Little Boy
Little Boy
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Little Boy
or, Enola Gay
By
Anthony Prato
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Anthony Prato on Smashwords
Little Boy
Copyright © 2013 by Anthony Prato
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Version 10: 9/26/2013 13:35 a9/p9
***
For Sharon Pergola, my first and only true love
***
And we swung our arms…joyfully like children.
So if you want to love me, then darlin’ don’t refrain
Or I’ll just end up walkin,’ in the cold November rain
“November Rain,” Guns ‘n Roses
Chapter 1
June 14, 1994, 9:54 p.m.
Dear Mom and Dad:
I know what you’re thinking. Dad, you’re wondering where you went wrong. Mom, you’re wishing you’d quit drinking just a few years earlier. And Tracy, if you’re reading this, too, you’re thinking about how we used to be such good friends when we were kids, and regretting that since we became teenagers we’ve barely spoken.
All three of you are definitely crying.
But why? Today is a day of freedom. It is a day that A.J. L’Enfant finally made a mature decision. His first as a man. And I know that despite what you’re feeling now, you will all be better off soon. So will many others.
I just wanted to write and let you know how it all came to this, and to make sure you understand that it was all completely my doing. It’s all my fault.
I’m so sorry.
There’s so much to write that I don’t even know where to begin. In order to really understand my plight, I need to start with the events of this afternoon…
***
So there we were, Megan and I, amidst the lush Strawberry Fields of Central Park. We were on the west side, a few hundred feet from the intersection of 72nd Street and Central Park West, anchored to a splintery green bench. Exhausted and hot, we sat for a while in silence. After being with any person, even a friend, for almost four hours straight, it’s almost impossible to think of something to talk about.
I was humming Imagine, by John Lennon, and thinking about how true the song was, and how I wish I could feel peace—in my own life and in the world.
You know it: Imagine there’s no Heaven. It’s easy if you try. No Hell below us. Above us only sky. And I was humming so low that Megan couldn’t even hear me.
We shared an uncomfortable silence. For me, it’s difficult to have a comfortable silent moment with almost anyone, especially a girl, that’s not a close, close friend. I’ve always loathed those awkward quiet moments, and the feeling of nothingness they create between me and another person.
I probably never told you this, but it happens to me often. As far as I’m concerned, the only comfortable silence occurs when you’re alone. I might’ve felt alone in Central Park with Megan, but that’s not the same thing. Her chubby pale thighs were smooshed next to mine, so I couldn’t avoid her presence even if I tried. Compelled by my frayed nerves to break a twenty-minute long silence, I began to speak.
“See that building,” I said, pointing in the general direction of four or five ashen gray Upper West Side apartment buildings jutting into the transparent sky. “That’s where John Lennon was murdered.” She let out a quiet “oh,” and I continued. “That’s why this part of the park is called Strawberry Fields. It’s a memorial to John Lennon, named after the song by the same name.”
Come to think of it, maybe she did smile. Maybe she was impressed. Whatever—I just kept thinking about John Lennon and how he died so suddenly, and without reason. He was a peaceful man and to die that way was the antithesis of everything he stood for.
Lennon’s murder has always fascinated me. A few years ago, I read a book about his killer, Mark David Chapman. If my memory serves me correctly—and it usually does—Chapman approached Lennon one evening in 1980 and shot him in the chest. Later on, when Chapman was being booked by the NYPD, he was asked for a statement. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he quietly pulled a copy of J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye from his coat pocket, and presented it as his statement to the cops. Then he requested that they go back and apologize to the apartment doorman that witnessed the shooting. I guess he felt bad that the doorman had to watch the slaughtering right before his eyes. So, in a way, he was a nice guy. Weird, deadly—but nice. He had all sorts of reasons for killing Lennon, but the reasons have never interested me much. What I’ve always loved is that he offered The Catcher in the Rye as his statement, and that he asked the cops to apologize to the doorman. I know exactly how Chapman felt, about the doorman at least.
I couldn’t remember whether or not that part of the park was called Strawberry Fields before Lennon was shot. Hell, I don’t even remember him getting shot since I was only a baby when it happened. But I knew that it had something to do with his death or the Beatles or whatever, so I figured what the hell.
Megan didn’t answer me, but that was okay, because I knew that I’d told her something that she didn’t know. It was always like that when friends of mine from the suburbs visited me in the city. I always tried to impress them with my vast knowledge of the history and culture of Manhattan Island. I felt obliged to act cosmopolitan and divulge every little tidbit of information that I knew about New York, regardless of how insignificant or half-true it was. Don’t ask me why.
Anyway, we sat a little while longer in silence. Bums and freaks and yuppies walked, jogged, and roller-bladed by us beneath the emerald canvas of maple and oak trees above. Half of them weren’t even that weird, I guess. Some were children and families and old people. But they were all freaks just the same. It was Manhattan, after all, and sometimes I think that everyone who lives there is a kook in one way or another. You must think I’m crazy for saying that. I mean, I’d love to live in Manhattan, personally. So I guess that makes me one of them. Then again, they say the only difference between a freak and an eccentric person is that the latter has money. So I guess I’m the freak.
A man pacing near a splintery, graffiti-ridden, green wooden bench, about ten feet to the left, caught my eye. I watched him closely, desperate for some material to jump-start a discussion with Megan. Ironically, he was singing a Beatles song. Well, at least he thought he was singing. He started by mimicking that annoying guitar riff that starts the song: Bhruhm. And then: It’s been a hard days night, and I’ve been workin’ like a dog, he blared, completely out of tune. It sounded more like yelling to me. Then he abruptly cut short his performance to ask for money. Change, actually. Bums always asked for change, as if they had to make an important phone call or something.
Who would he call? I thought. Maybe that was a topic Megan and
I could beat to death: What would a homeless guy do with spare change once he got it?
Nah. It was a decent topic, but I couldn’t think of anything witty to say, so I kept my mouth shut. I kept watching this guy out of the corner of my eye, trying to seem like I had no interest in what he was doing. Had I shown interest, the bastard probably would’ve come over to sing Hey, Jude or something.
It turned out that this one-man show had a one-man audience. I leaned forward a bit and looked again. A Japanese man sitting on the bench was taping this idiot with a silver camcorder. He chuckled as he taped and it pissed me off. I figured he’d probably take the tape back to Tokyo and show his friends what morons Americans were.
What a bunch of freaks, I thought.
A girl no older than eighteen roller-bladed by us with shorts so sheer that her underwear line was visible. Her top was even worse: it was more of a black bra than a shirt. She might as well have been naked.
Ah-ha! I thought. Now there’s something to talk about with Megan: nudity. But how could I broach it? I couldn’t just say, ‘Hey, Megan, what do you think of that girl’s tits?’ It had to sound more intelligent than that. Funny, provocative, and intelligent.
I thought for a while, gulped the remainder of my Snapple, and asked, “What do you think about public nudity?” Like a baby that had just passed gas, she squinted her eyes and smiled a bemused smile. She didn’t seem disgusted, but intrigued.
“What do I what?” she asked.
“What I mean is, do you think that a woman should be allowed to walk around topless? Look at that woman over there.” I pointed to the chick on roller-blades. “Do you think that woman should be arrested for wearing that kind of top?”
She thought about it for a second. I sensed that, handled properly, this topic could lead into an even better discussion about sex.
“Well,” Megan responded, timidly, “I don’t know, really.” Okay, so she was confused. That only meant I should help her along.
“I mean, really,” I said, “what’s the difference between walking around topless and walking around with a flimsy tight shirt? I don’t think there is a difference. Public nudity is completely acceptable in some parts of Europe.” Where in Europe, I had no idea.
She paused for a few moments. “I guess there’s nothing wrong with it,” she finally admitted.
Bingo! This nice Irish Catholic prima donna prude from Jersey with a pussy as tight as mouse trap was suddenly a lot more interesting. Jubilated, I rocked from side to side on the bench, anticipating the intriguing conversation about to ensue.
But I couldn’t think of anything else to say to her. Desperately trying to figure out how to extend our conversation, I studied the roller-chick, who had stopped at the water fountain across the pathway for a drink. I stared at her ass for what seemed like light years, wondering why I was stuck with boring Megan when I could be hitting on her.
After at least another five minutes or so, I thought, that’s it, I have officially run out of things to say to Megan. I just wanted to get up and walk away. That’s it. Bye-bye, Megan. See ya.
But I knew I couldn’t do that. I knew I had to keep sitting and talking for a while. Then I had to walk her to the goddamn Port Authority bus terminal and see her off. Shit. I just wanted to go the fuck home, lay on my bed, and watch TV.
As Megan stared straight ahead—blissfully ignorant of the uncomfortable silence consuming us—I stared at her face. Not bad at all, I thought. She had some bronze freckles scattered across her forehead. Her chalky skin looked soft and virginal. And those pudgy Irish cheeks! She had two wide milky white cheeks, each with a half a dozen freckles or so, a small nose, and a small mouth, with an upper lip like an rosy eagle fully extending its wings. And wonderful ears—I always thought ears were very important—lay flat against the sides of her head. I would’ve nibbled on those ears today if I’d had the balls to do it. Pasty white thighs protruded from her lavender shorts. A bit flabby, yes. But how I wanted to see the tiny, fiery red flame between them. Heaven, I thought. Heaven.
But that wasn’t going to happen. As much as I desired to be physically close to Megan, I couldn’t bear becoming emotionally or mentally close to her first. I don’t know why—I mean, now that I think of it, I really liked her—but I just couldn’t take that first step.
But since I didn’t want to take the time to get close to her, and since she wouldn’t give it up unless someone at least feigned interest, she was useless to me. Thinking this today, I longed for her to simply glance at her watch and say it was time to split. Oh, Megan, we are done! I thought. Finito!
Christ, what could I say? A beautiful day in Central Park; robins chirping in their woody homes above; the sun piercing the tree limbs like pins poking through a green trampoline—and a pretty redhead boring the shit out of me.
“Public nudity,” I chuckled, half-heartedly. “It’s a funny thing.”
Okay, now I was desperate. Four hours of nonstop talk and God-knows-how-long of pure silence was all I could tolerate. I looked around, desperate for an escape route. People continued to stroll by. Shielded from the bustling traffic by a thicket of bushes and shrubs, I could hear the dim tick of my watch. You know you’re bored when you here your fucking watch ticking.
Yet the more I think about Megan, the more I miss her. It’s not that Megan wasn’t all right to hang out with. She was pretty and bright. I knew she was on some sort of scholarship at college. I had thought it was a full scholarship, but before today I never asked much about it.
She’d sit around lazily sometimes at school, like everyone else, so much so that you’d think she was a slacker. I actually felt sort of a bond with her when we first met, because I thought we were both slackers.
But one night before a big test, she invited me to study in the library. I found her listening to Mozart on her CD player, sipping Chai tea, alone. She seemed to know a peace that eluded me.
We sat around and talked and laughed about how there was this big test the next day and neither of us was studying for it. But I knew that she was prepared and I really wasn’t. And she was so calm…and I was nervous as hell.
Startled by Megan’s tranquility and confidence, tensing up, breathing deep, I cracked a few sexual jokes in front of her. Not so much jokes, really, but references. Innuendoes. I was hoping that if I implied something subtly, she’d get the hint, and just magically take off her clothes. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to make out; I just wanted to see her naked without having to charm her or prove I was better than her friends.
It was especially titillating to think that about Megan. I was sure she had never let a guy feel her up, let alone see her naked. I wish I could have just snapped my fingers and made her clothes come off. Just like that. And after seeing her that night in the library, I resented her for not responding to my thoughts: “As you wish, A.J.”
I never allowed us to get close because I felt like she presented her friendship to me as a gift—a gift I didn’t deserve. So I also resented her for acting like I did. Resentment’s a funny thing. Even at this moment, I can’t figure out whether I liked her for resenting me or resented her for liking me.
But I liked her just the same. In fact, I just liked her as much as I could have possibly liked another person, given my life so far. I felt this way especially because I was an exception to her usual crowd of friends. She hung out with people mostly like her, who mostly did the same sort of boring stuff that she did. Her father was a deacon and a lawyer. Real educated. Very religious. But not very wealthy. She once told me he defended the poorest people he could find and received little pay for his services. I remember her telling me this the first day I met her. I don’t think she ever described what her mother did, but I’m sure it was a housewife or something like that. So her friends were different than me, and her family, I knew, was a lot different than mine. It’s not like you guys are evil people. You’re not. But Dad, let’s face it, you’re no deacon, and Mom, you’re no ordinary housewife.