by Ken Tanaka

Created on: January 02, 2009

When told as a child not to talk to strangers I asked my mother who would qualifiy to be one. Basically, it meant people I didn't know, which was pretty much everybody. My aunt told me not to trust half the people I met, and she didn't tell me which half she was talking about.

So I was afraid of strangers, which meant I was afraid of pretty much everybody.

One day I was at the bus station and I noticed a bald man in a black leather jacket reading a newspaper. He cast a quick glance at me, and I froze to my ten-year-old spine. I'd seen him before in the mugshot gallery. He was a murderer, and I knew it. Should I call the police?

No, I had a bus to catch. I hopped on quickly and took my seat next to an old woman. Then I started thinking fast. The man I had seen was probably an assassin, and he'd probably known I'd recognized him. He probably had a bunch of underlings, because how else do you hide from the police? (I have since learned the answer to that question and it is: very easily.) And one of his underlings was probably on this very bus, and was probably going to kill me. I didn't want to die!

I looked around and studied all the passengers, including the old lady I was sitting by. They were suddenly all potential murderers. I felt like crying, and I didn't have a handkerchief! Perhaps I should have asked the old lady for one, but she was a stranger.

I saw a lady sitting across from me, applying makeup...She was looking at me through her mirror and I knew it! At the bottom of her bag of groceries, under the spaghetti noodles, I was sure there was a gun. Or perhaps a string. She looked a t me fiercely, and I knew she just had to be the murderer's accomplice. Maybe she was his wife! She was probably going to prepare spaghetti for him that night...I wonder if she was a good cook...

A man in a suit stood up at the back of the bus and began walking in my direction. I could hear my heartbeat, and it sounded exactly like a fat lima bean rolling across corrugated cardboard. I devised a plan. As he approached, I would trip him with my foot, and then jump on him and tie him up with my shoelaces. Visions of grandeur and newspaper headlines flashed through my mind. I looked away from him so he wouldn't expect anything. I could see him in my mind's eye pulling out a gun, but I couldn't give myself away. The only sound I could hear was the lima bean rolling, rollingrolling. I couldn't even hear his footsteps.

And then the bus stopped. The man had gone. It had been his stop.

My stop was next. I paid the driver, but did not speak to him. He was, after all, a stranger.

Learn more about this author, Ken Tanaka.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.