“Young Czar, a little example of modern social contrast. Take a look here,” He points a bony finger, smudged with the ghostly oil of a thousand different bike wheels. The bar, washed in the marks the street punks with spray cans. Windows brightly lit. Signs with labels of various big sodas. A capitalists dream, so they may be considered.

“Note...The people in there...would not be caught dead inside that charming little restaurant,” his raspy voice an undertone of the far off sirens. “We’ll take a peek. Just you and your sister, the youngest will have to stay out here.”

Inside the bar, four people, leather-clad and of Campeche descent. Striped hair and dark skin. Beers, four, gleaming under the dim overhead neon bulbs. The bartender, a rather husky woman with black hair, low cut bangs, eyebrows like gypsy moths.

“We- we’re here to take a look.” The music is hispanic, full of strange beats that bounce off the green walls. The woman doesn’t understand.

“Los ninos estan visita por uno momento.” he repeats.

“Ah,” the woman grunts.

The older two of the three kids take a look, then head back out into the dying sun. Streets full of nothing but wispy south Texas air. Cars, far back on risen free ways.

Next, the five people head to the bus station. The new one, near Elizabeth, larger than any bus station the boy had ever seen. Of course the only bus station he had visited was the outdoor type, full of mostly hipsters from Pittsburgh. It had been cold that day, far colder than the big bus station in Brownsville.

Large room, large enough to fit a High School pool. Huge lights on a slanted ceiling. Fourteen people, most of them homeless, the rest having come to America seeking asylum. All of which had been rejected, “come back later for your hearing’. An ungodly amount of time. Sent back across the bridge, with nothing but the clothes on their back and a ticket most likely purchased by an American relative or a do-gooding religious charity that was ‘too overbooked’ to accept muslim immigrants. There weren’t too many of those in Brownsville, anyhow.

The five people walk through toward the desk, smelling the air which reminds them of a chilled Houston airport. Each person seeing the room differently. Five different ways, from uncaring ‘wants ice cream’ to life changing, ‘I know what I’m going to do once I’m out of college’. Every person may think the same things, but they are scattered about the timeline of each of their lives.

“Czar, here is some Spanish for you. Destinations...most heading north.”

He passed the pamphlet to the boy who’s life had changed, then turned to the nearest family, a family which was resting on the bench in long wait for their trip.

“Cuando es tu autobús?”

A little girl with broken glasses, a pregnant mother, two others who look like silver-haired aunts.

“Ten thirty.” One of the silver-haired aunts replied.

“Cruzando el puente?”

“Si, claro.”

He waves a hand.

Next, the walk through downtown. Tall buildings, ‘Mexican style’ is the most the boy can place to them. Trees, huge trees, palms waving like pennants. Dark sky, getting darker, with no stars and a breeze cool for the children, warm for the adults. No one is out, and the fountain twirls devoid of pennies. Not many cars are downtown, tucked away for the night, either under middle class garages or in parking spaces for migrants. Most migrants as penniless as the fountain. It’s boring to the youngest child, life changing for the middle. A social contrast per se, maybe not.

Finally, dinner.

A small place serving pizza, salads, and soda in a bottle. Spanish labels. It has a courtyard, and a giant gas stove imported from Italy or Spain, likely on a ship which passed many faces through the Gulf Of Mexico. Many faces on the same timeline. And yes, they do flip the dough.

Not many people in the indoor eatery facing the emptying downtown street. The five sit there, order cokes one at a time, then three pizzas, with six slices each. Cheese, Margarita maybe, one with ham. Then for three minutes they sit, trying to divide eighteen by five, then by six including the absent mother of the children.

Eventually, the pizzas come, and they dish them out evenly. One each, eighteen minus five. Thirteen? Si, claro.

Five people. A boy of thirteen who they call czar, who writes and wishes he didn’t have to go home to Michigan. A girl of sixteen, desperately longing for her driver’s license, a trophy she can’t seem to obtain. An archeologist, long pre-retired, seeing the same south Texas town for the hundredth time. The one man who lived there, old, his legs worn from countless bike trips across any terrain. And a nine year old dancer, who doesn’t care too much for the cultural scene. The social contrast.

A hispanic waitress who sounds quite a bit like J-Lo, serves them. It’s a first time for two of the three children.

Minutes into dinner, the boy has devoured three slices of pizza. The men two each, the teenage girl one, and the dancer two. That makes eighteen minus eight. Ten. Ten more slices. Minus three saved for the mother. One from each pizza. Seven more slices. Each person beside the boy takes one. Now three more. The boy takes another and still wants more. Who will sacrifice their pieces?

Both the girls will, and each of the men gets a final slice. The boy steals his father’s.

Three left for the mother.

As the four from Michigan venture outside to take a look at the courtyard, the biker declines dessert. You can’t fool him with an appetizer or dessert from that little hole in the wall. Too small, simply, as if made for the blasphemous creatures from Close Encounters Of The Third Kind.

After the bill is paid. Cash only. Goodbyes are said to old friends who work in the kitchen. The five, three children and two adults, head out into the night a final time, headed back to their van parked at the curb. Below whistling palm trees. As they walk the crooked sidewalk, the biker points out a passing bus to the boy. Its electric sign reads, out of service.

“A good title for a book, young czar.” he claims. The boy, whose life has been changed by what he’s seen, dismisses his grandfather.

“You never think of the title first.”

The biker waves a hand. “I know. Bah, I’m terrible with titles.”

A few moments later, a second blue bus passes by. Under dark Texas spring sky. Many faces on the same timeline, many homeless men in Yankee caps. Many women packing bags near the bus station. Many children hidden behind the steel walls of the migrant housing. And many members to the same family, who will never understand the other faces.

“Look, there’s his brother.”

The second bus. Also out of service.