Out For A Stroll

So, this evening I’m walking through my neighborhood (mentally hashing out the next scene of my WIP--which went well thankyouverymuch) when I notice a van sort of hovering at a stop sign. The driver is consulting a paper with what I assume are directions. As I pass by, I expect him to ask for help, but he doesn’t, so I turn left and keep walking.

He makes the turn, too.

Again, I wait to hear a question since he’s moving slowly but no, he continues past me and drives into a cul-de-sac.

By the time I reach said cul-de-sac, he’s already swung around and is back at the intersection. Waiting?

He’s still consulting the paper, and this time I’m sure he’ll ask for directions, but of course, he doesn’t because (well, duh) he’s a man.

At this point, I decide to get a good look at him and it registers that he could be on the no-fly list. Not that I’m prone to profiling—the thought just pops into my head. And since my sense of social propriety tends to outweigh my common sense, I know that if called upon, I will stop and try to help. I begin to wonder what I will do if this turns into a dangerous situation.

Running isn’t an option since a 3-year-old can flatten me in the 50-yard dash.

Screaming is out too, since this is the kind of neighborhood where people (cough) keep to themselves a bit.

And the closest thing I’ve got to a weapon is a pair of white plastic sunglasses.

At the last second, I’m saved from making a decision. He puts the van in gear and roars back onto the main street at full speed, seemingly no longer uncertain of his destination.

I decide that from now on I’ll carry something worthy of getting confiscated at an airline security checkpoint.