Deer Ankles
I like going to the arts and crafts store on the weekends. I usually go on Saturday at around eight at night but sometimes a Sunday will do. As I make my way to the register and ask whichever employee present if this specific location carries deer ankles. Once I confirm with them that I am actually talking about deer ankles, everything falls apart. They look me straight in the eyes to give some sort of response along the lines of “no.” It is at this point where I turn around and exclaim the phrase: “A turtle in the pot and a fish in the net!” I’ve been dubbed the “animal guy” at the Sarmiento Ave location but that’s just because I’ve chosen a secondary animal pseudo-profundity. If I chose to go with “Wrench on the bolt and a key in the lock!” instead, things might be a bit different. But I like the turtle fish thing I’ve got going so far and I like aquatic theming. No deer ankles is a bummer nonetheless. I look forward to the day where someone at the very least tells me that they’ll check in the back quickly. I’d appreciate the kind gesture but we all know that they do not have deer ankles in the back. This poor bastard Kiernan has been swamped by my puzzling platitudes five times so far but I’m sure he’s hoping for a sixth. Though, I’ve been wondering what happens when I am told: “Yeah, I think we do.” Surely I’m due for a yes on the deer ankles prompt but there should never be a yes in the first place. I should have to ask this question until I inevitably croak as there isn’t an alternative that could be remotely considered. But I guess I ask because I know the answer is no and will continue to be no. It is the one constant that I can rely on and know will never falter. The day an arts and crafts store sells me a deer ankle is the day that I lose all hope for a sane world. I hardly draw the line at global conflicts and civil unrest. It’s either deer ankles or no deer ankles.
Deer ankles it was not at the Silver Apple Springs location and I couldn’t be happier. The cashier Meredith was unfamiliar with me and a new face is a free mind to induct. Kiernan (Bum of the Hoarders Creek Blvd. location) stopped giving me that pleasure months ago. But why arts and crafts stores? What’s so wrong with a Walgreens?
“The Sovereign LORD is my strength;
he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
he enables me to tread on the heights.”
Habakkuk 3:19
Whether or not deer ankles are in stock remains my unflawed societal litmus test. The idea that one could sell both “arts” and “craft” strikes me as absurd. It is only natural that I would then ask for an absurd item derived from an absurd concept of commerce. I can’t buy the “arts” and “craft.” I can only hope to know how to begin with the “arts” and “craft.” Also, the people who work at these places are clowns. Yes, I understand that you are minoring in Figure Sculpture and its forms. I still need to know if you have deer ankles.
This Sunday afternoon shined a bit of hope on my quest for deer ankles. I visited the Dunham Drive location and I was feeling better than usual. I gleefully asked Cyrus the cashier if this particular location carried deer ankles. Cyrus then thought on the request for a few moments and then told me that he didn’t think so. I subsequently turned around and exclaimed to the shoppers behind me that it will always be a turtle in a pot and a fish in the net. It was a victory. Stepping into an overcasted sun coated pavilion, I finally felt God.
My true passion for deer ankles is something I have considered for a while now. Would I kill for deer ankles? I never find myself getting too bothered by deer ankles not being in stock but Sebastian is a different story. Sebastian Bower is a man I have dreamed of killing but never have tried. Sebastian has never done me wrong in any scenario and I find him to actually be very supportive. I first ran into him about three months back at the Reed Avenue location while at the register. I was asking if their specific location carried deer ankles and Sebastian was behind me in line. Cashier Craig uttered a resounding no and sent me packing. On my way to the door, Sebastian yelled out to me: “Hope you get ‘em next time!” This was the moment I discovered a sick and damaged man who also understood the system in place. For the next three months, Sebastian has asked for updates on my deer ankle mission. Sebastian knows that I will never get the deer ankles and yet he asks. A level of taunting this profound must be too much for one man to carry but Sebastian lives on. Sebastian doesn’t beat a dead horse, he ruins it. I pray every night to a god whom I don't believe in and Sebastian fuels that effort. If only I could be granted the power to do so, things could change. The second coming of Christ is too little for my needed two miracles but it wouldn’t hurt to try.
Before I ask the golden question, I sometimes peruse the aisles of feasible stock. I enjoy my hunt for deer ankles to varying degrees on varying days. Occasionally, I beeline straight to the register to ask if deer ankles are present. Other times I walk through the aisles thinking about the question before going in for the kill. I am only but a servant to the will of deer ankles and its relation to unlocking an achievable human utopia. Deer ankles are a constant in the laws of things and its stead of normalcy. Enlightenment couldn’t describe it and I can only try.
Church on Sundays sometimes reorients whatever funk I’m feeling after a Saturday declination. Deacon Gavin Steele is the priest at the present moment because we don’t have one. Regardless, Steady and Strong Chapel is the place I call my third home. The real priest lies in the standard anatomical position, just shy of five and a half feet under. Our usual lector Hughbert Floundry had a “Cheney” accident with Priest O’Bryant but this time he actually killed the guy. Hughbert can only receive the good word on Thursdays now and he is very understanding of this. Killing a priest is just a rough thing for anyone to do, once you get past the killing part. Because what if God is real and you just killed one of His acolytes? And what sucks is that we supposedly have a piece of God within us. So, if you kill a priest, it’s like you’re killing God twice and asking for a to-go box with the bill. You’re doing too much with a priest. Find a fascist instead.
I’m a staunch omnivore but “anti-pescatarian” might describe it best. I had to make a quick shopping trip to Shop N’ Dash last week and it was oppressive. I knew that I would be abandoning all hope that day. Whether or not Shop N’ Dash would be the conduit remained to be seen but I was ready to open my eyes to it. Before exiting my car, I executed a flawless thousand yard stare to the lightpole about 20 yards out. I then gave myself a mental pep talk that evolved into an unrequitable waste of time. Great job guy!
The two homeless men out front of Shop N’ Dash were fighting again but that just meant it was a Tuesday. Shop N’ Dash held a discount pizza slice special at their deli inside on Tuesdays and these men took it seriously. Dean and Foster Lowry are homeless twin brothers who panhandle at Shop N’ Dash on pizza discount days. The two brothers usually scrounged enough money throughout the morning to be able to afford a slice at lunch. The brothers take turns each week on who goes inside to buy the slice but once that brother comes back out, it's mutually assured destruction. On this specific discount day, Foster had Dean pinned against the hedges in section 2 of parking lot B. The pizza slice was already faced down on the concrete curb but that no longer mattered. I watched from under the store’s awning while Girls Just Want To Have Fun leaked from the speakers above me. No one was stopping them and no one would try.
The single slice of pizza was symbolically greater than their true hunger for it. The pizza slice has never been fully eaten by either brother but that was part of the agreement.
Each brother would try to best the other every week with no end in sight. They have their own deer ankles in hand and they don’t even know it. Dean and Foster love to roll boulders uphill more than most and I commend them for just that. Yeah, the pizza sucks, but no one gets the pleasure to say so unless they earn it. If they respected anything, it was “no nutshots.”
As any innovator would, I’ve started to doubt my own methods. Deer ankles are not inaccessible to most, I could get a couple sent to my house if I really wanted to. But the fact remains that there is an above zero chance for an arts and crafts store to have deer ankles, prior to any discernable societal shift. A couple of suits from Big Art could decide that deer ankles are “in” and my thermometer up the ass of society would run a few degrees hotter than it should. Now this would scare some into absconsion but I must remain steadfast in what truly matters. I’ve been dreading the day where I need to allocate my own personal funds to a pair of fucking deer ankles. I know that it seems my empire of thought is built upon sand and you’d be correct. I’ve stuck with deer ankles and that won’t change. I am aware of my own actions and no, I do not love my government and never have.
I’ve taken an interest in gazelles recently and it feels like I'm cheating. I should state here that I know close to nothing on wildlife, other than the basic facts. My favorite animal growing up was Albert III and I think that was where the problems started. Deer are my chosen medium for a list of reasons but I don’t know, gazelles are kind of cool.
They've got the horns while deer are stuck with the factory model antlers. I get this strange feeling of infidelity when I think about gazelles but I try to not give it any power. I remember telling my father about how fast deer are and the beauty of their effortless grace. The next day he took me to some dingy restaurant and sat me down in front of Big Buck Hunter. We couldn’t leave until I killed 100 deer and goddamn I was a good shot. Arcade games like those always intrigued me in the way that they create a meta-reality portmanteau. I’d love to fight insurgents in the middle east on a Thursday but I would much prefer to do it on a 32” LCD screen. It’s the same feeling I get when I see a scratch-off on the side of the road. A face down scratcher on asphalt worms its way into the deepest recesses of my mind and lodges itself nicely. Suddenly, Poincaré doesn’t seem so full of bullshit until a minute from now. I assume people think that if I won the lottery, my house would look like an ivory trafficking start-up. They’d be wrong because I am more of a shitty twisted bronze figurine sculpture kind of guy than anything. And with that kind of artistic taste, it makes you wonder why I’d even dirty my hands with something so archaic as a Michael’s. Sadly, I lust for minimalist art forward architecture and won’t ever stop at it. For someone who has to face rejection on such a regular basis, I need a simple design to come back to. My ways of measuring the pulse of society are simple enough so why can’t my house be as well? I don’t think it’s unfair to want a nice laundry room for myself.
Harry, the cashier at the Hogden Fountain Drive location, warmly greeted me as I stepped in from the rain. I’ve met Harry before and he’s a good kid. He doesn’t really understand what I do but he goes along with it. Better to pretend I’m crazy and nod with me than taking the risk of ending up on a police report. I knew Harry, and I knew this wouldn’t be a problem, so I asked away. Harry responded immediately by telling me that they didn’t get any on the shipment this weekend but to come back later and see if anything changed. I’m always glad to have a willing participant in my experiment even though they poison the pool of true experimentation. Harry understands the core concept of stranger danger and I could not be more glad. I would hate to tell a guy asking for deer ankles that he can’t buy any. It’s a wrong question seeking out the right answers. It doesn't make sense and it shouldn’t. Be more like Harry.
I love everything about anything and I find it overrated. I have a lot of time to brew and stew in my car as I rally on the way to another store location. General joy is something I think I encounter more times than not and it never really shows. I look the same everyday and yet I feel the progression of my time passing. It’s all downspiraling slowly and I despise myself for recognizing that fact. I can try to stop things but at the end of the day, it’s really just me. Who am I to speak on the general ways of things when I have no accreditation to prove myself? I wouldn’t listen to a man who views life through deer ankle tinted glasses. I don’t want you to look through my keyhole but can I really tell you to stop? I can’t and that’s ok. If I rely on deer ankles while you seek out fame and wealth, are we really that much different? It’s one conscious goal alongside another. When everything is said and done, I’ll never need deer ankles again.