Some Kind of Goldilocks

“Twenty on pump two and a pack of Newports.”

Simpson Leary pulled a tangled wad of bills and receipts from his wallet, accidentally dropping an Olive Garden gift card on the counter. He glanced at the cashier, a bleary-eyed 30-something-year-old in a faded band t-shirt. 

“You got a girlfriend?” Simpson asked. 

The man squinted, “What?”

“A girlfriend?” Simpson repeated, sliding the gift card over to him. “If not, go get you one, and take her out sometime.” He tapped the corner of the card where the number ‘$50’ was printed. “It’s still good, I promise. I just ain’t never gonna get the chance to use it.”

The man was slow to react. “Oh, thanks," he smiled. “I appreciate it.”

Simpson paid for the gas and cigarettes and folded his change into his wallet. A bell chimed overhead as he exited the gas station and stepped out into the balmy summer night. Cricket song filled the silence and flies buzzed above an overflowing trash can. Simpson hummed, hands in his pockets, and walked to his red pick-up truck waiting at the pump. 

Then the engine roared to life, and the truck lurched forward. 

Simpson squinted, ‘Well now what in the–”

He raced around the bed of the truck, slapping the metal side. “Hey! Stop!” It lurched forward again, then stalled. A boy in a black hoodie sat at the wheel, cursing and flinging his head around, foot slamming down on the gas pedal. The engine revved, but the truck remained in place. 

Simpson yanked the door open, and the boy froze, his acne-spotted face going pale in the jaundiced gas station light.

“You going somewhere, boy?”

The boy’s eyes flew wildly around as if he was looking for an escape, or a hiding place, or something to attack the man with. Simpson planted himself in the doorway, blocking the exit. Then he chuckled. “I take it you don’t drive stick.” He laughed a deep, gruff rumble. The boy backed further into the truck, climbed over the console, and tore at the passenger door handle. He pounded the glass and shoved his shoulder against it.

Simpson lit a cigarette and rested his boot against the door frame. “Mm. That door’s been broke a good while.” 

The boy’s backpack lay abandoned on the floorboard of the truck, and Simpson grabbed it and slung it over his own shoulder. 

“Looks like you're stuck with me.”

The boy’s voice cracked. “What are you going to do? Call the cops on me?” His features pinched into an angry point, but it only made him look more like a petulant toddler than a threat.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how you act.”

He twisted the fabric of his hoodie in his fist, wrinkling it into a sweaty wad. “Just give me my bag and I’ll go.”

Simpson removed the nozzle from the pump and unscrewed the gas cap, cigarette hanging from his lips. The backpack looked like a toy resting between Simpson’s shoulder blades, dwarfed by his large frame.

The boy yelled from within the truck. “What do you want from me?”

Simpson cocked his head. “What I want is for you to sit there real quiet and let me finish pumping my gas. Just sit there and try not to steal nothing.”

The pump hummed, and somewhere the yowls of a cat fight echoed across the empty lot. Simpson returned the nozzle, wiped his hands on his jeans, and slid into the driver’s seat. 

“Alright child, now tell me where you live, and let’s get you home. I know your momma must be worried about you.”

The boy crossed his arms and stared out the window. “No one’s worried about me.”

“I know that ain’t true.” Simpson shifted the car into first and pulled out onto the dark road. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. The chuckle grew into a full belly laugh.

“What are you laughing about?” The kid threw his hands in the air.

Simpson wiped a tear from his eye. “I s'ggest next time you get sticky fingers, maybe you should set your sights on a Snickers Bar. Or a Coke–something simple. But if you dead set on lifting some wheels, you should at least go for an automatic. Might actually get out of the parking lot then.”

The boy crossed his arms and glared at the dashboard. 

Simpson cleared his throat. “All right, now tell me where I’m taking you. You live around these parts?”

“Just take me back to the gas station.”

“Why? So you can slink around looking to ruin somebody else’s night? I don’t think so.”

“What does it matter to you? I’m not your problem.”

Simpson whipped his head to the right. “You became my problem the minute you opened the door to my truck and sat yourself inside like some kind of Goldilocks. Oh, this one looks just right. Not too big, not too small. I think I’ll just take it for myself. Hmm? Sound about right?”

The boy only stared out the window into the dark line of the woods.

“You know,” Simpson said, “I bet that child wouldn’t have never eaten nobody’s porridge or climbed in nobody’s chair or slept in nobody’s bed if she knew it was bears that was coming back.” Simpson laughed, drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Ain’t no oatmeal worth getting mauled over.”

The boy reached down and tugged on the door handle again, but it stayed shut. He slumped back against the seat and yanked his hoodie down further over his face. 

“But you know what I think? About that story?” Simpson continued. “See, I think maybe it weren’t all her fault after all. I think that child wouldn’t have never just busted in and eaten somebody else’s breakfast if her momma had fed her good that morning.”

The boy rubbed his arms and stole a glance at Simpson. “Or maybe her Momma was just a dirtbag who couldn’t stay out of jail and so Goldilocks had to go live with her lazy aunt who just sat around yelling, ‘make your own damn porridge!’ and didn’t care what happened to her.” 

Simpson was quiet for a moment. “Well, could be so. I never considered that.”

The woods loomed on either side of the road, thick and lush at the height of summer. Insects pattered against the windshield in a quiet drum beat, and the moon was a blue sliver, playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. 

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Jordan.”

Simpson came to a four-way stop and clicked his turn signal on, even though he was the only one on the road.

“How old are you?” 

“16.”

“Mm mm, don’t play me. I’ma ask again, and you tell me the truth. How old are you?”

Jordan fidgeted in the seat, then muttered, “12.”

“That seems more like it. Well, Jordan, my name’s Simpson Leary. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but the jury’s still out on that one.” He extended a meaty hand and waited. Jordan stared at it for a moment, deliberating, as if shaking it would signify some kind of surrender. Then he shifted and raised his own hand.

“Thanks for not turning me in.”

“Well. Night’s still young.” They drove in silence, the truck rocking gently with each turn. Soon the sky glowed with the bright yellow arches of the town’s only McDonalds. The truck flooded with light as it wove into the parking lot and up to the drive-through menu. 

“You eat cheeseburgers?” Jordan nodded and Simpson ordered enough food for five men. “You know, Jordan, I tend to think folks make terrible decisions when they’s hungry. All the dumbest things I ever did–and that’s a long list–was probably because I was running around with an empty stomach.” Then he added, “though my choice of friends didn’t help neither.” He handed Jordan the brown paper sack, spots of grease dotting the bottom. “Help yourself.”

The boy made quick work of removing the wrappers, and he inhaled the food more than chewed it. 

“So you stay with your aunt. Did I catch that right?”

Jordan mumbled around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “Yeah.”

“I think it’d be best if you call her. At least let her know you’s alright.”

“No point."

“How so?” 

“She won’t even be home till later. She works the late shift at O’Neals.”

“The bar?”

“Yeah.”

“I see.”

Jordan unwrapped a straw and mashed it into his cup. Simpson turned back onto the road and clicked on his brights. Insects flew at the windshield like fat snowflakes, the dull thuds the only sound besides Jordan’s slurping. 

“So what was the plan?”

“Huh?”

“If you got away with it. S’pose you did drive off with my truck. Where was you gonna go anyway?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, what, so you just felt like going for a country drive? Maybe joyriding out in the swamps? That it? Hm?”

Jordan pushed back his hood and shoved a hand through his stringy hair.

Simpson hugged the curves of the winding, rural road. “You got nothing to say then? That’s fine.” He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I hear the food’s no good in juvenile detention. None of this ‘too-hot’ or ‘just right’ stuff. Just plain cold. And folks behind bars don’t like it when you take what don’t belong to you. But maybe they’ll go easy on you, since you such a terrible thief and all.”

“My plan,” Jordan cleared his throat, “was to go to my dad’s.”

“Where’s he live at?” Simpson's voice rumbled in the small space.

“In Virginia.”

“Virginia, mmm. Mighty long drive for someone who can barely reach the gas pedal.”

“I can reach the pedals,” Jordan turned and faced Simpson.

“And a lot of good that did you.” Simpson clicked his brights off as a car came toward them, then flicked them back on when it had passed.

“Why aren’t you with him now?” Simpson asked. “Instead of at your aunt’s place?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just trying to make sense of you, that’s all.”

“I’d rather stay with him, but nobody cares what I want.” Jordan picked at a flap of peeling leather on the seat. “They said he’s got to earn back custody or something like that. He and my mom weren't always nice to each other.”

“But he was always nice to you?”

“Yeah,” Jordan said, “he was alright.”

Lights glowed between the breaks in the trees as another vehicle wound around the next curve. Simpson clicked off his brights as the vehicle came nearer, its own unwavering high beams illuminating the scraggly tops of the pines. Simpson flashed his lights, but the other driver didn’t dim theirs. The car finally passed, taking its blinding light with it and momentarily swamping the truck in shadows. Simpson blinked, his eyes readjusting to the night road. He flicked his brights back on and saw too late the buck standing in the middle of the road. Its neck whipped toward the truck, black eyes glowing green in the halogen light beam.

Simpson slammed the brakes and thrust an arm against Jordan’s chest. The truck collided with the deer in a jarring thud, sending splatters of blood up the outside of the windshield and sprays of Coca-Cola up the inside. Everything went still, the air ringing, the engine clicking. Jordan splayed his hands across the dashboard, breathing in short bursts. 

Simpson put the truck in park and laid a hand on Jordan’s back. “You alright, son?”

Jordan nodded, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “Good. I’m good.”

“Good,” Simpson said, pushing open the driver’s door. His legs wobbled, jellied by adrenaline. The front left headlight was smashed in, the hood of the truck dented and crushed at the corner. Bits of brown fur poked out of the folds of the metal, sticky with blood, and the buck lay motionless in the road, neck wrenched at an unnatural angle. Simpson inspected the truck’s front tires then ran a hand over the mangled chrome bumper, cursing under his breath.

Jordan climbed out of the car through the driver’s side and came to stand beside him. “Oh, gross.”

Simpson stood, hands on his hips. “Well, let’s get on with it.” He bent down and clutched the deer’s two front legs. “Okay, you get the back. We lift on three.”

“Wait, what?” Jordan waved both hands. “No way. I’m not touching that.”

“Look now. I don’t like what happened any more than you do, but this here is good meat.”

“You’re telling me you plan to eat this?” Jordan’s voice rose an octave. “You know this is called roadkill right?” 

“Poke fun all you want.” Simpson dropped the legs and stood upright. “Way I see it, I could either leave him here in the road and feed the buzzards, or I take him back with me, dress him and save this meat, and he’s going to end up feeding a whole lotta people for a long time.” Jordan’s face twisted and Simpson went on. “I know about a dozen families who is just scraping by every single week. They’d be tickled to get some venison.”

Jordan only stared at Simpson, “This feels wrong.”

“Oh, but stealing a man’s truck just fills you up with all the warm fuzzies?”

Jordan scraped the toe of his sneaker against the road, making circles over the white center line. He raised the hood of his jacket back over his head. “I’ll pop the trunk.” 

Together the two hauled the deer around the vehicle and hoisted it up into the bed. Its antlers scraped against the metal as they shoved him further back and slammed the gate. 

Jordan walked to the passenger side of the truck and yanked at the handle, “stupid door.” He stomped around the front, pausing at the only working headlight. Moths danced in the beams, and mosquitos hovered above the hood, crazed by the blood in the air. “It all just seems so senseless. He was standing there, enjoying his life, and then just like that," Jordan snapped. "Gone.”

“You right. It is senseless.” Simpson held the door open and let Jordan scramble back into his seat. “But that don’t mean we can’t try to make some sense out of it.”

Simpson slammed the door shut and they sat in silence for a moment. The cab smelled like exhaust and cheap beef and syrupy sweet Coca-Cola. The floorboards were littered with loose papers and soda bottles that had been thrown forward in the collision. Jordan bent over and gathered a stack of mail off the floor. He picked up a thick pamphlet and tilted it toward the light, squinting in the dimness. The glossy cover showed a gray-haired couple shaking hands with a man in khaki pants, a stethoscope draped around his neck. 

“What’s lay-oo-kamia?”

“What now?” Simpson said.

Jordan showed him the pamphlet before setting it on the top of the stack.

“Leukemia,” Simpson corrected. “Means the doctors say my blood ain’t as healthy as it’s s’posed to be.”

“Oh,” Jordan mumbled, playing with the strings on his hoodie. “Maybe you should run more. My teacher said running is good for your blood.”

“That so?” Simpson smiled. “Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

Simpson shifted the truck into gear and coaxed it to speed. It teetered and sputtered, like a drunk on stilettos, but Simpson drove slow, eyes fixed on the road.

“You ever had a deer steak?” Simpson asked.

“No.”

“Deer jerky?”

“No.”

“Deer chili?”

“Nope.”

“You eat chili?”

“I eat anything,” Jordan said, “except roadkill.”

“It’s only roadkill if it was already there when you found it. It ain’t roadkill if you’s the one that killed it. But oh boy, you oughta try my deer chili. It’s an old family recipe, passed down for generations.”

Jordan snorted. “The only recipe my family ever passed down is ‘don’t microwave the pop-tart in the bag.’”

Simpson laughed, then reached over and clapped his palm on Jordan’s shoulder. “Look, your aunt’s going to be in a fit if she come back and find you gone. Let’s get you on home.”

The boy released a loud sigh. “Fine. You’re going to want to make a U-turn up here then.”

They drove in silence, Jordan every so often whipping his head around to peek in the bed of the truck, as if the deer might stand up and jump out. But it lay still, the moon illuminating its pale white antlers jutting into the dark.

“I’m sorry about your truck–all the damage and stuff.”

“It’s all good. I’m just glad you’s alright. Truck’s is a whole lot easier to fix than bodies.” 

Jordan pointed to a gravel driveway and Simpson turned onto it. The single headlight revealed an overgrown yard and a small white house crouched in the middle of it. 

“This it?”

“Yeah, this is it,” Jordan said. 

Simpson opened the door and stepped down, and Jordan spilled out after him. Simpson reached behind the driver’s seat and pulled out Jordan’s backpack. “Now go on. I got a deer to clean.”

Jordan shrugged into the straps. “Have fun with that.”

They stood in tall grass, the night silent but for cricket song. 

“Say, you know where Big Ed’s is at?” Simpson asked the boy.

“You mean the mechanics shop?”

“That’s the one.” Simpson leaned against the hood of the truck. “That's where I am, most days. You come on by sometime, and I’ll give you some famous Leary family deer chili. Alright now?”

Jordan cinched his straps tighter and started backing toward the house. “Alright," he said. "I’ll bring the pop-tarts.”

Simpson drove home, weaving through the night with one headlight.