Roadkill

It sat in a furry heap; a smear of something stuck to the hot pavement with a white stripe traveling across its twisted gray body. Flies buzzed in its eyes and in the gaping hole where its lower half should have been. The insects made my teeth vibrate with their constant noise. The raccoon—although calling it such was a bit of an exaggeration—had gone out in one spectacularly violent fashion. Probably happened sometime last night. I can picture it. This quiet little back road, silent in the early morning, moon still high in the sky. A skittering critter in the soon-to-be wrong place. A growling engine. Headlights. Bam.

 Now it’s a smear. A gray smear with a white strip going down the twisted middle covered in flies. I wonder if the driver saw it. Did they swerve or did they speed up to squash the little guy? I know a few folks who’d do that. Maybe the driver was up too late, asleep at the wheel when the two parties crossed paths just a bit too hard. I bet whoever it was that caved in this raccoon isn’t even thinking about it. I bet they’re either back home, enjoying their Saturday watching TV with a hand in a bag of chips. I can guarantee they aren’t staring over their dash wondering about the life and story of dead vermin.

Yet here I am. Parked on the side of the road with a fucked-up tire at the mercy of my roadside assistance. And she won’t even pick up her phone.  Guess the story doesn’t matter much. End result is still the same—a gray smear with a white stripe going down the twisted middle. Why couldn’t I have broken down somewhere else? Somewhere without a dead raccoon. Maybe last week before everything went to shit?

Did this little guy know I was staring at its flattened carcass? I’ve got front row seats to the fly fiesta, and it’s horrible. I wonder if she’d find it funny. The fact that after last night I’m stuck on the side of the road with a lump of rotting meat. I remember finding a little trash bandit back at our old place. She wanted to keep feeding the thing, calling it adorable. Didn’t even care that I had to clean up the mess. Don’t think she’d find this sight very adorable. And I don’t think the raccoon would find it very funny.

God, what am I saying? It’s just a dead raccoon. It walked out here, got hit by a car, and died. Its life over in one painful second. There isn’t much else to think about. Wonderful. But why did it have to smell so bad? The heat isn’t making it any better either. I’ll be washing this stench out of my interior for weeks, and even then, I doubt I’ll ever get this odor out of here. If I had only left an hour later, maybe I would have broken down somewhere else. Maybe if she picked up her phone this morning, I wouldn’t be driving out here in the first place. But nope. Now I’ll always have a hint of dead animal in my seats. As if I needed another reminder of today.

If only the driver could have seen what they caused. They should be ashamed of themselves. I bet they’d lose their lunch at the sight of that twisted pile of fur. It would serve them right too. No one should be driving at that hour anyway. The critter didn’t deserve this. Hell, I don’t deserve this.

Yet here we both are. A smear covered in flies and bugs, and a shmuck with a popped tire. Aren’t we just some roadkill?

What a jackass. I swear some folks seem to enjoy running over animals. As if leaving them to die, bleeding on burning pavement makes them feel powerful. It’s pathetic. There’s nothing powerful about that twisted heap over there. I bet it was just going about its day without a care in the world when—bam! Dead. Gone. A bloody twisted pile on the roadside.

Now someone has to clean up this mess. No other animal will eat this thing. It’s got no place left in the world. Can’t even rot into the dirt. Nope, at some point someone with a big shovel will peel it off the cement and toss it into the truck. They’ll drive away, and no one will remember the twisted pile of fur with a stripe going down the middle. Maybe the stain will last a few more weeks, but that’ll be gone too after a few rainstorms. And I’ll be gone long before all that happens.

Maybe I should call her again. I have to stop looking at this twisted pile of fur. It’s just roadkill.