Who the Fuck Buys Cheese in a Snowstorm?

Listening: Half-Acre - Hem

I am holding half an acre,
Torn from a map of Michigan
And folded in this scrap of paper
Is the land I grew in.

Think of every town you've lived in
Every room you lay your head
And what is it that you remember?
Do you carry every sadness with you,
Every hour your heart was broken,
Every night the fear and darkness
Lay down with you?

~

LOOK AT IT OUTSIDE.

It's like Jack Frost and Mother Nature got really, really drunk last night, banged, and unleashed THIS fuckery upon us. I'm actually furious right now. I like winter and all, but I also like when it stops being winter and starts being that season that comes after winter. It's the end of February. Time for some post-winter weather. No? Not so much? Fine, you bastards.

So I'm sitting in the shop, being bored out of my skull, scowling at the world I can see through the glass door and scowling even harder at what people come in to make my life miserable. The boss is in Florida for another week or so, leaving the rest of us here to fend for ourselves (kind of). It's not normally so bad--unless you get a day like today, which is pretty much just an eight-hour voyage into annoyance and tears.

Normally I would never blog about this crap, but first of all, I'm really frigging bored, and second of all, I apparently actually have a following of blog-watchers (yes, I'm looking at you Harry Potter Kid/Hannah/Benji/Gen/Steph) who are (horrors) actually reading this thing. And some of them complaining about my lack of "real" updates. Never let it be said that I don't cater to my clientele, when I get my claws into them.

So Environment Canada says that we've got like 15 - 25 cm of snow attacking us from all sides, and high winds in the afternoon, which for me marks today up from just irritating to an assassination attempt. The chances of the shop closing are slim--I just got off the phone with the boss, who is sunning his tanned ass down in Florida as we speak, the bastard, and I have to call him back with an update about what else around the city is closed. Short answer, nothing. Long answer, nothing and I can forget having a social life by the end of today because this is the kind of weather that makes you want to watch the weather channel and hurl small objects at your television every time someone says the word "snow".

You'd think that when the world looks like it does outside, people would stay the farking hell inside. Apparently that's not the case.

First customer:
Him: Hi. I want a chunk of Mexicana and a chunk of jalapeno havarti.
Me: ...But why?

Second customer:
Her: I want about a third of all the dubliner you've got.
Me: *heaves a sigh* Alriiiight.

Third customer:
Him: I want a hundred grams of smoked gouda, a hundred grams of havarti, a hundred grams of mozzarella, three hundred grams of black forest ham, three hundred grams of turkey breast--
Me: Oh COME ON.

When I told the boss about the influx of people availing themselves of our tasty fermented dairy products, he laughed and said that the majority of people I'm seeing today hate their families and are just trying to get out of the house for fifteen minutes. I told him that he was a terribly cynical man, and he laughed again and told me that while that was certainly the case, he was telling the truth. Then the misanthrope told me to call him back in twenty minutes or so, because he was taking his daughter back to Disneyworld.

I hate him.

(Subtitled: I actually don't.)

So while I'm bitching, there is this prick who keeps coming to the shop five minutes before closing time on nights when I'm working to purchase the most inane shit. The other night for example: I had the door locked, signs flipped and unplugged, and was counting off my cash for the night when I heard a knock at the door. I looked up to find this guy standing outside. I pantomimed tapping my watch and mouthed "We're closed", and he got this really indignant look on his face and started rattling the door. I went over to see just what the farking hell he had his knickers in a twist over.

"We're closed," I clarified, opening the door a smidge and sticking my head out.

"No you're not," he told me.

Um, what? I spent like ten seconds just blinking at him like a fish that has been hauled out of a paradisial oasis and dropped onto a hot sidewalk. Okay, he had a point in that it wasn't quite eleven o'clock yet, but I think I'm entitled to shut the store down five minutes in advance so I can count cash / do paperwork / clean up without people tromping all over the store and fucking me up. Anyhow this guy just stood there staring at me until I stepped backwards, holding the door for him, and stumbled, "Umm... come in, I guess."

He never even said thank you.

So he came back last night. It was eleven o'clock by this point, so I wasn't obligated to let him in. I wallowed in it, too. When he banged on the door, I didn't even pantomime the watch-thing. I just went to the door, opened it, and said, "We're closed, sir."

"No you're not."

"Yes. Yes, I actually am. If you have something you need, I suggest you try Wal-Mart. They're open twenty-four hours now."

Victory.

Things have gone a bit to the chaotic side because now there seems to be something of a dilemma going on between who's coming in to work tonight and who's staying the fark home out of it. I had hoped to have plans tonight--party on the go--but if that's cancelled then I'm all for calling it a night and staying indoors, away from snow and people who insist on eating cheese in the snow. Whatever, I'll live.

Although guaranteed I will gleefully murder the everloving hell out of the next person to come into the shop and tell me, "Wow, it's nasty out there!"

NO. WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF A SNOWSTORM. NASTY? ARE YOU SERIOUS? GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.

I'm going to cool my cynacism now by eating a couple of these Peach Ring candies. They're like Fuzzy Peaches, only with less surface area.

PS: I also maintain that if you guys are going to be asking for "real" posts, I should at least get some farking comments out of it.

Icarus appears to be channeling a combination of Yahtzee and Foamy.

Songs for a Moonlit Night

Listening: Beautiful Things - Andain

I forgot
That I might see
So many
Beautiful things...

~

I hope you are all out there somewhere watching the lunar eclipse. What an incredible night to see this: cloudless and cold and a breath of wind.

Here are some songs that every appreciative stargazer should have (in my humble opinion).

Anywhere In the Universe - Astronaut Wife
Darkest Dreaming - David Sylvian
Universe - Sarah Slean
An Ugly Fact of Life - Explosions in the Sky
Untitled 3 - Sigur Ros
Falling Down Blue - Blue Rodeo
Space Lion - Yoko Kanno (from the Cowboy Bebop soundtrack)
Under the Milky Way - The Church
Grissom's Overture - [CSI Soundtrack]
Dusting Down the Stars - Mobile
Tomorrow - Rosie Thomas
Me and the Moon - Something Corporate
Twin Moon - Sarah Slean
The House at Swamp Bottom - [Spirited Away soundtrack]
In the Deep - Bird York
January Rain - David Gray
The Dumbing Down of Love - Frou Frou
Sad Eyes - Bat for Lashes
Sleeping With Ghosts - Placebo
Since You've Been Around - Rosie Thomas
Night Time - Aaron Zigman [Mr. Magorium soundtrack]
Auriel's Ascension - Jeremy Soule [Elder Scrolls: Oblivion soundtrack]
Blue Light of the Flame - Dar Williams
Gravity - Vienna Teng
Nana de Mercedes - Javier Navarrete [Pan's Labyrinth soundtrack]
Liz on Top of the World - Dario Marianelli [Pride & Prejudice soundtrack]
Bones - Charlotte Martin

It's 12:49 a.m. Last stages of the eclipse. The moon is a sliver of light.

Enjoy this uncertain shivering vastness.

Icarus cannot be funny when beautiful things happen.

For Serious?

Listening: Forget It - Breaking Benjamin

Everytime I get it, I throw it away
It's a sign, I get it, I want to stay
By the time I lose it I'm not afraid
Of looking at you truly fake it.

How can I believe when this cloud hangs over me
You're the part of me that I don't want to see.

Forget it.

I really kind of abruptly looked at the date and was like, "It's February? When was the last time I blogged?" and then I looked at my last post and saw the words "One week 'til Christmas". Bad sign.

Anyway it's boring as hell over this way. Back in MUN for the semester, along with my favorite people. Not much in the way of anything interesting has happened, except for the fact that I'm stalking a boy in my Shakespeare class but he doesn't know it yet, shh. Oh and the occasional interesting thing that happens to us as a collective, which I will most likely begin enumerating.

Here, have a list of interesting things that have happened since I blogged last.

1. I have an established reputation at Jeremiah's.

I really have no idea how this one happened, but I enjoy that it did. It's come to my attention in a couple of ways. One of them was a guy who came in at one point asking if I'd fed someone any hot sauce. Since this little bit of sadism is part and parcel of my job (the only real reason my boss keeps half the hot sauces he does is so he can feed them to unsuspecting young bucks and watch them cry like little girls), I answered that yes, I had.

"Oh," he said with an air of revelation. "You're the Mistress of Death."

I thought that was the funniest thing ever.

Then just yesterday one of the women from the salon next door came in and brightened up immediately upon sight of me.

"I like when you're in," she said cheerfully. "The music is always good."

Since I've not yet had a shift where I didn't blast my iPod throughout the whole store, I considered that extremely flattering.

2. I told off a lawyer.

Fuck people who come in and are jackasses to you for the sake of being jackasses. Like the bastard who came into Jeremiah's yesterday. I was in a bit of a tizzy, because it was a Saturday morning, I was still trying to set up shop, and the orders were coming in thick and fast. That aside, I'd also discovered that half the work that my coworker should have done the night before had been neglected, so I had twice the work to do, and a pile of customers to serve. It was a bit dizzying.

Anyway I finally managed to get a handle on what needed to be done so I was just started to calm down when this guy comes in. He asked me, "How are you today?"

"A little stressed," I replied with a laugh, just making conversation, and in my brain enumerating all the things I had to get out of the freezer, and the vegetables to cut and meat to slice and condiments to replenish and where all the cigarettes go on the wall behind me, and wondering how I was going to get it all done between customers when things were this busy.

He got a funny sort of look on his face.

Then he laughed at me.

The asshat laughed at me.

"I pity you going out into the real world if this makes you stressed," he said, in that mocking, derogatory tone of voice that suggests that he feels sorry for you, because you must be very thick. "I own a law firm, and I don't get stressed out."

Immediately my good mood was eradicated. I hate people who do that, who exist only to make themselves feel good by looking down on people like myself, who work retail part-time and really don't want to hear about the number of digits he makes in a given year.

"Well, I'm glad you get your kicks making other people miserable," I told him sweetly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

And pivoted on my heel and left. When I came out of the freezer, he was gone. I was furious for the next half an hour, until Jeremy showed up with a hot chocolate for me, bless the man.

I hate lawyers.

3. We did battle with the Goth Queen.

For the sake of the innocent, I shan't name names, but ohmijeezus, there are some people who make my skin crawl just from being around them from too long, and this girl was one of them.

For the sake of argument, let's call her Porno Clown.

I knew from the day I met her that I didn't like her, but I'm not generally a person who chews up friends of friends, so I did my best to hide my discontent. As the days wore on and she continued to be present in my haven of friends and relaxation (that being the MUN UC) and just generally getting under my skin. My smiles became ever more pasted-on and forced and I never went looking for her to start a conversation.

What drama Porno Clown was capable of causing! Within a week and a half of being acquainted with her, I have no idea what the hell happened, but she'd somehow managed to cause several shifts in our group dynamic that made her comparable to a geographic fault. She was the sort of person who takes herself seriously to the point of no one giving a shit anymore. She talked as though there was a camera crew following her at all times, and every word out of her mouth was about her. I'm sorry, but I really can't respect anyone who uses the term "my dark prince" when referring to another person and doesn't mean it ironically or mockingly.

I was polite. I was decent.

Until I found out that everyone else hated her, too.

What a relief that was. As though I was Atlas, and the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders! There was no longer a need to keep up pretenses. Fortunately, I didn't have to. She ceased to be seen for the most part, discouraged by associates from making herself seen at the UC because, you know, no one liked her. Those were the halcyon days.

Then she moved away.

There was debate as to whether or not this was a stunt, but everything went through, and the world has settled into a sort of deep, restful peacefulness now that the tremors caused by Fault Porno Clown have begun to die. Yeah, there's still drama, some of it stirred up due to her presence, but now we don't have to deal with someone outlining all that drama and making themselves the center of it with a certain colloquial verbatim that makes the rest of us want to stab our eyes out with ice picks.

4. I've made a career-altering decision.

No, don't freak out, I'm still an English major. I've simply had a change of heart about the direction I want to take that in. I never was really gung-ho about journalism; it always struck me as kind of an intimidating profession, lining me up for my inevitable rabid dog-fight with the rest of those aspiring reporters, vying for a high-paying position and having to fight like an angry ferret to keep it if I ever did manage to land one. I quite simply don't have the guts for head-to-head battles like that. I'm non-confrontational like that.

This decision didn't come about until a few weeks ago when I was doing one of my favorite things: editing a piece of work by my dear friend Rae, who writes with a certain flow and word choice that I find positively delectable. Since I'm a picky sumbitch and she'd asked me to beta, I was giving her constructive criticism in the nicest possible way, because while I believe in doing an editing job thoroughly, I don't believe in ravaging anyone, friend or otherwise, to a bloody gruesome death over something they've put so much effort into. I try to go by that old adage and avoid it as much as possible: "A critic is someone who comes onto the battlefield after the battle is over and shoots the wounded."

And I really like what I do. Which was why it was so incredibly appealing when Rae mentioned in passing, "You know, you should edit professionally."

And why not? Yeah, it's a competitive market, but no more so than the one I'd previously set my sights on, and if I'm going to go into something, why not make it something I enjoy?

So that's the new plan. I'm aiming for a career in editing. We'll see where it takes me.

4. I went out for coffee and to a movie with two different boys.

The movie was a friendly thing, though it's hard to think of it that way when your companion suggests that you wait out the hour and a half preceding the movie by banging in a bathroom.

(I think he was kidding.)

5. I finished Act Two of my longstanding, four-year-old romantic dramedy comic, Cronos.

This is an accomplishment for me. Be happy, dammit.

I think that about covers it. Hopefully I'll start picking up my little blog thang again. It just seems like nothing interesting's been going on, is all. If things pick up, you'll hear about it.

Icarus is really tempted to rewrite a song with the lyrics "Porno Clown".

Haha

Listening: Follow the Cops Back Home - Placebo

The call to arms was never true
I'm medicated, how are you?
Let's take a dive, swim right through
Sophisticated points of view

Let's follow the cops back home
Follow the cops back home
Let's follow the cops back home
And rob their houses.

I sent this quick little comic to Gen this morning. Her mother asked my permission to use it to generate a discussion in her high school class.


I am both flattered and unable to stop giggling.

(Yes, I am aware that it's a terrible scan. My sketchbook is too big for my scanner.)

One week 'til Christmas!

Icarus is still giggling.

The Grandest of Adventures

Listening: Mercy - OneRepublic

Angel of mercy
How did you find me
Where did you read my story?

So the weekend just ended. It's 11:30 on a Monday morning and I have two exams tomorrow. But seriously guys, I had a pretty excellent weekend.

On Friday, I was babysitting for a trio of the most energetic children I have ever encountered. They're Americans who moved into my old neighbors' house across the street. The two eldest are dolls, even if they are a bit excitable, but the youngest is an absolute terror. He's four, and spoiled utterly rotten. I'm not sure if his parents are teaching him the whole "Say please and thank you" thing (from what I observed, they're not) but he orders you around like he's a little king. I made the mistake of drawing in my sketchbook, and he demanded that I turn it over to him so that he could draw a robot in it. I only barely managed to divert his attention by pointing out that they had an "inventions" sketchbook and robots are really inventions. Mollified he said, "Go get it for me."

"What do you say?" I asked, hunting for a 'please'.

"Now," he stressed.

I felt like smacking his sass mouth, but, you know, they don't endorse that these days. (I wouldn't hit a kid. It was just frustrating, y'all.) He ended up getting really wound up, throwing a Monopoly game all over the basement, cutting himself by trying to hurl a chair at his older sister, and running around screaming like his eyes were on fire. I finally tried to put him in a time-out, but the little jerk has probably never even heard of that. He refused to stay in place, so I had to hold him on my lap to convince him to stop freaking out. He didn't.

If there's one thing that gets me irate, it's a disobedient child. He tried to sneak a second snack after his first one, and after I told him no, he blatantly disobeyed me. I managed to capture the swiped pickle before he could cram it in his maw, which of course made him sulky as hell, so then he went totally ragdoll on the floor when I tried to bring him up to bed. I carried him up there, which sucked because my asthma was reacting to the big, sheddy dog in the house, and I was really having difficulty breathing. I finally got him to his bed, where he promptly tried to run off again, but I lost my patience.

I can only describe what happened then as being overtaken by my "mom voice". I have only ever been able to pull off this tone in situations of extreme duress caused by young children. Jabbing my finger at him, I snarled in the most savage and incredibly sinister voice, "Listen here. I have had it up to here with your antics. You have been SERIOUSLY TICKING ME OFF all night, and it's time to settle down. Quit it."

And he did. Sure, he glared at me a bit, but I didn't hear a peep out of him for the rest of the time we spent getting ready for bed. He was a doll, even reading me a story and asking me to lie down with him. I felt kind of bad for snapping at him, but in retrospect, he kind of deserved it, and someone had to show the little bastard who was boss. The last time my sister babysat there, he made her cry. I wasn't going to be in that position.

I later tried to reproduce the "mom voice" for my sister, but it didn't work. Proving once again that it's one of my secret unlockable powers.

Anyhow, Saturday rolled around and I went to a shift at my new job. (Oh. Yeah, I have a new job. At the corner store up close by my house, called Jeremiah's. It's small and compact and filled with the nicest people ever. Even my boss Jeremy is spectacular.) I was supposed to be getting trained in by one of the senior employees, a girl named Amy, who was the sweetest person ever and gave me all the details I needed to know but was too afraid to ask Jeremy. Apparently there's a cable designed so that I can plug my iPod up to the radio that pumps through the store. And you're allowed to bring your laptops. And the computer on the cash register has MSN. Small price to pay for learning to make sandwiches!

So I finished up there at 3 pm, went home, and called Rae. The following adventure will be outlined in doodle form. You'll know who's who by the fact that I'm always in the driver's seat and Rae always has both eyes.

We'd been planning an adventure, so I jumped in my car and raced off to pick her up. When I got there, this was what I was greeted with.


Apparently Rae doesn't realize that I am incapable of making plans.


So we drove to Tim Horton's and had chats there.


We decided to go try to find the Rooms. I am fortunate that Rae enjoys my taste in music.

Yes, I am aware that I can't draw cars. Pretend it was done for cartoony quality. Which it was, actually.
So Rae and I got hopelessly lost, looking for the Rooms.


I fucking hate the Village.
So Rae said "Let's go to Signal Hill."


Yeah, I lost the hill. Instead I found the penitentiary and a parking lot. In my defense, it was dark and the roads were all torn up.
So we finally found Signal Hill. Not only was it windy as hell, but also ice-laden.


We had a blast.
So then we decided we were really hungry and craving Asian. We hopped back in my car and started cruising, looking for somewhere to eat. I had my mind set on Taste of Thai. We ended up having to stop for a map. Yes, in my own city. Shut up.

She was reading the map wrong. That's okay because she's a redhead.
So, we found Taste of Thai at long last. And it was worth it.



* They were $8.
So that was my beautiful magical Saturday night with Rae. I was supposed to be hanging out with Cole after that, but it fell through.

Sunday morning, Cole and I went out to breakfast at our favorite joint (Rustlers). It was delicious. So then Colette manned the iPod while I ran around doing errands like picking up eggnog. This was also probably how we ended up driving by the striking East Side Mario's employees, with the Rocky theme pumping through the car and me honking the horn, and Colette leaning out my window yelling "Wooooooo!!"

I love my friends.

Icarus is getting to be a car ninja. Yay!

Clips and Tricks

Listening: Godot's Theme: Fragrance of Dark Coffee (Jazz Version) - Phoenix Wright

Well, thank God. I thought today was never going to get here.

Today was the last day of classes at MUN. Which means it was also the last day of me running around like my head was on fire, trying to finish all of my term reports. I will give the MUN library this: it may be stuffy and confining and militaristic, but I get shit done there.

Moving on.

I know I haven't been keeping up with the blogging--well, not really--but things have been nuts over on my end. In case you hadn't gathered it from my last post, I got my driver's license. *waits for applause* Oh yeah, and the whole deal with the car got worked out peacefully in the end. (Not fairly, though, in my opinion. I don't mean for me. I mean for the poor woman who had to shell out $2700 from her own pocket because her idiot daughter let her uninsured, unlicensed boyfriend drive her mother's car. But that's not for me to work out.)

The Tim Horton's Cole and I were at on the night of the accident is not our regular Tim's. Yes, we have a regular Tim's. So regular that they knew our orders upon sight. (Yes, this is very sad, I am aware.) Those halcyon days are gone, unfortunately, because they closed out Tim's down about a month ago, so we've had to look for a new one. It was very traumatic, I assure you.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Guys, Rykea's wicked. A few weeks ago she and I were discussing a song. Specifically, it was the Charlotte Martin cover of Constant Craving. Then we started bandying back and forth with sentences. The next thing we know, we have an ongoing short-story. We literally wrote the first sentences that came into our heads, so we started with no characters, no plot, no nothing. And somehow... we have a little sleeping beast that the two of us continue to poke at, and I have a feeling it's going to grow up to be splendiferous.

There is nothing new and exciting in my life save for that, so instead I'm going to do something slightly out of the ordinary. I'm picking up the first five pieces of paper I find and putting clips of what I've written on them on my blog. Sound like fun? No? Well, too bad.

"Your average daily dose of Grimmy will make your eyes bleed from cuteness."

"You may interrupt me for one or more of the following:
- earthquake
- house on fire
- dam bursting ("What dam?", you ask)
- copious blood loss
- dinner."

"Long-Legged Scissor Man."

"- headstrong
- frequently judgmental
- twin brother
- fond of cars
- champion lockpick"

"Bartolome
Abayal
Culaan
Astalor
Tartai
Sarthun"

And that's... it, really. Yay for the boring life of Julia.

Icarus is going to sleep again.

WHAT.

Listening: Rainy Day - Guster

Clouds are coming
Air gets heavy
Looks like trouble on a
Rainy day
Sun starts sinking
Can't see my shadow
Looks like trouble on a
Rainy day
Holes uncovered
Walls will crumble
All spells trouble on a
Rainy day.

~*~

So I was sitting in Tim Horton's tonight with Colette, like we do every other night. It's a nice way to break up the tedium of homework and life in general. We go there to complain (about everything) and to sketch, because it's a relatively comfortable atmosphere within close proximity to fresh tea. Ever since I got my license in October and I've been granted relatively free reign with the family car (whom I've fondly named 'Bixby'), we've been able to enjoy the tradition with increasing frequency. We thought tonight was just like any other night.

Boy, were we wrong.

It was going for eleven and I was doodling a picture for Colette while she scribbled across from me. We were sitting there. Minding our own business. And then the shit hit the fan.

"Excuse me?"

I looked up over my shoulder to find a Tim's employee looking at the two of us with wide eyes. Blinking, I asked, "What?"

"Do either of you own a red Toyota?"

Immediately my stomach turned to lead. Bixby. Oh shit, I thought. I knew I should have straightened out that park job. I said, hesitantly, "I do."

"Well," the girl said. "Somebody just backed into your car."

For a second I could only stare at her. Then I put my head down on the table and counted to five. Freaking out is not advisable in these kinds of situations. Over my head, I heard Colette (the more rational of the two of us, at the time) ask, "Is there any damage?"

"The whole right side of the front bumper is caved in," the girl said. "And something is dripping out of it."

"Where's the guy who did it?" I asked without lifting my head, my voice muffled by the table.

"Uh..." A momentary pause. "...He drove off."

"What."

I don't put a question mark behind that word, because it wasn't an exclamation of confusion. It was disbelief. I got to my feet and went to the nearest window, peering outside. Sure enough, there was Bixby, sitting all alone in his parking spot. Facing the store. No one for miles.

Allow me to paint a picture for you, if I may.

THIS IS NOT AN EXAGGERATION.

HOW THE FUCKING HELL did someone manage to back into my GODDAMN CAR?

I was capable only of gawping like a goldfish dropped on a sidewalk. All around me, the Tim's employees (it was a slow night, and this shit was calamitous, at least in my eyes) were saying kind things to me, muttering "What an asshole" and "That's a sin, baby are you okay?". Memo to self: Thank you, Tim's employees. Thank you, for being so kind and understanding, and giving a damn. It meant a lot to me.

The manager came up while Colette and I were staring at the crater carved into my poor car's front bumper. "I called the RNC for you," he told me. "They'd like to talk to you."

All around me, shit was going on. Tim's employees were talking to each other and to Colette, and I was capable only of turning around and blindly following the manager into the office in the back. The door was held for me by not one, not two, but three employees, all of whom were regarding me sympathetically. I managed a smile at them which probably looked garish, said "Thanks," and went through. They were all wonderfully nice to me. I appreciated it so, so much.

Inside, the RNC officer on the phone took the information I had to give her, then started asking questions about the make of the car, none of which I could answer. I asked her to hold on and wandered dazedly back out front, where Colette was talking with the employees. When they spotted me, someone brandished a scrap of cardboard or something at me. "Here," she said. "This is what he wrote down."

"Who?" I asked, taking the slip.

"The guy who saw it happen."

I had a witness! My heart lunged into my throat. "Is he still here? Can I talk to him?"

They fetched him for me. He was an older gent, the father, I believe, of one of the Tim Horton's girls getting off her shift at eleven. He reaffirmed the description of the car that he'd written down--he didn't have the license plate number, but he did have the make and colour of the car, was able to tell me it had four doors and tinted windows, and told me the direction our friend drove off in. I thanked him profusely. Now I wish I'd gotten his name, so I could have bought him a coffee. Another person on Julia's Good Karma List. Please take note, higher power/fate/whatever.

So I went back to the phone with the information for the nice RNC lady. She took it all, passed the story on, and said, "Thanks, Julia. We'll send a squad car over and someone will take your statement."

What.

"Okay," I said weakly, and hung up the phone before wandering back out into the store with trembling knees. Somewhere around there it occurred to me to call my mother. Yeah. That was super. I couldn't get my tongue around the words. I've only been driving for two months, guys. I did not want this shit happening this early (preferably at all).

Mom sounded a little upset at first, but she seemed to calm down once I explained that I'd been parked and in a building when the hit happened. She told me she was sending Dad off to find me. "Okay," I said. Then I sat down and shook some more.

While we waited for the fuzz, Cole and I went outside to check out the situation. Allow me to draw your attention back to the diagram above. I think Colette about had an aneurysm when she saw things up close. "Are you fucking kidding me?" she demanded, gesturing wildly. There were a few moments of her stuttering, and then she exploded, "This isn't even pissing distance for Matt!!"

I think what she was trying to say is that there was no reason for Ricky Bobby to careen into my vehicle. Not in a parking lot that size, and especially not given the fact that the only three cars there were his, mine, and my witness's. That's like trying to hand someone a pencil and stabbing their eye out. What the fuck are the chances? How retarded do you have to be? Seriously.

We went back inside, out of the cold. One of the girls, who was leaving, came up to me. "You know," she said, "I know the first name of the guy who did it."

"What?" I said in bewilderment.

"Yeah. I grew up down the street from him."

"Who is he?"

[NOTE: The name of the driver in this otherwise factual story has been fabricated. I would rather not reveal the guy's name. He's got enough to worry about.]

"Graham," she said.

I mentally recorded that and said thank you to her. There was a handsome young man there, who was just as nice as the rest of them. "That your car?" he asked, and following my confirmation, "That sucks." The majority of my Tim's fan club was leaving for the night--all of them offered condolences and wished me good luck as they left. Cole and I stood in the porch, waiting for the cops.

They turned up before long, and cruised around perusing the damage. Finally they parked, and I went out and met the two of them in the parking lot. For the sake of keeping the four officers I encountered tonight straight for everyone, I will assign them fabricated names. The man I mentally named Mustachio proved to be kind of the lead on the matter; he said a polite hello to me, as well as his partner, Blondie, who was, well, a blonde policewoman.

So I went through the whole story with them again. Gave them the same information I had given to the officer on the phone. Mustachio went to check out the car again. As he did, Blondie looked at me.

"You have a description of the car," she said. "I don't suppose you happen to have one of the driver."

"No." I shook my head. "But one of the girls inside said she knew him, and that his name was Graham."

At that very moment, the walkie-talkie on her belt exuded a flare of static, and then a voice said over it (and I'm paraphrasing here, removing the unintelligible police jargon): "We have a man pulled over here who's got a busted taillight. His car matches the description that was just sent out."

Blondie asked into the walkie-talkie, "What's the driver's name?"

A pause. Then:

"Driver's name is Graham McDonald."

I swear to God my face did this:

Blondie and I exchanged a significant look. Then, with a smug smile, she told them to hold on to the fellow they'd pulled over and went to tell Mustachio. I frolicked to Colette, who was standing on the sidelines, and told her what the hell had just happened.

Eventually things moved inside. My hands were cold as ice and shaking, so Colette fastened them forcibly around her own tea cup and we sat there discussing what had happened while our friends Mustachio and Blondie started the report. My Dad turned up around then, and I gave him the update.

I won't go into detail about what happened after, because it was just the basic formal police-work. Mustachio took my statement, Blondie took my license and registration, and my Dad asked questions. We sat there not saying much until Cop Adonis showed up. I call him Cop Adonis because he was absolutely the most beautiful man alive. He was one of the fellows who'd stopped my dear hit-and-runner. He chatted with us a minute, then went off, leaving us pining after him.

The handsome boy from earlier returned again from the chilly outdoors, this time grinning at me. "Got him, did they?"

"Yeah," I said, smiling. And then it was like I couldn't stop smiling, the whole damn thing was so absurd.

Long story short; the fellow who hit me doesn't have a license. He wasn't the only one in the car when it happened, and they all freaked out and he bolted. The fuzz pulled him over for his broken taillight, and the fourth officer (Brace, I'll call him) noticed that the girl in the front seat appeared to be having a panic attack. They were still talking when the announcement of my hit-and-run--along with the description of the perpetrating vehicle--came over the police scanner.

I thought that shit only happened in movies. What the fuck, guys. What. The fuck.

Anyhow, once the jig was up, the driver knew it. He admitted to hitting my car and taking off. He also confessed that he didn't have a license, and was driving a car that didn't belong to him. Things worked out very peacefully after all. We clued up with the police, Dad got numbers and names to call about insurance, and I drove Colette home.

And that was my night. Bixby is sitting in front of the house being wounded as we speak. Poor little feller. At least things worked out as shockingly well as they did.

I feel like I should go buy a lottery ticket or something.

Icarus is going to bed for a whole frigging year after tonight.