The mass destruction caused by Little Boy fascinated me, as did the entire story behind it. Among the many vivid details of these explosive events, most striking was what Captain Robert Lewis, the co-pilot, wrote in his journal that morning: “As the bomb exploded, we saw the entire city disappear. I wrote in my log, ‘My God, what have we done?’”
My God, what have we done?
My mind now flips between the corresponding events of that mission—the dropping of the bomb Little Boy in an effort to win a war, and Robert Lewis’s departing words: “My God, what have we done?” I couldn’t help but feel connected to him, this pilot that was not much older than me way back then. I repeated those words—“My God, what have we done?”—silently and intently to myself alone in my room late one night. My God, what have we done… My God, what have we done?
I began thinking: My God, what have I done?
I wanted to go back in time, to the morning of August 6, 1945. If I could, I would’ve ripped the pencil from Robert Lewis’s hand and prevented him from asking that question. He had no right to do so. He was just following orders. He was only doing his job.
That’s my question! I thought. I AM LITTLE BOY!
That’s all I thought about then, that’s all I think about now—I am the real Enola Gay. I am Little Boy. I could’ve been a man. I could’ve learned from my mistakes as they sprang up—I made them each and every goddamn day—and each one could’ve become a valuable lesson rather than a fire that shortened an ever-shrinking fuse. I could’ve extinguished the fire before it scorched my face and Maria’s, before it scalded our love into a state of disrepair. Mine was a war against myself that I’d never won. It still is.
Few thoughts dominate my condition as do those of that World War II military plane and its connection to my existence. The story of Little Boy and the Enola Gay has sparked an unconscious obsession to study and contemplate and predict what a loving and remarkable relationship Maria and I were destined to have were it not for my inhuman treatment of her.
These are the thoughts which shall hold me locked in place for the rest of my life. I will no longer think about her past—only what I am, and what we could have been.
Chapter 20
My Last Cigarette
As you know, I never did get into the Air Force Academy.
To this day, I don’t know whether or not Maria’s father canceled his letter of recommendation for me. Perhaps, upon seeing the tears on his daughter’s face, Mr. Della Verita called up Colorado Springs and told them what scum I was. Perhaps not. I’ll never know.
The summer after senior year, instead of packing for the Academy, I got back my old deli job at Key Food and enrolled in Hunter College in Manhattan. But I never did find myself. And I didn’t bother to reapply to the Academy, either. Instead, traveling on the subway each and every goddamn day into the city, disgusted by the yuppie scum and winos surrounding me, I imagined myself shooting through the skies in a B-1 Bomber. Cornering the subway tunnels, screeching to a halt at each stop, more often than not my eyes swelled with tears with the thought that my flying career was over—and yet it had never begun. I took the same train that Maria and I took when we went to Central Park, the R train. Often, I search for her on the train, but I never find her.
I didn’t make many friends in college. I strolled around the hallways with my head down, never bothering to talk to anybody, continuously replaying the events of that single year Maria and I had spent together.
One person I did meet was Megan. Like I said before, most of the time we didn’t hang out together, but we studied with each other on occasion.
Megan impressed me. Not so much her looks but her personality. She was a sweet kid, kind of nerdy. When I passed by her, with my face anchored to the pavement, she’d tap me on the shoulder and greet me with a cute, angelic smile on her face. She didn’t seem to mind that other people thought she was weird for speaking to me. I know that they thought that, too. Megan used to say, jokingly, that I was the Invisible Man, but she had a special ability to see me. I always insisted that she was delusional, and she responded by smiling.
For one reason or another, Megan was very friendly toward me. In the library, when I went off to make a photocopy or check-out a book, Megan would leave cute little notes in my bag that said “hi ” or “how are you? ” It was weird behavior, if you ask me. But I suppose it was nice to be noticed.
We had our ups and downs, Megan and I, like I’ve already described. After the Deck the Halls Ball we didn’t speak for months. Still, I always felt that eventually she would call me. Even though I was wasted and out of control, I was sure she thought being defended in front of The Plaza was romantic. By the time summer rolled around—the summer right after my freshman year and her sophomore year—we’d become reacquainted. She called me a few times in Queens, begging me to go see a movie or get some pizza. I always said no. I usually said no and ended the conversation quickly, because I always preferred to stay in my room and watch the game. I’d sit in there and smoke cigarettes one after the other like a fiend. Alone, lying on my bed, in my smoky room, I’d think all about Maria. Either that or I’d watch TV or listen to the radio, trying to get her out of my mind. Trying like hell to think of her, trying like hell not to think of her—that was my life, day-in, day-out. A spectator would’ve thought I was a lonely guy, but I wasn’t. I actually enjoyed hibernating in there, with nothing but cigarettes as my friends, and my TV as my confidant. You guys were worried about me. And I want to take a moment to say thank you for coming to my room, and asking me if you could help in any way. You didn’t know what had happened, at least not all of it, but you responded with kindness and patience.
On one such murky, hazy late night, as Frank Sinatra was just beginning to sing at the end of the Yankee game, Megan called me up and said she had a great idea. “Why don’t we go to Central Park tomorrow?” Central Park? I thought. I’m there. Immediately I knew fate wanted me back at the place Maria and I fell in love. It was my destiny. “Lemme check the schedule,” I said. The Yankees weren’t playing until seven the next day so I’d be home in time for the game.
“Don’t say no, A.J.! You’re coming out with me!”
“Okay, babe. I don’t mind traveling into the city even though school’s out. It’ll be fun.” I sighed.
I still can’t believe I said yes.
…So there we were, Megan and I, amidst the lush Strawberry Fields of New York’s Central Park. We were exhausted after having walked all over Manhattan, chatting incessantly. Don’t ask me why, but despite my previous reticence I’d decided to talk to Megan a lot, at least at first. I guess what all of that talking confirmed for me was that Megan was not Maria. And it’s funny, because I didn’t even contemplate her being The One until I decided that she wasn’t. Nevertheless, it was a disappointing discovery.
But by late afternoon, I was so bored. I really did feel like strangling myself. About to bolt, Megan broached a topic that I loathed to consider: our plans for the future.
Megan had recently decided to apply to law school. She was really excited about it. And she must have thought that I cared about it, too, because she became enthusiastic about it and delved into the topic in great depth.
Trying to feign interest, trying not to fall asleep, I looked up at the trees above. They were beautiful. “Hello,” I said to the trees, silently. “Remember me? I used to visit you with another woman, a beautiful woman named Maria.” I started humming “Maria” from West Side Story. The canvas of leaves and branches did not respond.