Encounters with dumb deer and Mr. Macho

I understand that this blog has a Dear Diary feel to it, but it's 2:11 a.m. and I'm wired so here goes it.

First of all, happy to be able to post. On my commute back from my 'temporary part-time' gig designing and editing sports pages at the Freeps I had a close encounter with a herd (flock? gaggle? bunch?) of deer just north of Milton on I-89.

I spotted the white eyes on the right side of the road about 100 yards ahead of me and began decelerating. One by one four Bambis made their way across my path. The last one stopped almost in front of me and I jerked the wheel to the left, missing the dumb thing by maybe five feet. I almost over-corrected and was lucky to avoid a trip down the median.

I was lucky there were no other cars to my left because it could have been an ugly scene.

I actually pulled off the road for a minute to recompose before heading home.

Having worked into the early morning for almost 20 years now, I'm used to the occasional close call with wildlife, but this one ranks near the top of the list.

That said, a couple of days ago I had an encounter with another animal, this one human, that could have also have been ugly.

On Sunday, in a driving rain, I stopped off at Costcos. There was an older guy - maybe mid-60s - reading a book in his Accura in the spot next to where I chose to park.

I didn't think much of it, grabbed my umbrella, and went in to buy some thumbdrives.

I came back out and the guy was still there.

Carefully, I opened my door and began fiddling with my umbrella, trying to get it back into the car without soaking myself.

My task complete, I reached for the driver's side door and noticed it was leaning up against the side mirror of the Accura. I looked up and was met with a steely glare from the driver of the car.

I mouthed the prerequiste 'Sorry' with the standard wide-eyed response and shrug of the shoulders, palms outstretched. In other words, the universal sign for 'My bad, but no harm done.'

Apparently, Mr. Macho, circa 1945 didn't read sign language.

He continued to glare at me like I was some foul-mouthed 9-year-old who had just hit a baseball into his backyard.

My apology unaccepted, I mouthed the words, 'Or not.'

And when his glare persisted I invited: 'Why don't you call a cop?'

At this point please remember, there was no damage to his car, my door had simply drifted to kiss the outside his mirror. There was no paint-to-paint exchange.

However, my muted words struck a nerve.

In a blinding downpour, Mr. Macho flew from his car and raced towards mine as I backed out of the parking spot.

He was a trembling five-foot something, 150-pound ball of fury, wearing - and I swear I'm not lying - fingerless gloves on his hands. Not sure if he was a bicyclist or a boxer.

Nevertheless, the following exchange, more or less, ensued.

Him: What's your problem!

Me: I said I'm sorry.

Him: Well, sorry doesn't fix the dent in my car!

Me: (after pulling back into the parking spot) Show me a dent. My door touched the outside of your side-view mirror.

Him: (Silence)

Me: Are we done?

Him: (Silence, followed by him storming off.)

Not sure if I ruined his day or made it.

(I know he made mine; I couldn't stop laughing all the way to the Freeps!)

All I know is that if push came to shove I think I could have taken him, fingerless gloves and all.

Would love to hear the heroic account he gave to his wife upon her return to the car.

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SHAWN CORROW, when he's not getting scared by Bambi and laughing at a Grumpy Old Men (the likes of which he's destined to become) is a freelance photographer/writer living in Franklin, Vermont.

Comments

[Sandy]

Parking lots are dangerous,beware. Funny story.