One day, after the meteorite hits and the oceans melt (or freeze up again), I'll tell you all a tale about a Midwestern town, a WalMart, and a taxicab. Can't tell you now. Too soon. I will say this: they all made a mistake.
Once, I sat in a summer-cooled coffee shop near a lake in Minneapolis. I wrote a short story called Blueprint Blue. The story was about an architect in London and a woman he meets at a Hal Hartley film. I wrote of blueprints in tubes in the back seat of the man's rental car (steering wheel on the right). I wrote of the woman's desire to move to Atlanta. I loved that story then. I like it a little now. I like writing about architects. I should have almost become one once.