Right before they offered me the job, they asked me my opinion on abortion. I am pro choice. If any of those women I knocked up before going to prison ended up having the baby, I’d feel terrible about the life that kid would have, what with a degenerate mother and a father in jail for drug trafficking.
Being a graveyard security guard for the Planned Parenthood on SE 50th is not a great job. Although I’ve now been doing it for three years, the pay is still laughable, and there’s always the threat that some nut will shoot you for all the dead babies. What may be the worst thing about the job is the boredom. Watch the monitors, circle the building, mark off the checklist. Rinse, lather, repeat.
A couple of months ago, some protestors showed up in the morning. They had posters and wanted to be seen by the morning rush-hour traffic. I noted it on the checklist. I wasn’t sure whether to be afraid of them or happy for a little excitement. I told them to stay 50 feet away from the entrance and let them go about their business.
While they were setting up, I struck up a conversation with this guy Bill. Although we come from vastly different backgrounds, Bill and I hit it off right away. He had great comments about the Trailblazers that went far beyond fan-boy bitching, and the advice Bill gave me about my girlfriend was way better than anything Dr. Phil could give. Since that day, Bill and I meet up at the bar or talk on the phone at least twice a week, and we never talk about abortion.
I hope Bill’s group of protestors shows up on Monday; otherwise, it will be a long night.
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