One January Morning, Part 9
At the police station—three hours, two pile-ups, and one vehicular homicide later—Jennifer and Elizabeth pointed at Morgan from behind the safety of tinted glass and said, in unison, “That’s her. That’s the skank right there.” Then, they held each other and cried crocodile tears for their Morgan, who would, thanks to nearly identical TV movie deals they were about to strike, be theirs forever. At least on celluloid.
Meanwhile, Morgan the Pirate was moved to an interrogation room. The rest of the line-up—the prostitutes and the crack whores and that one schoolmarm who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time—they turned in their borrowed eye patches and went on their merry way. Morgan, however, sat still in her stiff plastic chair, admiring her handcuffs as she waited for the solitary door to open. She tugged at them, pulling her wrists apart gently and then with more force. And, when that got old, she resorted to humming “A Pirate’s Life for Me” while she squinted at the door to see if it would just disappear into the wall. To see if the walls would disappear. And maybe, perhaps, this whole godforsaken world.
To be continued…