Retroactive Icon of the Week: Galactica

Last night, I met up with a girl I could describe as my retroactive icon of the week. I won’t go into too much incriminating detail, but let's just say our night was filled with devious laughter and self-aware insistences that we were going to hell in a hand basket.

My retroactive icon’s name is Galactica.

We first met over a year ago at my neighborhood bar, tended by a rotating cast of dreamy barkeeps, almost all of whom on which I’ve had ephemeral unreasonable crushes. I believe at the time I met Galactica, the apple of my eye was Dreamy Dane, whose sparkly blues and rugged-yet-beautiful facial structure more than made up for the fact that he had and still has a beautiful and successful long-term live-in girlfriend with whom I am little to no competition. In any case, Dreamy Dane invited me to stop by during happy hour for a drink. I tried my best to casually accept, despite the fact that I may have begun to sob quietly to myself out of desire and disbelief.

I arrived at the bar after my waitressing shift at Café Gypsy, my bag full of cash tips that I wouldn’t need to count out—drinks and their accompanying gratuities were on Dreamy Dane, as always—and I was unsure as to how I would compose myself, alone at the bar with him as my only companion. My crush on Dreamy Dane entirely baseless, I had no idea what I would talk about. God forbid I sit and sip my tumbler of whiskey in utter silence, pathetic and drunk and alone. Fortunately, without having been there long enough to embarrass myself, this is when I met Galactica.

She and her companion, a Polish-Texan silver fox named Shark Mobczak, were trying to figure out how to pay for their drinks; all they had was a $100 bill, which Dreamy Dane couldn’t break. Being a walking bank, I butted in and changed out their Benjamin Franklin with some smaller bills. We got to talking, and Galactica and I discovered we both drank whiskey, loved sci-fi and fantasy, and were writers. She was at the bar on this particular evening, having quit her job recently.

“How recently,” I asked.

“An hour ago,” she said. “Shark’s my boss. Well, was.”

“Oh. Why’d you quit,” I asked.

“I hated it,” she said. Shark shrugged, and we all clinked glasses.

It's been over a year now, but I need to give Galactica her due. I didn't know it at the time, but she is the original gainful unemployee.

So here's to you, Galactica. For distracting me from my feverish crush on Dreamy Dane. For only carrying around hundred dollar bills at four-thirty in the afternoon. For liking hobbits and blaster guns. For drinking liquor fit for an Irish male alcoholic. For hanging out with silver fox ex-bosses. For quitting your job because your job fucking sucked, Galactica, you are my retroactive icon of the week.