Greyhound Bus Terminal - Detroit, Michigan
In Syracuse I went into the Post House Bar in the bus station. Eighteen year olds could drink in New York state. I put my three dollars on the bar counter minus one dime for a phone call. In the hour before my next bus I drank up the three dollar, the bar tender making up a slight shortage for me. I don’t remember alcohol tasting so good
After some brief panic at not finding the right bus I staggered on to my bus. A young woman, leaving home for the first time sat beside me. It was her Easter vacation, she was visiting relatives. She offered me some of the bag lunch her parents has packed for her and I ate. I waved to her parents out the window, the puzzlement on their face, asking the question, who is that guy next to our girl? The bus rumbled out of the station, I exchanged a few words with the young woman next to me and then slept all of the way to Cleveland, until about six a.m. Cleveland didn’t look or feel too good. It too seemed hung over from the booze and the stress of the previous day.
A few hours later pulling into the Detroit bus station, my thoughts jumped, my feelings of dissapointment, mixed with the familiarity and specificity of the bus station in downtown Detroit. This was where I had started not so long ago. The station was busy with activity. I used the last dime to make a call to a friend where I stayed briefly while I worked to get enough money to get my own place.
