Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

“Fuck you, cunt,” I said, icily. I slammed the phone in its cradle.

I called her back.

“Why didn’t you call me back? Aren’t you sorry? What the fuck is wrong with you?” I didn’t let her answer. “How much did you drink? Did you enjoy it? Did your cousin drink, too? What’s his name, anyway? Did you get drunk? I mean, really drunk? Did you enjoy it? Are you happy with what you did? You fucked up this entire relationship—you know that, right? Why did you do it? Did you drink beer? What? Whaaaaaat !?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? Answer my fucking questions, goddamn iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!” I was out of control.

“I drank rum—rum and Coke. And a few beers.”

“How much fucking beer and rum did you have, Maria?” Mah-ree-ah . I dragged her name out, as if it were the foulest curse in the English language. It was insulting just to recite it. That name, Maria, had meant so much to me just a few moments before she called. It had meant perfection. All I had. All I believed. I’d found my religion that summer—I believed in Maria. But, like a parishioner who discovers his priest is a child molester, I felt betrayed. My religion was a sham, my creed a hoax. Just as I was about to hang up on Maria for the third time, she interrupted her crying and, between sobs, said:

“A.J., you said that you would forgive me for anything, as long as I was honest!”

“I lied. Fuck you.” And I hung up on her again.

And just as I slammed the receiver down, and heard that familiar echo of a bell sing through my room, I realized again that Maria had failed to call me back after I hung up on her previously. How sorry could she be? I dialed her number again.

“Why the fuck didn’t you call me back? You fucking bitch!”

“Please, A.J.”—she was really losing it now—please, I was only kidding. I didn’t get drunk, I swear! I didn’t drink at all. I swear!” I could barely understand her, she was crying so much. “I swear on my father’s life!” The words life-life —echoed faintly in my mind. I grew silent. For a moment, I thought that it was all a bad dream. I was confused. I was disillusioned, weary, suspicious.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I demanded.

“I—I was making it all up. I just wanted to see how you’d react. I—I—I’m sorry, A.J. I was thinking about us a lot this week, and I’ve decided that I really do—trust you—I…” she just trailed off.

I fired at her like a machine gun: “What the hell is your problem? Are you telling me the truth? Is this a fucking joke?”

“No—I mean, yes—I’m… I didn’t drink.” She gulped her phlegm and panted briefly. “I just wanted to know what you thought about it.”

At that point, I was shaking. Each word heaved from my gut. “ Do you—do you swear on our relationship that you didn’t drink Upstate? Do you ?”

Silence.

“I swear, A.J.” She sniffled.

At that moment all of my hope returned. I wasn’t religious person, but I felt like my Jesus had resurrected.

At the end of October, New York was still in the throws of an Indian Summer. The air was heavy, choking. Cicadas still sang one Saturday morning as I walked up the block to the deli.

I didn’t work very hard that fall, only one Saturday day a week. Some of it was cool, though. I could take anything I wanted and eat it right there. I loved that deli food. I loved finding a few minutes when the customer traffic slowed down, so I could sneak a hero sandwich in the stock room and engulf it. I’d pile provolone, salami, ham, bologna, turkey, roast beef, pickles, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, pickles, vinegar, olive oil—just about everything in the deli—on top of a big-ass hunk of fresh Semolina bread slathered with mayonnaise and mustard, sprinkled with salt and pepper and oregano. I must have eaten one of those things every Saturday during my senior year. And the moment I swallowed that last piece of hoagie each day, as I licked the vinegar and mayo off my fingertips, I walked out the back door smoke a butt. There’s nothing like a cigarette after a good meal.

One day during a cigarette break, Rick came by and asked me to hang out at his house some night the next week. He was going to have a party, he said, and his parents wouldn’t be home. Not only that, but there would be tons of beer and liquor and pizza and stuff. I begged him to ban all alcohol from his party, but he wouldn’t listen.

“You gotta do it,” I said, waving a leaf of romaine lettuce at him, “you gotta stop everyone from drinking. Drinking causes problems, dude.”

“I used to think that, too, L’Enfant, but trust me. I was with these guys this summer, and trust me, it so fucking fun.”

“I don’t know.”

“Trust me, L’Enfant.” I should’ve asked him why he was suddenly calling me ‘L’Enfant’; he never did before. It was almost like he was mocking me.

But instead, I remember wondering, Should I drink at this party? To make up for what Maria said she’d done? Should I tell him about what happened with Maria? Should I ask for his advice about her lie? Rick had been out with a few girls—he could have given me some sound advice. It’s that last point that still smarts. I mean, what if I had asked him for some advice? I know he would’ve told me to forget about Maria’s past and drinking or whatever, and just enjoy being with her.

But I was so fucked up. I kept everything inside. I was too afraid to ask him for some help.

I was as shocked that Rick had become a “drinker” as The Family. Rick was the last person that you’d think would drink. He never really did so, not until that summer at least. But that summer, he was a valet at a club near Rockaway beach. Apparently, the guys he worked with there were all older than he was and they all went out drinking together. I was disgusted by it all. He was only seventeen, for crying out loud. It was as if, all of a sudden, I was friends with one of those goddamn losers at school that went out drinking on the weekends.

All my life there was always this distinction between adults and kids. All of a sudden, all around me, my friends were becoming adults, and doing adult things, while I still missed the kid things. And I secretly hated them for that. I didn’t want anything to change.

Between my family’s experiences with alcohol—yours, Mom, grandma’s, and both grandpa’s—and all the lushes at school, I was convinced that alcohol should’ve been illegal. In fact, I thought that all drugs should’ve been illegal—beer, pot, cocaine, vodka, whatever. As far as I was concerned, any substance that altered the state of the human mind deserved to be banned. Anyone who used drugs, I thought, should go to jail, even get the death penalty. I figured that there were enough problems in the world without people walking around stoned and drunk. I had no respect for anyone who drank or did drugs. I had no respect for people who lost control of themselves like that. Like you , Mom. And that summer, I began to lose respect for Rick. I kept thinking about what he was like during freshman year, and how he had changed. And it depressed me. He was just a short, mousy little kid, who didn’t speak much at all. Of all the people I knew, Rick was least likely to start a fight, or say something controversial. He was just a good kid. He studied hard, worked after school, and went home. That’s why I liked him.

But summer before senior year, Rick went berserk. He’d call me up on Sunday mornings, hung-over, and tell me how much fun he had with his new friends. He’d describe the new drinks he’d tried—his favorite was Long Island Iced Tea—and encourage me to come out and drink with him. But I’d just yell at him, in a sort of friendly way, and tell him he was nuts.