlic toasts because apparently everyone at the office says it is delicious, but I know he just doesn’t have the money.

He doesn’t even greet me when he opens the door. Instead he takes the lamb rack and walks into the kitchen where he slams it down on the cutting board to trim some more fat off of it. I begin to combine the herbs with breadcrumbs (made from leftover sourdough) and oil to create the coating. 

“Today one of those Doe Covenant people stopped me in the street,” I say. “And he tried yelling at me about God and whatever and I thought it would be so funny if I tried to give him a scare so I said to him God does bad things to those who interact with me.”

“So, what did you say to him?” Daniel asks, chopping vegetables. 

“I thought it would be so funny if I tried to give him a scare so I said to him God does bad things to those who interact with me.”

“Oh,” he says. “I kinda just expected you to run off like you usually do.”

“Well I thought I would do that to, but I guess that something just sparked in me and-”

“-God my boss was being such a dickhead today.” Daniel says. “The investors are freaking out because the areas of Schenley Park that have been roped off contain the most benches so they’re getting worried about brand image. And he somehow found a way to blame me for that. I just think it’s so annoying, but I decided to have a talk with him about that, something you wouldn’t do,” he says with a slight laugh in his voice and motioning his knife towards me. 

“Yeah that sounds hard,” I say. “But I’m glad you spoke with him.” I slide the plate of breadcrumbs and herbs over to him and he dips both racks of lamb down to evenly coat them. The racks are transferred over to a skillet so hot that it’s shrieking and groaning before it’s weighed down with a lamb rack ready to be seared.

“Get the oven door for me.”

I get the door for him and he slides the lamb on one rack and a tray of vegetables on the other one. “Thanks for cooking.”

“Yeah well you got all the stuff and brought it so it’s no problem I guess. Keep an eye on the lamb for me, I gotta shower.” He trods down the hallway and leaves me with the lamb and his dirty kitchen. His kitchen is always dirty, which is so confusing to me because he spent so much money buying the latest appliances and they’re stained with grease, fingerprints, and food residue. A bottle of stainless steel cleaning product is only $5.00, and I’ve bought them for him before yet they always disappear. I try to get him every scent I can! Citrus, lavender, and even rosehip but the bastard, no, the man who is doing his best, refuses to clean. I scrub every dish with a steel wool so hard that every crevice in my hand begins to turn gray and I have to take a break from the job that I tell him to do nearly every damn day so that I can fix my hands from doing his job. But it’s okay! It’s all okay, he cooked the lamb for us. The oven beeps and I take the lamb out so I can tent it with foil, which lets it continue cooking and stew in its own juices. He could have used those to make a pan sauce but what do I know? Again, he cooked the lamb for us.

There’s a crack in his table. I don’t know if he is aware he is doing it but he covers it up with the serving platter, even though the dish is no longer centered. It’s fine, because he cooked the lamb for us, and is gracious enough to serve a large portion to me. With a final garnish of mint pesto, my plate looks like something that would be served in the finest restaurant. He immediately digs in and rips meat from bone with great relish and enjoyment. I could attempt to make conversation right now, but he seems a bit busy at the moment. 

“You know,” I say. “This kind of reminds me of that moment in that movie when-” 

“You always reference some movie or tv show or whatever,” Daniel says, picking up the bone to pick the last bits off of it. “I don’t think comparing your life to whatever you see on a screen is healthy.”

“Oh, well I’ll try to stop, I guess.”

“No, it’s cute. Just a little weird guess.” He reaches for another serving, and the juice leaks from the lamb and patterns itself all over the table. We eat the rest of our meal in silence, because I don’t want to reference any more pieces of media or accidentally get Macy St. Tracy’s accent mid-way through the conversation. Once we are finally finished and the rack is now just a pile of bones on a platter, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. 

“Please start doing the dishes Daniel.”

“Yeah yeah, I will.”

I do my business and stare at myself in the mirror. My under-eye bags have gotten worse, and I think I have two more milia that are appearing on my right cheek. The razor burn on the area where my lower chin meets my neck has gotten worse and I ran out of my exfoliant. Other than that I think my face is still presentable, and I don’t have any food in my teeth. I walk down the hallway and sneak into the kitchen. 

The television is blaring some sports game, and I check the fridge to see that a beer is missing, while all the dishes are just a heap in the sink. But it’s fine, because he cooked the lamb for us. It’s fine because he cooked the lamb for us. It’s fine because he cooked the lamb for us. 

“It’s not fine,” I whisper. “It’s not fine at all.”

 “Daniel?” I call. “Daniel why are you such an insolent piece of SHIT?! What value does your damn life bring to me? God if this were a movie I’d fucking up and leave you and the audience would cheer because they recognize what a piece of shit you are.” I run into the living room to ream his ass a bit more when his new visage stops me mid-step.

Daniel is now a deerhead. I didn’t even hear who or whatever it was to come in to do their job, and now my lover is a deerhead. Posed on the couch with a beer still in hand and feet on the coffee table even though I’ve warned him that it can cause wear on the wood. My first reaction is to check on his orchid. I bought it for him a few months ago and it was quite the finicky bloom. He forgot to rotate it so that it could get equal amounts of sunlight and now one of the petals is burned and has a hole in it because it got too much sun. He also forgot to dust the blinds, which I specifically requested he do because it will trigger my allergies. The duster I got him is still in its packaging in his hallway closet, and I carefully fold it so that it can be placed in the recycling bin, but that is empty too. His trash can is filled with all sorts of recyclables, and I know that portions of pizza boxes can’t be recycled because the grease has tainted it but he can still rip off every part that’s clean and put them in the recycling bin. He can also rinse out his glass bottles and remove the stickers from them and-

But he can’t. He’s a deerhead, he can’t do anything anymore. What do I even do in this situation? Eventually I have to call The Authority so Macy St. Tracy can report about another body in the pile, but what do I do right now? Call his parents? Tell them “Hi I’m your son’s lover he never committed to but he died right in front of me, don’t have an open casket that deer head is gonna freak out the mourners!” The area where venison meets human is ragged, and I notice that there could have been a much better effort to have a clean transition. The butcher would have done a much better job.

 But I guess Daniel was right. We continue living. We go to bars and drink our neon sour bombs and tear meat from the bones on our chicken wings before we go out and dance to the music that leaves our ears ringing and vibrates the floor. Though I know I just yelled about how much I hate him to his corpse, I want nothing more than to be near him. I once heard a rumor that Edith Piaf wanted to die in Paris but ended up dying in Nice. So a friend drove her all the way across the country with her dead body in the front seat to try and show her fans that she died in Paris. 

I am the driver now, and I can never drive in silence. 

I dig through the records he used to thrift and decide on one that’s a close up black and white photograph of some woman with highly defined cheekbones. I put it on his record player attached to a large cabinet and as soon as it starts I think that it sounds like a drinking song. I can imagine all the men in the bar slamming down their glasses filled with beer so dark that it looks like dehydrated piss and said liquid sloshes everywhere. They all gather and shimmy side to side with molecules of foam from their piss beer clinging to their beards as they drunkenly sing along to it. 

Daniel’s body is light, and still warm. Though I would expect the deer head to add on some weight, I find that I can easily pick him up. To the lyrics that I can’t understand I lead him in a final, uncoordinated, dance together before I have to call The Authority and watch his body get added to the pile. Daniel would often mention the other lovers he had taken up, I don’t know how many of them he had cooked a rack of lamb for, but I’m grateful I got to be the last one.

Arriva, Gigi L’amoroso!

We dip.

Il rubacuori gli occhi neri da insolente! 

We twirl.

Gigi L’amoroso! 

We step to the left.

Il vincitore senza cour ma così affascinante!

And if I try hard enough, I can convince myself there is a glimmer of joy in those shining, lifeless black eyes.

Savin Kann is an artist and writer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and currently based in New York. He got his B.A. from Goucher College where he was a Kratz Summer Writing Fellow for the summer of 2020. His other work includes being a dramaturg and director for a staging of Jacqueline Goldfinger’s The Terrible Girls. His work has previously appeared in Grub Street magazine from Towson University.