Morgan's Express 

 

The bottom of the coffee cup was slicked with that thick, viscous sludge that only the grinds of some ancient diner are capable of shocking you with.  Pamela Jordins took no notice, though, as she swigged her last gulp and pulled out a cracked compact mirror and a flip comb.  She began the ritual of eking out the grime and wax in preparation for a new coat of the product that made her fading locks hold for one more day.

 

“You want another cup, hun?” Asked the white haired, pock-marked old man underneath a paper-white-grease-stained hat.

 

“No.” replied Pamela.

 

It was early at just three minutes past seven in the morning, but Pamela had already been planted at her counter stool for close to two hours.  Clearly her night had been long.  Longer than usual?  That was unclear.  But at a place like Morgan’s Express no one really cared where you came from or where you were going.  As long as you ordered something, you were free to make the neon-lit cavern your home.  

 

“Dave Filgins! Is that you? Sit down. It’s been ages, how are you my man?” Our sole proprietor had become distracted by an old regular, apparently, and Pamela had the counter to herself.  She applied one last thick coat of mascara to her limp lashes, and although she looked overdone and rather cheap, there was a semblance of “trying” which gave her…credibility.

 

She clipped on two faux pearl earrings and pushed her hair back.  A loud exhale completed her morning ablutions.  Without much fanfare, a thick thud hit the stool next to her, and she turned to face the mass she now met at eye-level.

 

“I’m sorry I don’t have an office or anything like that, but you know, that’s too risky.” Began Pamela.  “Making this happen for you has to be incredibly secret, so I prefer meeting at a place like Morgan’s.”

 

The eyes across from Pamela’s own simply blinked once, and the heavy head nodded.

 

“So about price…”  

 

“Let’s talk about price later,” Pamela insisted.  “For now let’s just try to get this done as soon as possible.”

 

“Does that mean…?”

 

“Well, yes, preferably today.  I don’t like to wait.  You understand why.”

 

“So where do we go?”  The heaviness and darkness of this face showed signs of anxiety, but an exhaustion and lethargy enveloped these emotions to a strong degree.

 

Pamela moved in and whispered: “I have an apartment not far from here…about fifteen minutes by foot.  All of my equipment is there.  I can take you straight from here and we can be done by this afternoon.”

 

“This is so fast…”

 

“It has to be this way.  You must understand.”

 

A moment of silence rocked the little space between the two bodies.  For the first time, Pamela breathed in her customer just inches from her own flesh.  A soft brown skin, with tight black curls pulled back.  Gold hoop earrings, faint pink lip-gloss, very large and tender breasts.  Her shirt was too small and was covered up by an extra-large nylon jacket.

 

“And all of your equipment…”

 

“It’s the best we can do,” replied Pamela, as sure of herself as she always was.

 

It came out barely audible, a whisper, but Pamela could hear it if it were one hundred miles away: “O.K.”

 

She placed a few singles on the counter and took her guests hand, guiding her out of Morgan’s double glass doors and onto the street.  The two walked slowly, hands entwined and the old man looked out of his diner to see the two women fade into black shadows.

 

It was 2040, and the abortion ban had already been in place for twenty-five years.  Pamela Jordins wasn’t the only private practitioner, scavenging up old materials and helping women who needed it most, but she was one who came highly recommended.  Her bare-bones office had saved hundreds of women, albeit in an unsanitary, make-shift way.  This was the world we now lived in, she would remind herself every day.  She wasn’t Jesus, but rather saw herself as a Harriet Tubman.  

 

The penalty for this type of procedure was death for the patient and “doctor”, but this was America…death lined the streets daily.  “Death” seemed much less scary than bringing a child into the “United States of” at a time like this…

 

The wooden door creaked open and Pamela and her patient were home.