(I don't have any pictures because I didn't realize how well this fit until later, and also because, since I haven't been SF0ing much lately, I've stopped habitually carrying my camera around with me. Also, the pictures wouldn't prove anything except that I was in the right place at the right time.

Look, you guys know me. Would I lie to you?)

I know you're out there somewhere
Somewhere, somewhere
I know I'll find you somehow
Somehow, somehow
- The Moody Blues

PART 1: What Happened

The first comic book I ever wrote was called "That Sinking Feeling". It was 50 pages long, sketched in pencil on 8.5/11 printer paper. It was about detectives in a neon-soaked wasteland of murder and vengeance. It wasn't very good, but I was 18 when I made it, so that can largely be forgiven. I still have it somewhere, and I think of it from time to time.

I had comics on the mind today. Monday, 2:30, August 5th. Natal Day, or Civic Holiday, if you choose- a generic catch-all holiday where everyone half-heartedly celebrates Canadian heritage while just being glad that they get the day off. A sort of third-string Canada Day, if you like. I had comics on the mind because I was driving to meet with a guy named Jay. Jay was publishing one of my comics.

The first comic I'd ever submitted for publication was called "Truro Mance in 'Angling'". It was 10 pages long, drawn on proper art boards, inked with a Pentel brush pen. It was about a guy who got attacked by monsters in a liquor store. I thought it was pretty good, but who knows how I'll feel in four years.

Jay wanted to publish 'Angling', and I wanted him to publish it. As of this writing, it's on track to be released in an anthology later this year called Fearsome Fables II, but I'm not here to plug the book.

Jay and I talked for maybe half a year about getting it done before I finally sent in all the finished art. When all was said and done, I asked him if we could meet up in person- we'd only ever talked on e-mail. He dug the idea. I told him we'd meet on Spring Garden road, in Halifax, at a Second Cup. 3:00 PM.

Jay? Hey! It's Bruce! Great to finally meet you. Hey, lemme just say how glad I am that you wanna publish Truro Mance- what? Yeah, I got 11 more pages of it here, short little thing. Needs to be touched up, digitally, but I like it. Sure, 'course you can read it! Hey, you gotta read it if you're gonna print it, right? Sure...

It was with a dreadful sinking feeling that I realized the bridge into Halifax was closed.

It's 2:45. Starship's 'We Built This City' is on the radio. I'm tearing ass over the Mackay Bridge. It's a small detour. I have plenty of time left. I squeal onto Robie street, hoping like hell I'm going in the right direction- I don't usually come in from this angle. By 2:50, I'm confident that I'm going in the right direction. I recognize the territory, I know where I'm going. Everything's fine.

2:55. I roll up next to a parking meter, snatch up my pages, tuck them under my arm. It's a bit far from my target, but I know where I'm going and it's not that long a walk. I'll barely be late. I'm carrying an umbrella in my free hand, because it looked like rain when I left. The skies are blue and clear now. I don't bother to fill the meter- it's a holiday, after all.

Hey, Jay! Bruce, yeah. Jeez, sorry I'm late, man. Yeah, bridge is closed, yeah. Caught every red light on the way over, too. You know the Willow intersection? Yeah, red light's murder, there. Jeez. How you doin'? Sure...

I take the first two blocks at a dead run. A year ago I'd never have been able to do that, but I've lost about 15 pounds since I started fencing last fall. I revel in not gasping for breath, but I decide it's better to be late and not sweaty than on time and reeking.

It's sunny and hot, and everyone's out for the holiday. There are people giving out free hugs. I almost hug them on principle, but decide against it- I've got places I need to be. I decide I might on the way back. Goddamn if I'm not on top of the world.

3:00. I walk into the Second Cup and survey it, hunting for my quarry. I don't see him, so I head down to the counter and order a coffee. Medium-size, dark roast, black. For here, not to go. I sit down and burn the roof of my mouth on my coffee.

I'm calm, I'm cool, I've got my coffee. Now all that's left is to sit and wait.

Jay? Hey, man! Bruce. Yeah, don't sweat it, I was almost late myself. Yeah, took me a while to find the place my first time too. Don't worry about it, man! Although, y'know, the least you could do is read this comic I brought over...

3:10. I'm struck by a horrible and paralyzing thought. I suddenly can't shake the thought that I told Jay 'Quinpool', not 'Spring Garden'. I can't put my finger on why I would have. I clearly remember saying Spring Garden- that's what I said. Just paranoia. Nerves. Coffee.

I text home anyway. "He's not here yet. Can't shake the horrible feeling that I said Quinpool instead of Spring Garden." No reply.

3:15. Second horrible and paralyzing realization: I don't even really know who I'm looking for. All I have to go on is a LinkedIn profile photo the size of a postage stamp. Corollary: he doesn't even know what I look like- he has only my LinkedIn profile photo to go on.

I rack my brain for details. I know he has a beard. And a fedora. This aptly describes half the adult men in Halifax. What if he shaved? What if he reconsidered his headgear? Christ, I don't even know how old that photo is. What if he's gained weight? What if he's lost weight? What if he's dyed his hair?

Okay, I say to myself. I'm looking for a guy with a beard and a hat. I can do this. I'm fuckin' Bruce. I'm a well-educated man, I knew what I was getting into, I have it under control.

I text home anyway. "Still nada. Is there even a Second Cup on Quinpool?" No reply.

So, there I am, in a cafe on a street corner, waiting to recognize a stranger, waiting for a stranger to recognize me.

Hey, Jay! Yeah, I'm Bruce. Jeez, you don't know how glad I am to see you. I had this horrible thought I'd sent you to the wrong place. But here you are, so hey, all good...

3:30. Shit, is that him at the counter? Could be- beard. No hat, but it's clouding over, maybe he didn't wear it. I try to catch his eye. He doesn't notice. I toss creepiness out the window and follow him to his table- at a discreet distance, naturally. He takes out a book. I wasn't expecting that.

Shit, he doesn't look that much like the photo. But it's been a half hour and he's the closest candidate I've seen yet.

"'Scuse me," I mutter. He turns to me. There's no way it's him. "Are you Jay?" No harm in asking. "Uh, no," he says. "Oh, alright," I say. "You look like a guy I'm waiting for," I lie.

I put the art boards on the counter and flag a barista. "You mind watching these for a sec," I ask. "I just don't wanna take them into the bathroom."

"Sure," he says.

I'm sitting in the bathroom, looking at a dead spider on the wall, hoping Jay'll be there when I get out.

He's not.

3:45. Maybe I said Starbucks when I confirmed the meeting. There's a Starbucks right across the street. It even starts with an S. That's an easy mistake to make. Maybe when I get back from over there, he'll be here in the Second Cup.

I walk into the Starbucks. It's way too hot. He's not here.

I walk back to the Second Cup. He's not here.

Jay, where've you been, man? I've been here for, like, 45 minutes. No sweat, man, I'm just glad you made it. I was worried I sent you to the wrong place! Hey, it's alright, dude, traffic's all over the place today, what with parades and shit...

3:50. What if I did say Quinpool? I need to check my e-mails. I can't nerve up enough to ask anyone in the cafe to borrow their laptops- I'll cross the street to the library, they must have a public terminal.

The library's closed. Because it's a holiday. Damn.

4:00. I dial home. My dad picks up. "Hey dad, it's me. The guy didn't show. I'm coming home." He says that's too bad. I agree.

I hope I'll see him coming down the street.

Jay! I've been here an hour, man, what gives? Oh, man, did I really say 4:00? I thought I said 3:00! Jeez. My bad, man, I'm really sorry. Let's get a coffee, dude...

I walk back to my car. I don't see the free hugs guys. It wouldn't matter, anyway. Deflated is a good word for the sensation, just that scooped-out feeling where every breath comes out a sigh.

As I trudge up the street, I see a pink slip of paper tucked under my windshield wiper. For a moment, I'm incandescent with rage. Did I just get a parking ticket on a holiday? That would just complete the day. I run the rest of the distance to the car and snatch the slip from the wiper. It's a hot-pink note with the words "You are loved" written on it in curly purple letters. There's a smiley face on it.

I gently lay my head against the parking meter half in relief, half in frustration. I hold the note in my hand, almost unsure that it really exists. It seems so incongruous. Finally, I look it over one last time before ramming it into my pocket. "Course I fuckin' am," I say to myself. It doesn't help my mood any.

I just don't know why he didn't make it. Did he forget? I confirmed 3 days ago, surely he's not that forgetful. Does he just not care anymore? What's really going on here?

I get in the car. Bon Jovi's 'Livin' on a Prayer' is playing on the radio. I drive back towards the Second Cup, half-hoping that I'll see Jay walking in.

YO JAY! Hang on, I'll be right over! Lemme just park this business, just hang on, I'll be right back!

Lightning splits the sky ahead of me, a bolt straight down to Citadel Hill. There's a storm gathering. The thunder shakes the car. Or maybe the radio's just up really loud. I can't tell. I have to drive back to the Mackay bridge- I don't even know how to get onto the Mackay Bridge from this direction. I've never had to.

It's 4:30. Cyndi Lauper's 'True Colors' is playing on the radio. I'm in the worst mood I've been in for months.

It's 4:45. The Bangles' 'Manic Monday' is playing on the radio. I hate the Bangles. I listen to the song anyway. It seems apropos.

PART 2: What anything has to do with anything

Fear not, children. This is a story with a happy ending.

As it happened, when I confirmed our meeting, I had in fact asked Jay if we were still on for 3:00 at the Second Cup on Quinpool road, and not realized my typo. Rather than calling me on it, he assumed I had altered the deal and prayed I did not alter it further.

Jay was a few streets away in a Second Cup having an experience exactly parallel to my own. He overheard some people talking about getting food at Spring Garden and was immediately struck with the horrible and paralyzing thought that I'd said 'Spring Garden' and not 'Quinpool'. Armed only with a LinkedIn profile picture, he began asking everyone who came in if they were Bruce. At about 4:00 he left, crestfallen, hoping that I hadn't been soured on the deal.

Naturally, as soon as I realized it was sorta-kinda my fault, I went into full-on mea culpa mode. Fortunately, neither of us was upset once we realized what was going on. We were both game for an actual planned meeting and I proposed the next Sunday at the Second Cup on Quinpool- for real this time.

What does this have to do with anything?

From Wikipedia:
"Packet loss occurs when one or more packets of data travelling across a computer network fail to reach their destination."

It wasn't intentional, but everyone in that cafe knew that I- a gangly kid in a Firefly t-shirt with a nervous, pained expression, craning my neck around like a prairie dog- was lost as a sheep in a wolf den.

And I'll bet that everyone in the Quinpool cafe knew that the bearded dude asking everyone in the joint if they were 'Bruce' was in the wrong place too.

Packets never know they're lost. They just wind up in the wrong port and are discarded, left to dejectedly march back to their cars and hope that the receiving node isn't mad at them. And, true to form, when we realized the error, we engaged in packet recovery and attempted to re-establish our connection.

Hopefully, next time we'll find ourselves in the right port.