Pinned to the Seat

I used to see him and his wife at Paddy’s

every Sunday during football season.

I’d go in around noon to watch the Bears,

and they’d be there in orange and blue jerseys. Last time

I saw them, I hadn’t been there in a month and a half.

Right around halftime,

he holds up his left arm: “Wish

I didn’t have this brace on.”

“What happened?”

“I was driving my way back

from work on 35. Deer

ran out onto the road, got hit

by an oncoming car.

Split in half

and the head

came through the windshield

pinned me to the seat.”

“Was it a buck?”

someone asked.

“Ayuh.”

“Did it gore you

with its horns?”

“No, no,

I was lucky.”

“Shit yeah.”

“I’m a lefty, so

I had my hand on top of the steering wheel.

It came through and hit me."

He slaps his forearm

like a buck's head would.

"The bone was stickin’ out my arm."

His right index finger demonstrates

bone protruding.

And the other half got jammed up—”

here he points along his bicep.

“How long did it take

till someone got to you?”

“Someone opened my door ‘bout a minute later.

She was a nurse.

I wanted to get out and lie down,

she told me

no no, don’t move.”

As he’s telling me this,

his wife pulls out a small stack of photos.

“Usually I drive a little Grand Prix to work,

but that day, for whatever reason,

I decided to take the Chevy.”

She shows me eagerly

half-a-dozen pictures

of a ’67 Chevy pick-up

covered in blood.

“If I’d taken the other car,

I’d be dead for sure.”