One evening, my fiancée Mia and I picked up her mom, Audra, from the train station. It was our first time hosting her, and we’d gone all out—clean apartment, fresh flowers, the works. But as we pulled into the alley behind our building, we hit an immediate problem: someone had blocked our garage.

This wasn’t a new issue. Our garage opens into a narrow alley behind a liquor store, and people often treat it like public parking. Normally, we let it go. But not that night.

The car belonged to a guy named Logan. I’d met him once at a party. He was the kind of person who described himself as a “visionary” for adding shadows to architectural floor plans. He walked out of the liquor store, sipping a drink, looking far too smug.

I asked him politely to move his car. He responded with a smirk and told me to relax, saying he’d move when he was ready. When I pressed him, he got aggressive and even shoved me. So, I called the police.

Logan immediately changed his tune, yelling that I was assaulting him. Fortunately, Mia had recorded everything. When the officers arrived and saw the video, they told him to move his car. As he left, he threw his business card at me and said, “Don’t forget my name!”

I didn’t.His card had everything—name, contact details, even a link to his online portfolio. Over the next week, I filled out job applications on his behalf. I submitted 84 applications for every kind of job I could think of: retail, warehouse, fast food, you name it.About a month later, my mom mentioned that Logan was overwhelmed with job calls and emails. His website disappeared. His social media went private.I never raised my voice or fought back physically. But I made sure he remembered me—just like he asked.