Prose: "Dispatch from the Wauwatosa Park and Ride"

Dispatch from the Wauwatosa Park and Ride

Carly Davis, Class of 2023

Sufjan Stevens is the patron saint of bus stops, I think. The music’s just sad enough to mellow you out, but not enough of a bummer to make you think about running straight into I-43.

I’m at the Park-n-Go where you and mom met, just outside of Milwaukee. It feels part of my grand, dramatic origin story. There’s something biblical about leaving mom’s near-defunct Honda Odyssey under a light post and waiting for the bus to pull up.

Your old St. Catherine’s varsity sweater does a shit job at keeping the cold out this late in the season. It’s cute, but yarn can only do so much. I texted mom a picture of it when I got dressed tonight, and she sent me a photo of a Polaroid where she’s wearing it years and years ago. She still wore it better. You’d probably agree (and then insist that I looked nice, too).

November still feels warmer than it did when I was a kid, but I think that’s just because I got used to it when I grew up. It doesn’t help that winter seems to come later every year. Spring’s a real drag, now. One of these years, we’ll have to do the St. Pat’s keg crawl through three feet of snow and freezing wind.

Right now, there’s frost on the ground but no snow. The Park-n-Go is desolate, so I’m not worried about sliding around if it gets slick, but it just feels bleak. Just me and all these damn signs about parking regulations and the lights surrounding the roundabouts to the on-ramps. Fucking roundabouts, dad, you’d hate them. Buddy of mine drove straight through the median, once. Hopped right over the curb and ran over all the hostas Walker put in when he built the damn things.

Sufjan’s crooning about something or other while some plucky melody does its best to keep me awake. I can’t hear his voice over the hum of cars on 43, but I’m too tired to listen to my usual music. Besides, I can sleep on the bus. Mom said she’d call me when she sees my phone get close to Sherman Park.

I know I’m being melodramatic. I should’ve gotten a coffee on my way here--would’ve kept me warm, too. I can hear you telling me to buck up and deal with it, saying that everyone gets tired sometimes.

I’m trying to buck up, I really am. Thanksgiving is always hard for us. I’ll put on a brave face for mom like you’d want me to and try to be there for the guys. But I’ve got a minute left in the Park-n-Go as I watch the bus limp through the roundabout, and that’s long enough for me to stand here and whine while your barely-there sweater weighs heavy on my shoulders.