Anthony Prato
LITTLE BOY
or, Enola Gay
For Sharon Pergola, my first and only true love
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.