Over the following months I targeted a fish shop, a print shop, a caterer, a general contractor, and a parachute school. Always for the same reason: their vehicles were driven by people who consistently committed basic infractions. Excessive speeding, failure to stop for pedestrians, sound pollution, general boorishness.

What these people forget is that their business name is written on their vehicle in eighteen-inch letters. Anyone with a modicum of determination can easily find their address, and from there it’s no problem at all to fill a few exhaust pipes with expanding foam. Much easier than finding an unmarked vehicle from only a licence plate number.

Like with my asshat SUV-driver, I never saw what came of these misdemeanours. I once went so far as to scope out one of the businesses a bit, but apart from a few vehicles that seemed to be out of commission for a few weeks, I saw no tangible effects.

I threw the empty can in a dumpster seven blocks north of my apartment the day before July 1, moving day all over Quebec and the biggest garbage day of the year. Oh, and Canada Day. I realized I was going about this the wrong way. If there’s one thing I hate more than dangerous drivers and pollution, it’s waste. And I’d come to the conclusion that vandalism is a form of waste. So it was time to move on. We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of.

I keep memorizing licence plate numbers, though, whenever I witness a driver endangering the public, out of force of habit.

4

Early Days

Other than the potato incident, the months following my manslaughter were relatively uneventful. I was on my guard. I knew that one fine morning I’d be happily drinking my Quik and watching the morning show on TV when the police kicked in the door, broke the kitchen window, and smashed my dad’s head against the counter, right next to our toaster. They’d pin me down and read me my rights. My mom would let out a few sobs, and I’d remain silent, save to ask for a lawyer. I’d plead not guilty. I’d tell them I had been somewhere else. I’d argue that in such a short time there was no way I could have picked enough strawberries for my mom to make a pie. We’re talking tiny wild strawberries, your Honour, they’re nothing like the big hothouse berries we’re used to seeing.

My lack of preparation has left me with a half-ass alibi. I’ll never make this mistake again; it’s far too stressful.