Tone eased passed the bus driver, up a short flight of steps, heading down the narrow aisle in search of a seat. It was a relief to him that the bus wasn’t jammed packed with passengers and he didn’t have to sit next to a stranger. He wouldn’t be too comfortable with someone sitting beside him for the entirety of the ride. The emptiness of the bus was a blessing, so finding a seat or a row by himself wasn’t difficult at all.
Tone took a seat with no other passenger within his eyesight. There was no one sitting directly in front of him, behind him, or across from him. He needed a little privacy to do what he had to do, which was to remove the gun and the drugs from his knapsack and stash them for safekeeping. He looked around carefully before he quickly made his move. In an instant he stuffed the gun into his waistband and then he placed the drugs in his hoodie pouch and headed immediately for the bathroom to stash it in the garbage. In his mind, hindsight was 20/20. It was better to be safe than sorry. He already had a messed up legal situation looming. Tone didn’t need to compound that with additional gun and drug possession charges.
Inside the cramped quarters of the bus bathroom, Tone quickly removed the gun and the drugs off his person, stashing them in the garbage then covering it with some trash. When that was done, he returned to his seat, placing his knapsack and his duffle bag in the overhead compartment like every other passenger on the bus.
Next, Tone sat down and immediately removed his hoodie in an attempt to cool himself off. Even as he disrobed, revealing a plain white T-shirt, Tone could feel the deodorant running down his arms. He took his hoodie and wiped away light beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead. Tone felt sticky from the perspiration, but it was nothing a nice hot shower couldn’t solve once he arrived at his destination. For now, he’d just have to deal with it.
Tone was still cooling off when a white man suddenly boarded his bus.
“Excuse me, Sir,” the stranger suddenly called out.
Although the stranger had grabbed his attention, Tone completely ignored the voice from the front of the bus. He assumed the male voice wasn’t referring to him. He couldn’t be.
A number of passengers stared at the man; none of which acknowledged him at all.
The man continued, “Hey, you….. You in the white t-shirt.”
Tone cringed. He couldn’t ignore that physical description. The first thing that came to his mind was he was caught.
Tone pointed at himself in disbelief, as if to say me?
“Yes, you,” the white man reiterated. “Could you come here for a second?”
Quickly Tone rose from his seat and began to approach the man with an air of confidence that belied his uneasiness.
The closer he came toward the man, the better he was able to size him up. He took a long hard look at him. From his perspective, the man looked like a cop. Truth be told, most white men looked liked cops to kids from the hood. His clean-cut look, freshly shaven, broad shoulders with a navy blue New York Yankee baseball cap. It was the same kind that plain-clothes policemen in New York City loved to wear. He might as well have had the word cop written on his forehead as far as Tone was concerned. The man was giving him a bad vibe.
At this point Tone’s mind was racing; the closer he got the faster Tone’s heart began to beat. He began scheming on ways to escape. He was just hoping the man would let him get off the bus before he tried to take him into custody. That way, at least he had as good a shot as any to escape. He’d take his chances in a foot race with a cop any day of the week.
“Does this belong to you?” the man asked, holding up an identification card.
Speechless, Tone didn’t know what to say. It was obvious that the photo on the identification was indeed him. There was no denying that. But what wasn’t so obvious was if the man knew that the identification was fake or not. It was a catch 22, Tone was damned if he did lie and maybe damned if he didn’t. Against his best judgment, Tone decided not to lie.
“Yeah, that’s mine,” he admitted.
“Here you go.” The man said, handing over his identification. “I saw you drop it as you ran for your bus. I figured you might need it, wherever you were headed.”
“Yeah, thank you.” Tone replied. “I sure will.”
Inwardly, Tone exhaled. It was a relief to know that the man wasn’t a cop. That he was simply a Good Samaritan, returning his lost identification.
“Your welcome buddy,” the man spoke.
Tone smiled as he received his identification card. This time he placed it firmly inside his front pants pocket; then he retreated back down the isle. He caught a few suspicious stares from a few nosey passengers. He didn’t think too much of it as he returned to his seat.
Quickly, Tone put that incident behind him. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the bus to depart and ponder whatever lay ahead of him in Baltimore.
The Peter Pan bus sped down the long New Jersey Turnpike portion of Interstate 95. Like a child, Tone pressed his face against the dirt stained glass and took in the sights and sounds of the trip. The steady stream of
