"Call 911"

So after coaching my team to victory in League Championships (the first time in 6 years that they've won it), it's not only time to celebrate, but with Hessica leaving for Vegas and E's birthday at the stroke of midnight, it's time to celebrate. Wait, I think I said that already. Let's make it clear...only for a guy as crazy as E would I even consider STARTING my evening, on a Wednesday, at 11 o'clock. But, I figure I'm really only going to say happy bday, so the 12 is the part that matters.

After two games of Beirut (with the second game played with mixed drinks instead of beer, hooray for good ideas!), I shower and await the call from E on where we need to meet him. Typical and unsurprising, he calls and says it's the I. So on a Wednesday, here we are at 11:15 driving up to the I on Broadway. We get there, and E's already ridiculous, handling any shot he's handed. I add to the total by 3, and he responds by offering to pay for me to fly to Vegas over the weekend. I start to consider this as a viable course of action.

And on a simple night, where the only goal was to wish a friend a happy birthday, it's a perfect night for Hessica's assertion that I'm a "weird shit magnet" to be proven. On the way home around 1:30, I'm stopped at a red light at 3rd and King across from the ballpark. Sitting there talking to Hessica, I look in my rearview mirror and see a guy coming up in the lane next to us. He's not really slowing down. I think he probably should, and as he gets closer to the light, he doesn't. I then watch, in what seems like slow motion, as he drives through the red light, across the intersection, up on to the median and straight into a tree.

Looking around, I don't see anyone else that saw this. There's no movement from the car, so it's on me to stop and see what's going on. As I get out and walk up to the car, telling Hessica to call 911, smoke is billowing out as both airbags deployed. The guy looks up at me from a haze of smoke (I almost think the car is hotboxed until I remember the whole airbag thing) and he's laughing. He gets out of the car staggering around and telling me he's fine. I'm like, "uh, dude, you kinda just fucked up your car." His response is a jubilant, "not mine!" He's a white guy with a German accent in flip flops, cargo shorts and a red hooded sweatshirt. He seems to be having fun trying to relate what happened to him, but I'm too sober and he's too German for that conversation to go anywhere.

The car is propped up halfway on the median and halfway in a lane, smoking, with tree branches around it. And of course, as the saying goes, there's never a cop around when you need one. 3rd and King, where you usually can't throw a rock without hitting a cop, is dead silent. Hessica waited on the call, and now I hit up 911, which for the first time in the three times before I've tried to report something, is NOT busy. As they ask me "Emergency, Fire or Police," and I tell them Police, I turn around and the guy is heading up the block. He had already said the car wasn't his, but now he's making good proof of it by leaving it abandoned on the median strip.

After giving the dispatcher his outfit description, I'm told that I can go home and the officers will call me if necessary, which is good, cause I wasn't planning on staying around anyways.