Free The Delivery by Mara White

it. I want to make an excuse about Mom and Dad waiting up for us but he’s right, they’re probably sound asleep. Who am I to diss his hangout? My Friday night sports bar may serve fresher food but his joint is probably more poetic—or at least better for people watching. Not as many drunks.
    We trudge through the parking lot in the slushy, dirty snow. Lex holds the door open for me and bows as he does it, and I grin at his show. This is what I mean by weird. No one should come here voluntarily, let alone enjoy it. The bus station. The second most terrible place in the world, coming in at number two, right after the post office.
    We sit at the bar, which faces the wall. Two steaming cups of black coffee with oil streaks on top. Two bruised and bent day-old Danish, mine has orange jelly, his red. I take a bite and swivel in my chair to watch the action as Lex sighs into his cup.
    “What do you do? Make up stories in your head about the different people you see? Or do you bring your homework? Tell me again why the hell you come here? Do they have Wi-Fi at least?”
    I dunk my Danish into the coffee and take another bite of the rubbery thing.
    “This is disgusting,” I say with my mouth full. “What are we doing here?”
    “Wait, watch the gate. A bus just pulled in.”
    Almost everyone in the large open space is either sleeping or squatting. The air smells like hotdogs and canned heat, flat soda and popcorn. Everyone in here needs a change of clothes and a bath either from homelessness or weeklong bus rides. It’s hard to tell the difference. What I can tell is how depressing it is and it’s making me glad I left Detroit and the entire Midwest.
    “Here they come. Get a load of this!”
    He’s excited. This is pathetic. I think I might need a drink.
    “Bus originated in LA. Maybe you’ll see someone you know.”
    “Pfft. Yeah right. I have one friend, and I know where she is. She’s in the office picking up all of my slack as we speak.” But I guess juvenile delinquents do often travel by bus. And I know me some juvies, I know them by the busload.
    The passengers straggle off, and I immediately see what he’s taking about. They’re excited to have finally arrived. You can feel it in the air. One frazzled looking young mother is greeted warmly by her parents as their grandkids jump ecstatically and shove each other out of the way, both vying for hugs. Mom looks run through the ringer but I can see the relief in her face.
    Next an overweight man who uses a cane, totters down the stairs right into the embrace of a younger man, who can only be his son. They are opposite extremes of the same person. Dad is fat and bald, and son is skinny and hairy, but they share the same face. They hug then step back and look at each other then rush in again for another one. Both of their faces turning red.
    “I totally get it. This is awesome. But now I feel like we should redo our reunion from the airport. Ours was too boring.”
    “Right? It’s so depressing and then suddenly it’s beautiful. Wait until you see a departure.”
    I get my brother. I really do. And I might be the only person on the planet who does. But now it’s sad again. That he does this alone, like he has to feed off of other people’s emotions.
    The bus driver flips the signs, they spin inside the lit-up screen, Chicago and Philadelphia get passed over, finally settling on New York. There’s a lull in the exodus, so the bus must be nearly empty. But then I see the shadow of someone exiting through the bus’ windshield, carrying way too many things. He ambles down the steps with a large, framed backpack and a guitar. He’s dressed in black and looking down, but when he raises his face up I can tell it’s Mozey Cruz.
    “Oh shit,” I say, swiveling my chair around, my face just inches from the wall. I grab my coffee and gulp it, the bitter badness of it racing down. My throat is burned, and I cough like a mad woman, my eyes tearing up at the same