Little Boy or, Enola Gay

I haven’t hated her even for a brief moment since we last spoke. I know it’s all my fault. That’s why every moment since I was last at her side has been absolute torture. I’ve never had an operation, or had any sort of organ removed, but I sure as hell know what it feels like. As trite and cheesy as it sounds, Maria amputated my heart—meticulously, like a surgeon—and I haven’t seen it since.

It’s not just my heart. It’s my soul, and every other amorphous part of my conscience and mind, which elude you until you actually lose them. I don’t know what to think. I constantly speculate what a joy it would be to get whatever it is that’s missing back.

It’s been a long and winding road away from my life with Maria. At each turn in that road—and there are many of them—I break down and cry. The tears may not even form, but I’m shedding tears within each day. They refuse to pause, even for a second.

Shortly after our break-up, I called her up and quietly said “hello.” She hung up. I called a dozen more times over the course of an hour until, finally, she disconnected her number. There won’t be a L’Enfant Reformation or New A.J. this time, I thought.

One day, a few weeks after Easter, just as the weather was beginning to warm up again, I drove over to Maria’s house and rang her doorbell. I saw her peek through the blinds and see me but she didn’t answer. I left this poem in her mail box:

The present is a memory, still living in my heart.
I maintain your timeless love, as if we did not part.
You claimed that it would be with me until the bitter end.
But where’s your smile and guiding faith, my present love and friend?
I’ve survived our separation, by oceans and by land.
But wasn’t wary of the rift I’d dig with my bare hands.
Where are you, my present love, so precious and so new?
You’re with me each and every day, but am I with you?
Maybe it was meant to be, our love felt by one.
My eternal agony, to be shared with none.
Present love, you are still here; I know that I’m not there.
Please let me in your present life; be more than a prayer.

I don’t know if she ever read it. But the words are true to this day. Maria is with me each moment, every second. I said earlier that ever since Maria and I parted I’ve felt like I was missing a vital organ. But that’s only somewhat truthful. Much of the time I feel as if I’m carrying something extra—a hefty load, a back-breaking guilt.

Often, I sense that the hunter shadowing me is for real. Never before was he anything more than an image, a phantom. But the moment Maria abandoned me, he transformed himself into an anchor. He no longer hides in the darkness; instead, he drags behind me and weighs me down. He’s on my shoulder, whispering into my ear, annoyingly, persistently. And his tone is terribly high-pitched and condescending and cruel, much like Maria’s the last time I saw her. I couldn’t even tell you exactly what it says, but I’m forced to listen. When my ear strays even for a moment, the voice briskly transforms and resembles my own.

I die each day when I hear that voice, but I never resurrect. I just continue to die, over and over again. I wish I could get it to stop. I wish I could call Maria explain how much I love her and how sorry I am. And I do love her dearly. I’ve always loved her. How can you love a woman and hurt her at the same time? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I search for it each minute of the day to no avail.

There is a condition of emotion that lies somewhere between weeping and laughing. It is, I think, a temporary state within which most people rarely find themselves. Practically everybody drifts abruptly between a smile and a frown. That’s it, day-in and day-out. You’re always where your circumstances guide you—either sorrow or elation. Most people probably don’t realize it, however, because most people have never been in my situation. Nobody has.

I haven’t tasted euphoria in a long time; I haven’t been depressed in just as long. Both euphoria and depression are feelings others experience constantly, but I’m trapped like a mosquito in a cobweb between those two extremes. I only wish I could feel… feel something… just to know I’m alive. I would kill to feel happy or sad—either one would be fine. Never before Maria did I think there even was such a condition. I always thought there’d be an ideal and content medium, if anything at all. There isn’t—there’s just this—and I loathe myself for having discovered it. I haven’t been to a psychologist since Maria and I broke up. But I’m damn sure that he would tell me: “A.J., don’t worry, life will get better as the days go on.” And he’d be full of shit.

Well, maybe not full of shit. Actually, he’d probably believe in his own words, not realizing that nobody has ever been in my situation before.

I’ve never tried to explain my life to anyone before tonight. Nobody, not even Kyle, knows about the real me. I’ve never told you about what happened between me and Maria. Not while it was happening, for sure… not until now. I didn’t want to make you guys cry. And I didn’t want to hear you say “I told you so.” I didn’t even tell Kyle, Rick, Paul, or Mike any of the details about our break-up. I simply told them all that Maria and I had broken up, too ashamed to admit the truth.

I sometimes think about that Italian phrase Maria taught me—Amici con tutti, confidenza con nessuno—and how I should put it on my tombstone. There is no confidant beside Maria. Her imperfections made her perfect. She was comfortable with herself. She knew she wasn’t flawless, only she didn’t let the world know it. And she could have been mine had I just offered myself to her as she offered herself to me. If I had the chance to do it all over again—from our very first date in Central Park—no, from the moment we first spoke at that goddamn high school dance—I would reveal my true essence to her.

I ponder how Maria and I would’ve turned out had I been true to her. And I don’t mean faithful in the sexual sense of the word. I mean truly devoted to her as a lover and friend, as someone to grow old with. I lay on my bed a lot, mulling it over. All of those wonderful moments we shared could have been certified by truth and love. I believe that had I chosen to be my true self, Maria and I would be in love and married at this moment.

But what is love? Is it a blessing from the heavens, a state of unanimity that may be experienced by only two people on Earth who may or may not find one another? Or is it the Devil’s hex, a wicked prank that brings people together under some evil guise for the sole purpose of procreating more pawns to play the joke on?

I doubt very much that either of these postulations is true. What’s more likely is that there’s no distinctive God or Devil, but rather a singular creator and destroyer who laughs as humans run around the planet like chickens without heads, not knowing what the fuck to make of all that happens around them. No good. No evil. Just a spectrum of emotions and sensations that drive even the tamest people to do the most insane things, some too good, some too bad.

I’m the proof. I know that I’m not a bad person. But I feel no good within me. I feel nothing. I am the creator’s lost son, discharged to Earth to endure every unit of the spectrum, good and bad alike, finally settling on my mean. I’ve always considered myself an atheist, but I think I’m more spiritual now than ever before.

I still remember learning about a chemical called Argon in Mr. Dick’s Physics class. It is an inert chemical, meaning it does not react with anything else. It’s just there, in the air—

—and I’m just there, too. I move, and yet I am immobile; I hear and yet I am deaf; I speak and yet I am mute. For this reason, since I can’t possibly interact with anyone even if I wanted to.