Title: Garage Therapy with Deer and Roy
Paul stormed out of Jackie O’s, still fuming from his confrontation with the quiet, unbothered Michigan fan. He muttered under his breath as he got into his truck, still picturing that smug "Scoreboard" smirk etched on her face.
By the time he pulled into his driveway, the chill of early evening had set in. He didn’t bother going inside—he stomped straight into the garage, his sanctuary. The space smelled faintly of motor oil and dry leaves. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. His old La-Z-Boy waited in the corner, right under the mounted heads of four buck deer, each frozen mid-glory with glass eyes and weathered antlers.
Paul slumped into the chair, cracked a fresh beer from the mini fridge, and turned on the little TV he kept on a tool shelf. A rerun of an Ohio State–Wisconsin game from 2019 was playing. Back when things made sense.
He stared up at the largest mount—“Big Al,” a ten-point buck he’d bagged in '08—and let the memory drift back. Cold morning. Frost crunching under boots. The thrill of the hunt. And afterward—oh, the meat. Venison burgers, thick and peppered, grilled right there in the yard with the game on in the background.
Paul sighed. “They don’t make Fridays like that anymore.”
As if summoned by deer-god telepathy, his phone buzzed. Roy.
Paul picked up. “Yeah?”
Roy’s voice came through, warm and animated. “Man. You ever think about deer meat?”
Paul blinked. “Funny timing.”
“I was just talkin’ to this guy at the park who grilled up some venison sliders,” Roy said. “Tasted like freedom and cholesterol. I thought of you.”
Paul chuckled. “You always did like it more than you thought you would.”
“I was suspicious, man,” Roy admitted. “Thought it’d taste like tire rubber. But that lean bite? That earthy kick? I respect it now.”
There was a pause. Paul stared at the wall, eyes resting on “Lil Rick,” a buck with only one antler and a bullet scar in the shoulder. “I got three pounds left in the freezer. Was savin’ it for a special day.”
Roy let out a low whistle. “That is currency right there.”
“I was thinkin’... deer burger night next week. Bring Quint. He can gnaw on a venison nugget. Builds character.”
Roy laughed. “Bet. You grill. I’ll bring beer. Maybe real beer this time—not that Utah root water.”
Paul smiled for the first time all day.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s a real Beer Friday.”
They hung up.
Outside, the sun dipped behind the trees. In the garage, Paul cracked another beer, raised it toward “Big Al,” and whispered, “You’re feeding us yet, old boy.”
The TV played on. The deer heads watched in silent agreement.