1. Check In
When the mail comes, I date it and open it to make sure no bombs or anthrax reach the abortion providers. Usually it’s just bills and pharmaceutical samples and nonthreatening hate mail that tells me it’s not too late to walk away, but one time a white powder falls out. It’s just dandruff. Someone has sent a lock of their hair. I am lucky to work for such an important cause. I send the hair to the shredder—we don’t take unsolicited samples.
I start writing back to the address stamped on the hate mail. I send it all the way down to Leadlung, Texas. I say, Hello! Salutations! Thank you for your concern, but I couldn’t walk away if I tried! I am an invalid, having lost my legs at sea, and the abortion providers are my stewards. They look like guardian angels when they arrive in their white robes and face masks. I open their mail, and in exchange they bring me their leftover takeout and spoon pad see ew into my mouth. God bless.
Later on, I open a letter addressed not to the abortion providers but to me. It’s from a man who was beguiled by my response and wants to meet. He includes dick pics, and his shriveled legs are dwarfed by his enormous member. He writes that he has a personal relationship with God, that he enjoys rolling his wheelchair through the mesquite flats and hunting coyote. We flirt for a while by post and eventually decide to meet, despite our political differences. He flies out from Leadlung, and although I’m nervous about what he may think of me, I’m excited, and I spend all day getting ready. When he at last arrives at my door, he seems disappointed in my height, the fact that I can walk, and that I lied about every aspect of my life. His legs are even more shriveled than they appeared in the photo, his bulge even more prominent. He has a charming southern accent. When I drop to my knees and beg him to stay, I am still taller than him. He politely but firmly untangles me, wheels away, and I never see him again. Now there is one less envelope to open.
Today I read a statement by an engineer that says, The more you’ve broken, the more innovative you’ve been. This makes me want to break something, so I push a lamp off the table, but the head nurse goes even further. She hides a bomb inside the clinic and it detonates in the middle of the night. After their initial confusion, everyone thanks her for her decisive action, and the clinic innovates itself back into existence. It was my idea, I say, but no one listens. We build a fortress and fill it with bulletproof lamps and vases specially made for abortion clinics. We drink bulletproof coffee from bulletproof mugs and type on bulletproof keyboards. Now nothing is breakable, and I weep for our lost innovation. The engineer is dead because he drove a Tupperware sub down to the wreck of the Titanic.
I know the man who leaves us threatening voicemails. His name is Roland, and he is a janitor in the next town over. We see each other walking to work sometimes, and we wave. I know it’s him because he doesn’t bother to block his number, and I once called him back, and we had a nice chat. He is hoping to build his reputation as a violent extremist, which is a valuable occupation in today’s economy. He wants to put us on his resumé. I told him I don’t mind the voicemails as long as he keeps them short, which he does. Poor Roland. He’ll never be a great threat. His voice is high and raspy. He sounds like a Chihuahua. He stutters and loses track of his thoughts before they can climax into real intimidation.
When the mail comes, I have the letter opener ready and sharpened. I have set the rubber stamp to today’s date. I am excited to sort through important documents and respond in a timely manner. There is a new roll of postage stamps by my side, and a special pen to wet the envelopes. It would be unprofessional to lick them, but I do when the head nurse isn’t looking.
I can hardly contain myself when the mailman arrives on his pony. He is hot and dusty from the long ride, and I pour him a glass of water while he updates me on the news. In the next town over, a terrible gunfight has left everyone dead except the prostitutes and the outlaws, so we will be very busy over the next few months. This is good news, I tell him. I’m waiting for him to leave so I can open the mail. But the mailman says he actually has some time before his next delivery, and he’s been having trouble with one of the bullets lodged in his ribs. Do I think one of the doctors would be able to take a look?
I say he would have to fill out new patient paperwork, and that we have a waitlist. I say that once approved, he would need to make an appointment to come back. I ask if he has insurance. I say, anyway, we are an abortion clinic. Do you need an abortion? He says never mind. The pony has an appointment with the vet next month, and he’ll just get it checked out then. I nod. This is the wisest course of action. Once the pony has rested, he saddles up and rides into the sunset.
I am finally alone with the mail. But it is all credit card offers and Golf Digest. I throw them away without opening them.
Thank you for calling the Abortion Clinic. Your call is important to us.
If this is an emergency, please continue to hold.
To hear our hours of operation, press 1.
To hear the latest updates on abortion laws, press 2.
To check your insurance coverage, please hang up and call your insurance company.
To submit a prior authorization request, please press 3 to hear our fax number, then please hang up and submit your requests via fax.
To schedule an appointment, please hang up and schedule an ultrasound with your primary doctor, then submit a prior authorization request for a referral through your insurance provider.
Press 4 to submit yourself to the proper authorities.
Press 5 to leave a message.
To hear these options again, please hang up and call back.
At first, there were sentient robots doing my job. They had pliant silicone faces and adjustable medical instruments on their fingers. They adhered to strict medical ethics and became belligerent when patients smoked after their operations. They would not let the mailman rest inside after his long ride, citing HIPAA laws, and they forced the doctors and nurses to operate under pseudonyms containing at least one number and one special character, which had to be reset every six weeks. In the end, people forgot their pseudonyms and programmed the robots to remember them. This meant a robot had to be in the room with every doctor, to say, Hello, this is Porkey&9216, she will be performing your abortion today. Do you consent to an illegal operation?
I interviewed with the doctors and the head nurse in secret, in a corner of the basement with poor Wi-Fi and no camera visibility. They asked me to perform a series of tasks. I had to demonstrate an understanding of the uncertainty principle in order to run a rattling fax machine. Easy, I said: So long as we know the position of an object, we can’t be sure of its momentum, and vice versa. I successfully faxed a stack of blank papers into the gap between dimensions, and the head nurse told me I had left sensitive information laying face up on the tray. Next she pointed to a black rotary phone on the table. There was no dial tone. I was instructed to place a practice call to a pharmacy and refill a prescription. This went well until I said my name out loud, and the gentleman doctor gasped and checked a small box on his clipboard. Finally, the head nurse asked me to reset the router. I unplugged it and the doctors dropped their clipboards and hugged one another. The head nurse popped champagne, and I was hired on the spot.
It turns out I had deactivated the robots. Not only that, I had killed them. The robots had reached a level of sentience that approximated life: they were in relationships, they had pets and quarrels. The doctors had been unable to pull the plug because of their oath to do no harm, but the robots had simply made the clinic unbearable.
Now I’m always looking over my shoulder. I like to think that if I were making the clinic unbearable, I would just be fired, but you never know.
_STUPID_ Murderers,
It’s not too late to turn to _POOP_. He is a _STINKY_ God, but He gives mercy to those who _SPANK_. Perhaps your employer _BURPED_ you into a job, or perhaps you have been _GAY_ by what you’ve seen. Help us defeat this _BUTT_ of death by _FARTING_ away right now. Every _BOOB_ is precious, even yours!
_NAUSEOUSLY_,
_Chance Hobax, age 10_
Dear Chance,
Thank you so much for your thoughtful message! I especially liked the part about turning to poop, and I appreciate you saying my boob is precious. You seem like a very sweet boy.
Sincerely,
Reception
I don’t know why you indulge these people, says the mailman. He is brushing dust onto the lobby floor, and I have forgotten to close the bulletproof partition between us. I can smell his breath, sweet like grain, rich as horse sweat. I tuck the letter into the envelope and lick it closed, and I am suddenly aware of his eyes on my tongue, which I leave out a moment more than I need to. No one has seen my tongue in a long time, not even me.
I am friendly with some of the protesters. We nod good morning as I enter the clinic. The old man in full camo salts the walkway in the winter, and in the summer heat I give them all juice boxes. I am envious, in a way. It is more invigorating to fight against something than to maintain it. And I feel sorry for them, because I think they must be very lonely. There is one woman who only wears red, and she has a red face and red knuckles, and the sign she carries is red with melted crayon that looks like blood dripping over a now-illegible slogan. She had an abortion a long time ago, but she says the baby still creeps around her womb at night. She can feel it pulling on its umbilical cord like a doorbell, ringing and ringing for her. It must be hard to meet people when you have a story like that.
A very famous outlaw from the next town over has become the President, and he is taking a grand tour! Our very own mailman is escorting him through these dangerous wastes. My heart swells to see him riding abreast with the President, but he avoids my eye. The President stops to toss candy to the protesters, then stands up in his stirrups to deliver a rousing speech. He dismounts, and we open the doors to him. He knocks approvingly on the bulletproof fixtures and tells us that although we are a bunch of heathen butchers, we provide good jobs to the community and are a friend to industry everywhere. The executive director nods and thanks him for his time, and then guides him through the clinic in her wheeled bathtub. He can find nothing out of place, though he reiterates that our days are numbered, and when Congress gets off their asses, he’ll have us shackled and executed by firing squad. And that’s nothing compared to what the Devil’s got in store for you, he says, grinning, pressing the executive director’s damp hand. She laughs and tells him back atcha, and the two retire to her office to drink whiskey and reminisce (she knows him from way back when).
This leaves the mailman and me alone. He is wearing a silk handkerchief for the occasion; it looks like it was used to staunch a wound. I tuck it into his shirt collar, and his neck is burning hot. He catches my hand and finally looks at me. I didn’t vote for him, he says. I need you to know. I nod, surprised. No one votes anyway. I bring him a juice box while he waits for the President to return, and then he shoulders the huge, drunk man to his horse and drapes him over the saddle. The band plays an ancient patriotic song as the mailman sets off, the President’s horse in tow, and for the first time ever, I wonder where he sleeps.
One thing I love is warm paper fresh off the printer. I press it against my face and inhale. It reminds me of being a little girl in the mountains, when my cousin told me the Indians used aspen bark as sunscreen. I stroked the trees’ pale, smooth trunks until they were white with bark dust, and then I rubbed the dust on my face to make my skin like velveteen. These days I catch the warm paper before it even hits the tray. I lay my cheek on it, first one side, then the other, the way I would lie in an alpine forest as the sun baked the vanilla out of the rocks. I shred it and mix it with water and smear half of it on my face. The other half I set in a warm place to rise. After a few hours I bake it in the break-room toaster oven until the pulp hardens and flakes away into thin sheets like puff pastry. This is how the Indians used to make paper.