In Boston, sport is faith, where even atheists fill pews.
With Bowie’s friends, it could be a sharp elbow, a head nod, or a grin. He’s razzed a lot, “Bow, you’re a Male-Fem.”
He’d say, “I was born to love and support Melissa.” No more than the day he wore a Pussy-Cat hat. She loved and cherished Bowie much more.
In his head, Pro-Choice meant social justice and Flat White, late night, causes at the steps of the Supreme Court––One Pemberton Square. It meant handing out flyers at Whole Foods, down in Cambridge, where he sanitized clammy questions, a true believer.
Bowie was just another button, fastened to the Thomas P. O’Neill Jr. Tunnel, the polemic Big Dig, stuck in traffic. He couldn’t wait for his game, Boston against New York, life V death. Go hard or go home he suspected.
Since the tunnel was chocked, he scanned Melissa’s text. It pulsed again and again in his haze.
The Red Sox lost in the parking lot. There was a shattered bat.
His friends know the strong Bowie: “You wear twenty years later so damn well.”
He still believes in choice, except the one he didn’t make.