The Buildings on the Corner

She gives the door handle a tug, and it doesn’t budge.  She looks up from under her curtain of black hair, sees the buzzer by the door, presses it.  She rocks back on her heels, and waits, sneaking glances across the street. 


The building she’s in front of is squat, gray, made of cinderblocks.  You’d drive past it a hundred times, and if someone asked you what was on that corner, you couldn’t tell them.  Even if you looked at it, really looked at it, you still might not figure it out.  A very small sign, it’s gold-burnished raised lettering long ago faded, says “Women’s Health Options”.  But it’s clear from the lack of life in the girl’s eyes, that if she thought she had “options”, she wouldn’t be here.


Across the street, there’s another building, showy where this one’s quiet, ingratiating where this one’s indifferent.  It’s bright cream siding is nearly blinding against the grime of the street.  Loud, turquoise signs with white lettering scream “Let Us Show You What Your Baby Would Look Like Now!”, “Pre- and Post-Abortion Counselling”.  One with folksy lettering invites you to sit on “The Back Porch”.  This building wants you to see it; it wants you to not be able to avoid seeing it.


Two women stand on the sidewalk, a discreet distance from “The Back Porch”, having a smoke.  Despite the cold, they’re not wearing toques – hair that has been teased and curled and sprayed into place can’t survive under a woolen hat.  They talk quietly, darting the occasional pointed stare at the girl across the street, who in turn peeks out from under her hair back at them. 


The girl pushes the buzzer once more, then twice.  Impatient, willing someone to open the door.  The coiffed women finish their cigarettes, stubbing out the butts with the toes of their pointed boots, in unison.  They kick the butts into the street.  But they don’t return to their building, just yet.  They wait, to stare some more.


Finally, finally, the buzzer is heard and someone answers the girl’s prayers.  The women wait till the last possible second, then yell something to her.  The content is lost among the sounds of the traffic in the street between them, but the intent carries, barbed and hard.  The girl hesitates, for just a portion of a second.  She absorbs the blow, then slips into the clinic.


The women shake their heads, turn slowly, and climb the stairs back into their building.  It gets dark early, this time of year.  As they close their door, spotlights illuminate the turquoise signs.  They’ve got nothing to hide.


11 responses to “The Buildings on the Corner

  1. Very moving…what inspired you to post that? I was 18 when I got pregnant with Haley, 19 when I had her. For whatever reason, I never considered abortion. But I am not against it, I am just glad I never had to go through it. I’ve known many, some that are quite close to me, who have made that choice.

  2. As we say back home, there’s a taste of more off that.

  3. Wonderful post, Ginny. Poignant and real.

  4. Vinomom: I drive past these 2 buildings every day. When we first moved to the neighborhood, I saw the pro-life building, couldn’t help but see it. It took living here for 2 and a half years for me to figure out what the building across the street was. The post was just something I saw happening, one day. “I am not against it, I am just glad I never had to go through it” – that pretty much sums up my position, too.

    formerlyfun: That means a lot, coming from you.

    Xbox: I adore that saying. And thank you.

    bluestreak: Thank you, so glad to see you around again!

    mkh: Thanks.

    Otto: I’m glad.

    Free Man: Thanks so much.

  5. It’s nice that someone notices this stuff. So the girl wasn’t so alone, after all.

  6. michael.offworld

    Good writing Ginny. Great start, better ending. I always like your endings. You been practicing.

  7. Drea: I never thought of it like that.

    Michael: Thank you so much. Not so much practicing, just trying not to be satisfied with crap.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s