I was driving home from an interview with a local band on frigidly cold Monday night. Dark Side of the Moon spun inside my ancient cassette deck, and I looked forward to getting back to my toasty warm home. I waited at a red light where Coal Ave. crossed with Oak St. just past the I-25 overpass along with a car in the lane to my right. My mind paused since I had driven up Coal hundreds of times, coming home from my jobs and recreational nights in Downtown Albuquerque. I was blank.

That's when I heard the crash. No breaks squealing, no psychic premonition, nothing. The gray hatchback next to me shot out into the middle of the intersection with its back end crumpled. I looked back to see a bleary eyed man sitting in a white compact car.

"Jesus Christ" was my only outward exclamation as I pulled to the side so I could check to see if everyone was all right. As I did this, the transgressing car took off up Coal, and I sat in my car stunned at what I just saw. I didn't get the plates. I didn't do anything but sit confused in my car.

After what seemed like minutes (although it was only a few seconds), I went to the car in the middle of the road. It contained a couple and a young boy in the back seat. The woman wept, and the man called the police on his cell phone. I stood there, not knowing what to do. I told him I didn't get the plates, and the guy nodded and sat back in his car.

The fire trucks came first followed by an ambulance. No one appeared to be seriously injured, and the police came and took my statement. All I could do is vouch that a hit and run had occurred, and then they sent me away.

The incident left me rattled. After a torrid night on my body on New Year's Eve, I made a vow to myself to slow down on my drinking and pot habit. Three sober days into the year, and cars were crashing around me. I was angry. Not so much at the wreck, but by the man bolting and my lack of reaction.

I've always held on to the belief that people would help each other out in a crisis situation, no matter what malevolent deeds they had done in the past. The man (most likely drunk) proved me wrong by driving away, and I proved myself wrong by not going after him.

I tried to redeem myself by staying with the wrecked car and its passengers, but I was of little assistance. Once the professionals were on the scene, I was of no help whatsoever.

I still want to find the guy who hit and ran. I want to rear back and punch him square in the face when he least expects it, and I'm not a violent man by any means. My last physical confrontation occurred when I was a freshman in college. It's one thing to screw up and cause an accident. An accident is forgivable (even a drunk driving one). But running away makes this guy a shitty motherfucker. If you can think of more insulting, slanderous label, feel free to call him that instead.

We've all made are share of stupid acts. Driving home intoxicated, stealing a friend's lover, made fun of someone because of their race, creed, gender, hairstyle, clothes, attitude or lifestyle, performed unprotected unloving sex, urinated in public, and so on. But if your stupid acts end up adversely affecting someone else, YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE. Face the consequences like every decent human should.

Because if something like that happens again, I will not be confused. I'm ready for the shitty motherfuckers. I'm coming after you and will find out who you are. If I get the chance, I'll even punch you square in the face. And I'm bigger than you think.

I still drive up Coal when coming home from work and the downtown bars. The smashed pieces of taillights still lay at the side of road on Friday. It serves as the shattered remains of another moment that has left a rotten taste in my mouth.

Chris Jungle still ponders what his reaction would have been if the guy had been in the left lane instead.