The Delivery

by Mara White

  “Is it true you have to go to Michigan to move your family next week?”

  “What the fuck? How do you know that? Did Janey tell you?”

  Mozey looks cool and just smiles his sexy, sly smile.

  “What is this, a prank show? Holy Crap! I get it, you’re under cover aren’t you! I knew you weren’t eighteen! Oh fuck. You’re a cop. This is a set-up—did I just lose my job?”

  Mozey laughs heartily, looses the beany and runs his hands through his beautiful hair.

  “Calm down, Lana. You’re funny when you’re drunk. I’ve just been asking questions—that’s all. I really like you. I can’t help it. Since you’re a fucking vault and won’t talk to me, I had to ask around.”

  “Jesus! Don’t scare me like that! For a minute I thought this was an episode of How to Catch a Predator. This is so messed up and not right and just crazy and bad. I’m going inside now, and let’s try to forget any of this ever happened.”

  I slam the door of my apartment complex like I’m running to safety. I press my back into the door and greedily gulp in air. I could lose my license for kissing Mozey; my whole career up in smoke for one smoking hot kiss. My family would then surely lose the house. In one kiss I could bring ruin to both my past and my future. But before I do that, I close my eyes and allow myself to savor for a single second, the sweet, hot beauty of his kiss.

  Chapter 8

  Monday morning is bad. I’m a complete wack job.

  Do you know how to ignore someone you have the total hots for? What if you had to see them everyday? Could you do it? I can help. Been there-done that. Just let me explain.

  Here’s how…

  One: deny eye contact. All eye contact must and will be denied. Look at the floor. Study the cracks in the linoleum and the stains on the carpet. Memorize the thick, yellowing varnish on the hardwood floors in the hall and try to come up with a number for how many times they’ve been sanded and sealed up again. There’s so much to see (on the floor) if you only look hard enough.

  Two: sex—have a few one-night stands with dudes who are sufficiently attractive enough for you to get a lady boner going after a couple of drinks. (Does this, perhaps, sound kind of repulsive to you? Believe me, it can be if you don’t have the right attitude.) They’re of age, adults, consensual, informed, blah, blah, blah (but please, do note that those things are important). This stops your body from pleading with you for just one more kiss from the person you’re dying inside for and trying so desperately to avoid. It works; just make sure you use protection so you don’t end up with any diseases or a case of the babies. What? I’m gross you’re thinking? I’m telling you, releasing sexual tension is of utmost necessity.

  Three: throw yourself at someone else. Do you have a Gunnar Anderson who frequents your office? Use it to your advantage. Peel your eyeballs off of the dotted ceiling board and flirt with him, ruthlessly, aimlessly until you’re giddy from so much stupidity, until your face fucking hurts from being such a ventriloquist’s dummy. Don’t sleep with your Gunnar. That would complicate things. This needs to remain fairly easy. We’re trying to get a job done here, aren’t we?

  Four: drink. Not just get blasted on Fridays but every night of the torturous week. Drink wine out of a box on Wednesday while you binge on Chinese take-out and watch terrible TV. Then accidently let out your neighbor’s cat—the one you’re supposed to be feeding. Spend all day Thursday making missing cat fliers at the office in between puking sessions in the communal staff bathroom. Done!

  Five: last but not least, stop trying. Look like shit. Don’t even wash your clothes. How can anyone be attracted to you when they are starting to suspect that secretly you’re homeless? You can bathe, but do it without enthusiasm. Leave a ton of conditioner in your hair, so it takes on that dull, greasy sheen that Daisy’s fur had when you finally found her after work one night, meowing outside the Lavateria six blocks from your house.

  It’s effective. It works. It hurts like a bitch. Especially when you have to stare at the beautiful painting he made you every time you step foot in the office. You have to remember he thinks you’re an impenetrable prickly pear when all you want in the world is for it to be him who penetrates you. On (oh!) so many levels.

  Then you decide to go home because you have to and because you can. It’s time to make one last ditch effort to save your family home and take a breather from Lana Finch. Because, let’s be honest here, that bitch is bringing you down. You can go be yourself, whoever that is, with you mom and dad and your extremely difficult younger brother. You can take a break from trying to save the world at large and concentrate on saving your world—the one you came from, and the one you couldn’t wait to escape. Detroit in February is a wonderful thing. Your family is devastated. Housing court is a cheery and rewarding place. Hey, you’re using up vacation days so try to enjoy it!

  Then as luck would have it, one Wednesday night you stay late at the office, trying to work ahead into next week so no one will even notice you’re gone. You don’t want people to say you’re not pulling your part. It’s you who locks up and turns off all the lights. You’ve done this only once before because outstaying Amir and Pedro who work the front desk is nearly impossible. You take the bus home because you didn’t bring your car, and you press you head against the glass playing “who are you and where did you come from” with every random figure you see in the street.

  There are so many people in Los Angeles that you’re suddenly overwhelmed with humanity and the weight of just being. People are like grains of sand. There are so many, almost too many people. The bus stop is only a few blocks from your house. You’re not afraid to walk them, but you always take out your keys and jingle them loudly as if to announce, “I live so close, I might just enter any of these. So don’t bother mugging me because the next pad will be mine.” I’ve got my keys out, my assertive walk—nothing can touch this.

  Except for maybe a figure in black pants and a hoody, standing illuminated by a streetlight. Now there’s not an overwhelming infinite number, there is only one person. A human, not a grain of sand, and one wearing a backpack you easily recognize. If a client from work shows up on, or near your property, you should call the police just like you did for the guy with the knife. It wouldn’t be safe to approach them alone or allow them to engage you off site where there’s no supervision.

  But what if you’re obsessed with him and you kind of, sort of, maybe—accidentally, once kissed him?

  You walk faster and hold your bag tighter and straighten your spine. Be a grown up! Say the right thing! Just ask him to leave!

  “Hey, Lana, Can we talk?”

  “Not outside of Pathways. It’s against procedure.”

  “I just really need to talk to you. I could give a fuck about procedure.”

  “Procedure is important. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” But it comes out in barely a whisper. Where the fuck is my conviction? It disappears whenever it catches wind of this man.

  “Do you want me to go home with you? To Detroit, I mean? Pedro told me you had to go this weekend. Sorry, I know you like to be private.”

  I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out. I feel betrayed by my co-workers and staff. My loss isn’t something I want to share with everyone.

  “I wanted to offer support. I want to help you.”

  Can I please run into his arms and do the Dirty Dancing lift? Can we kiss under the streetlight in the most rapturous, epic, unforgettable kiss? Until the world crumbles around us and we rise to the heavens in an eternal embrace. (Maybe with rocket boosters and fireworks and philharmonic accompaniment?) Can I forget I’m a grown-up and just finally suck his face?

  I stand there, staring at him with my chest heaving and my stomach bottoming out. This feels like a moment. The big one. But, it’s a moment I can’t have. One I absolutely must deny myself of.

>   “That is an incredibly generous offer, Mr. Cruz, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate. Neither is this—showing up at my place. I’m going to pretend this didn’t happen so you won’t get in trouble.” And with that I walk right past him.

  I don’t look back to see his face.

  Chapter 9

  My brother, Alexei, picks me up at the airport. He wanders toward the baggage claim, looking forlorn and tucking his longish shock of black hair behind his ears. I see him before he sees me, and I wave, but he’s looking at the floor. Alexei has this strange way of walking where he over-crosses his feet, like he’s walking on an invisible tightrope or a catwalk. With his longish raven colored hair, his pale skin and his feminine walk—the whole effect is quite emo. My little brother has grown up.

  I’m staring, but he still won’t look up. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand with a vigor that should be reserved for scratching elbows or knees not the delicate orbs through which we see. But this is Alexei with his utter inability to truly respect anything. He’s sloppy and lazy and a blind mole to consequences. But he is a lover and not a fighter and knows how to love hard. My heart softens toward him, and when he looks up and finally sees me, he smiles with sea foam green eyes that look just like mine.

  Speeding up on his tightrope by swinging his arms, he bounds over to me, and a wide grin spreads across his face, a dimple sneaking out on each side. My baby brother, the sweetest and weirdest and most frustrating human I know.

  “Hey, Lana,” he says, hugging me. He’s wearing a waffle knit sweater that’s way too big, a parka with the zipper open and sneakers with loose laces.

  “Hey, Lexi, thanks for coming to get me!”

  “Yeah, well, Mom made me. I’ve got a jacket for you in the car. It’s cold and starting to snow. Dad made stew to welcome you home. I tried it. It was pretty gross. We should probably stop to get something.”

  “You look great!” I tell him.

  “You look all LA. Since when do you wear a blazer?”

  “How’s school?”

  “It’s shit, but I’m making the best of it.”

  The automatic doors open into curbside transportation, and the air is frigid. It’s the Midwest in February. I didn’t come prepared, and right away my teeth chatter. Lexi stops rolling the suitcase and offers me his parka.

  “It’s okay. I’m wearing two sweaters.”

  “You’re wracking up brother points. Watch out, pretty soon I’ll invite you out to visit.”

  Lexi smiles and puts his arm around me. God, I’d almost forgotten how much I adore my brother. I used to think he was gay and too shy to come out, but unfortunately, its much more complicated than that. Lexi is awkward, and there is something unsettling about him. He laughs at things no one else laughs at and can’t ever seem to make friends. I’d chock it up to cultural differences, but my paternal grandparents emigrated from Russia and my mother’s family came over when she was sixteen. Our roots have been growing here long enough to be culturally assimilated. In school growing up, his weirdo status never seemed to bother him. It bothered me more. I was always hysterically protective of him. He got made fun of, and worse, he was shunned. Lex, shrugged it all off while I was constantly throwing down in the school yard and ready to fight.

  He’s brought his junker—a rust eaten 91’ Ford escort— the most boring of cars.

  “Do you want to drive through downtown just since it’s been a while?”

  “That sounds good, Lex. The snow is beautiful. Hey, are you seeing anyone at school?”

  He removes one hand from the steering wheel and scratches his mop, pushing strands back behind his big ears.

  “Same question back at you, Dr. Ruth. Nice lead in. You know Mom and Dad will want to hear this one.”

  “Truce. And the answer is only when I’m drunk and I know I won’t fall for him.”

  I look out at the dark street and draw a circle in the wet fog on the window. I press the button to roll the window down all the way. When it goes back up again the moisture is gone and I can see the street better. I wish I were seeing someone. I wish I were seeing you-know-who.

  “Should we stop for coffee or something to eat? Mom and Dad will be asleep by the time we get home.”

  “Do you drink coffee at midnight?”

  “I do it all the time. I like to go to the Greyhound bus station. We’re coming right up on it. The coffee is bad, but they’re open twenty-four hours and they give away the day-old Danish when the shifts change.”

  We grew up in Oak Park, to the north of the city. A lot of families later moved to West Bloomfield when they could afford the real estate. But we stayed in the same house we’ve always been in. It’s not surprising considering my mom doesn’t even know her way around downtown Detroit.

  The streetlights all have rainbow orbs through the wet car window. I’d think we were in a winter wonderland if I didn’t already know what a dump it is under the snow.

  “You go there ‘cause you’re strapped for cash? Aren’t you doing work-study?”

  “What? Oh yeah. No, I just like stuff better when it’s free.”

  He’s pulling into the bus station parking lot as he says 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 fa
ce. 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 time.

  I swivel back again and squint my eyes at him. I took my contacts out on the plane. My glasses are in my luggage. But I can sense this guy better than I can see.

  “That. Is. Fucking. Impossible!”

  “Even when they arrive alone, they’re still happy to get off the bus,” Lexi says, glossing over my reaction.