In my dreams, a lesbian Republican congresswoman comes to me while I’m shooting baskets on a blacktop playground and asks me where I stand on abortion.
I wondered where she stood.
“That depends on you,” she said. “I’m a politician, remember.”
“Never really thought about it, you know,” I told her. “I’m a man, and such matters don’t really concern me. I use condoms.”
The ball fell through the mesh net – I’d hit like four in a row – and she gave me a nice bounce pass. I shot again, but I was a little long. The ball kicked off the back the rim and went toward the jungle gym.
Neither of us hurried after it.
She pushed the bridge of her glasses up and raised her eyebrows.
“You don’t have an opinion?”
Really, I didn’t. Fortune had smiled upon me, and I’d never had to confront the issue. An Italian girl I knew told me that she was going to get pregnant by me so she could stay in the country. After I told her that only the baby would get a free pass, she slapped me and went back to Florence.
Friends of mine have had abortions, and I read that Madonna’s tally runs into the teens. I even drove one friend to The Clinic. The bloody posters and the shrieking people outside. God and murder.
I walked back toward her with the ball.
“You’re right, I guess I do have an opinion,” I said. I held the ball at my waist. It’s so corny when the missed or made shot is wicked symbolic in the movies.
“I am all for abortion, or should I say, a woman’s right to choose. Those people on the other side have forced me to oppose them.”