This morning in my rush-hour commute from Echo Park to Pasadena, I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Moments before, I was daydreaming, completely zoned out in 8 a.m. traffic, smoothing my hair to undo a sleep-with-braids disaster that resembled an Amy Winehouse intervention. As I untangled the knotted swirls, the dream I’d had the night before came back to me. Something about giving birth to a grown 14-year old boy. Mid finger-comb, mid-psychoanalysis, mid-yawn, a jolting “PLOCK!” pulled me out of my trance.

A small orange canister bounced off my passenger window. I locked eyes with a young man in the car next to me. He pointed a plastic gun at me with a tiny, excited smile.

Instinctively (as anyone would do when held at gunpoint), I rolled down my window. The glass screeched downward at a glacial pace. We’re low rent like that in Echo Park. As the space between us slowly opened,  I called, “What the heck was that?” Before the last word was out of my mouth, he shot at me again, the foam bullet grazing over the top of the receding window, just in time for it to fly past my neck, through the care and briefly suction onto my passenger window.

Briefly. The inner-window grime prevented it from sticking, and it fell beneath my seat.

“There’s a message on it!” he called and rolled up his window.

Nerf Gun Bandit gave me a sheepish glance, long enough to catch my more-curious-than-angry look. We pretended to ignore each other as the red light remained red. I feigned switching the radio station as my free hand strained underneath the seat, grazing empty water bottles and old chip bags and chips and chip crumbs and something sticky and I couldn’t for the life of me find that damn bullet.

Message? Maybe it’s a game. A clue for the next message. A code for a GREATER message.

The light turned green. Instead of parting ways, and instead of Nerf Gun Bandit peeling out in a cloud of mystery, we both turned left. He merged in front of me, and we both drove the two miles up Alvarado Boulevard. We both swerved around the same homeless man. We both entered the 2 freeway going north. We both took the fast lane.

Well, this kills the excitement… My hand was still jammed in between the gooey carpet and the bottom of my seat. I cursed myself for still having a twenty-pound keyboard stand lodged in the backseat, obstructing my scavenging zone.

Maybe he’s waiting for me to respond to the message. Maybe I’m not the only one. Are there other players in this post-modern road game of chance? Are they already on to the next clue? I must beat them!

My old habit of launching into maniacal over-excitement reared its ugly head. (Read: The reason I started Square Syndrome took over at this point in the story.) I shifted my seat belt so I could contort my body to allow my hand greater grasping area underneath the seat. I reached for fresh, grubby ground.

A dime! Wait, that’s a penny…

As we flew down the highway past gridlocked traffic heading south, it occurred to me…

This isn’t a common morning route… He IS waiting for me to respond to the message. That’s why he’s pacing me on this long stretch of highway. Must. Respond. NOW!

The thought that this guy might be some real creep poked into my brain. It waved hello, but I ignored it. I was more determined than he was creepy, I figured.

This guy messed with the wrong person. Or maybe he messed with the RIGHT person… And the beginnings of a colorful adventure filled with twists and turns and torchlit caves began to unravel in my mind.

And then I felt it.

Soft and foamy and definitely it, I carefully brought it into my lap. A yellow post-it note was taped around it. A crude smiley face peered at me from the surface. Its tongue was sticking out.

Nerf Gun Bandit was still a few car lengths ahead of me, but the death curve around to the 134 East toward Pasadena was approaching fast. I had to act now.

Carefully peeling off the tape, the message was revealed.

Pause for suspense.

Hi

No secret codex. No secret passageway into the 5th dimension. No punctuation.

I veered sharply onto the 134 and watched as Nerf Gun Bandit continued north toward Glendale. He wasn’t seen again. Cue eerie cowboy wind noise.

I double checked the message to make sure I didn’t miss some cryptic glyph or a symbolic tear in the corner of the paper.

Just: Hi

Something in my chest unhooked, like a half-filled helium balloon breaking free from a signpost on a day with no wind.

I couldn’t help it, but I smiled.

I learned something from this experience. I learned that even though I know better than to assume everything has a hidden meaning… even though I know better than to make mountains out of molehills… and that things are not always more than they appear… the best things do happen just because.

A few years ago, the revelation that a mystery message shot into my car by a stranger with a Nerf gun was only a silly way of saying “hello” would have killed me. This morning, it set me free a little.

Letting go of my overblown expectations gave me a breath of fresh air. It reminded me that uptight people can change. Squares don’t have to follow their self-imposed rules forever. Some things just are the way they are.

And while I could post a picture of “Specimen A” here on this website (side view, front view, top view, size-to-scale chart, chemical Nerf properties, etc.), and post a Missed Connections listing on Craigslist linking to this blog post, and keep my eyes peeled more for Nerf guns than real guns in Echo Park, I won’t.

It brings me joy to know that my mind still works that way, but it brings me peace knowing I don’t have to act on it.

Thank you, Nerf Gun Bandit. Hi back.