It was a rainy spring morning in 1972. Leon stood alone at the last stop for the school bus before it turned right on West 5th Street and made the three-mile trip from the beach community of Oxnard Shores to Curran Elementary.
Leon's raincoat looked like a hand-me-down. It was certainly too big for his four-foot-three frame. The sleeves hung down past the tips of his fingers and the hood that was pulled up over his head covered nearly his entire face.
The bus driver almost missed stopping for him. Usually, there were no children waiting there and he would drive on by without a moment's thought.
The bus came to a halt and the door swung open. As Leon climbed the steps into the vehicle, the driver noticed that something was not quite right. This schoolboy smelled of cigarettes and bourbon. What's more, a close under Leo's visor revealed he had five o'clock shadow.
"Wait a second," said the bus driver. "You're not a kid at all."
Leon pulled back his hood to expose a face that was no less than forty years old. He then pointed a revolver between the bus driver's eyes.
"Fuck you," Leon said and pulled the trigger, spraying his brains into the laps of identical twins in the front seat with matching dresses and ribbons in their hair.
The twins screamed in terror. So did the rest of the kids.
"Fuck you too," Leon said.
He opened his raincoat to show he was holding a Thompson submachine gun with a 100-round drum magazine. He holstered his revolver, leveled the Tommy gun at the children and opened fire. Little hands and "Brady Bunch" lunchboxes were thrust up in defense but they proved to be a pitiful shield against the deadly hail of bullets. Those kids who scrambled to escape through windows and the rear door fared no better.
By the time Leon's magazine was empty, there was no more screaming, only a few moans and sobs. Leon quickly silenced them as well by walking the center aisle of the bus and delivering a finishing shot from his revolver where needed. In the end, 23 people lay dead. Among them was Cindy Jacobs, a straight-A student and the odds-on favorite to win the class spelling bee two weeks away.
This was the same bus I rode every day but I was not there that morning. I was home sick with the flu, blissfully unaware of the horrors that had just transpired.
Almost four decades have passed since the events of that fateful day. Their only reminder sits on my bedside table. It is a small plastic trophy with the inscription, "Spelling Bee Winner, Mrs. Silver's Fourth Grade Class."
Not only Cindy Jacobs but every other kid who volunteered to compete in the class spelling be had died on that bus. I had won by default.
I was quickly eliminated in the school-wide competition but for the brief period in between, I savored the only taste of victory I would ever know.
There is a business card in my wallet. It reads:
If I ever reach that point in my life where I need to feel even more like a winner, I know who I'll be calling again.
Leon's raincoat looked like a hand-me-down. It was certainly too big for his four-foot-three frame. The sleeves hung down past the tips of his fingers and the hood that was pulled up over his head covered nearly his entire face.
The bus driver almost missed stopping for him. Usually, there were no children waiting there and he would drive on by without a moment's thought.
The bus came to a halt and the door swung open. As Leon climbed the steps into the vehicle, the driver noticed that something was not quite right. This schoolboy smelled of cigarettes and bourbon. What's more, a close under Leo's visor revealed he had five o'clock shadow.
"Wait a second," said the bus driver. "You're not a kid at all."
Leon pulled back his hood to expose a face that was no less than forty years old. He then pointed a revolver between the bus driver's eyes.
"Fuck you," Leon said and pulled the trigger, spraying his brains into the laps of identical twins in the front seat with matching dresses and ribbons in their hair.
The twins screamed in terror. So did the rest of the kids.
"Fuck you too," Leon said.
He opened his raincoat to show he was holding a Thompson submachine gun with a 100-round drum magazine. He holstered his revolver, leveled the Tommy gun at the children and opened fire. Little hands and "Brady Bunch" lunchboxes were thrust up in defense but they proved to be a pitiful shield against the deadly hail of bullets. Those kids who scrambled to escape through windows and the rear door fared no better.
By the time Leon's magazine was empty, there was no more screaming, only a few moans and sobs. Leon quickly silenced them as well by walking the center aisle of the bus and delivering a finishing shot from his revolver where needed. In the end, 23 people lay dead. Among them was Cindy Jacobs, a straight-A student and the odds-on favorite to win the class spelling bee two weeks away.
This was the same bus I rode every day but I was not there that morning. I was home sick with the flu, blissfully unaware of the horrors that had just transpired.
Almost four decades have passed since the events of that fateful day. Their only reminder sits on my bedside table. It is a small plastic trophy with the inscription, "Spelling Bee Winner, Mrs. Silver's Fourth Grade Class."
Not only Cindy Jacobs but every other kid who volunteered to compete in the class spelling be had died on that bus. I had won by default.
I was quickly eliminated in the school-wide competition but for the brief period in between, I savored the only taste of victory I would ever know.
There is a business card in my wallet. It reads:
Leon Kronos
THE TIME DWARF
"Fixing yesterdays for better tomorrows"
877 NEW-PAST No job too small
THE TIME DWARF
"Fixing yesterdays for better tomorrows"
877 NEW-PAST No job too small
If I ever reach that point in my life where I need to feel even more like a winner, I know who I'll be calling again.
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