Junkyard

This is a work of fiction. No real people, events or places were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.

Junkyard

By Plot Roach

Daniel clutched the slip of paper in one hand as had handed over his identity card to the security officer at the gate. “Haven’t seen you here in a while” the man said, scanning the card before handing it back. “Will this be cash or charge?”

“Bill it to the usual account.” Daniel said, pocketing the card and heading through the massive steel doors of the facility.

“What’s your business here?” asked the next security guard.

“My information is on the form in front of you, Ed. It’s the usual: I’m here for ‘special collections’.”

“That’s security officer Williams to you, Daniel.”

“Fine” Daniel said. “Then it’s Mr. Brown to you!” he said and stalked past the overweight guard. With an ego to match his bulk, Daniel thought, it’s a wonder he still has a job. There are times, Daniel told himself, that some people exist solely because they might become organ donors to someone more important. But the only thing I would use his organs in would be a hotdog.

He traveled past the third gate, the security officer barely looked up from his magazine on motocross sports to check his credentials.

The gate buzzed open and Daniel walked into the changing room, donning scrubs as well as protective face and footwear. It was all a generic green color, so that the facility’s staff would know him as a visitor. He pressed the button on the wall when he was done and was covered with a fine mist before being dried with a blast of warm air and ushered into the next room.

“May I see your list?” The receptionist asked. She was covered from head to foot in a protective bio-suit the color of a ripe banana. He handed the slip over, it had gone through the decontamination procedure with him and was safe enough to handle, though why they did not automate this step in the process and e-mail the parts needed beforehand, Daniel could only guess. Maybe there have been mishaps before, someone getting the wrong part -or worse yet, getting someone else’s.

The receptionist brought up her records on the computer with fast clicks and a few slow sighs. Maybe its worse than that, he told himself, maybe they don’t want to admit just how much business that they do to nosey reporters and the like.

“I have the kidney and the heart you requested, Mr. Brown. But I don’t have an exact match on the lung. We have the same blood type, but not in a teen -you’ll have to take an adult instead.”

“How is the condition on the item?” he asked. He tried to do a mental calculation while waiting for her response. He would get less money for an older product, but if it was in good condition, the loss would not be too great. And for the fifty-year old that he was buying it for, it might be a better fit.

“Patient was a school teacher, thirty five when she died of a brain aneurism. She never smoked a day in her life and lived most of her days in a nearly smog free environment.”

“Can I get a printout of that record to show to my patient?” he asked. “It might make the difference in a sale or a looky-loo.”

“Let’s face it, Mr. Brown.” the receptionist eyed him over her computer. “No one comes to you to ‘shop around’, do they?”

“No. I guess not” He sighed, collecting the cooler stocked with human organs that she handed over to him. “My office is one of the few with the parts and the know-how to put people back together again.”

“And you do it discreetly and for a modest price.” she added.

“I’ve already agreed to the price, there’s no need to sell me further.” he said, smiling at her.

“I know, I just don’t want you to sell yourself short” she said. “It takes a talented set of hands to restore the ‘classics’ to their former glory, you know.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Well, you should. And as always, Mr. Brown, thank you for your business and please come again to the Junkyard.”