Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

Considering all this, I don’t know why I did it, and I can’t remember how I began to say it, but I decided to tell them about my three flings in Virginia. I described what those girls looked like, what they were wearing when I kissed them, and which was better than the other. I said that I didn’t tell Maria about it, and didn’t plan to.

My words were stale, without emotion or care; they were just words. And, as I monotonously dropped each syllable to The Family, for no reason in particular, Kyle placed his cup of beer on the grass, stretched out his hand with a big, goofy smile on his face, and slapped me five. He was so drunk, maybe he didn’t even realize that he was congratulating me. I don’t know.

All I know is that with Kyle’s hand still gripping mine, I reached toward the bottle he was holding in the other, took it, and drank a gulp of rum. It was the vilest thing I’d ever tasted. I despised it. I’d imagined that alcohol tasted bad, but not that bad. It left a burning sting in my mouth, as if a bee had bitten my tongue. My mouth and lips grew numb, my eyes watery. I clutched my throat, and announced to my friends, “How could anyone drink this shit! How could anyone enjoy it?” I implored them to answer. But they just laughed at me. They knew it was my first time. I felt humiliated, but free. I smiled and silently vowed to never taste that shit again.

Then I took another gulp. It was more awful than before.

Then I took another. I thought: It’s not that bad.

What followed after my fourth or fifth slurp is hazy, at best. But I do recall a few details. I remember, for example, pulling my pants down in front of three or four girls—all of them Rick’s friends. And not just my pants, but my underwear, too. I grabbed hold of my dick, showing it off to the ladies, as they cringed in fear, as if I’d brandished a loaded pistol.

After I broke the seal, my urge to urinate was continuous and tremendous. It seemed that I could have stood at the toilet peeing for hours. At one point, I ran to the bathroom, grabbing my crotch and yelping in pain with this intense urge to go. Rick’s friend was kneeling at the toilet, making animal-like noises and vomiting. When it became clear that he had no intention of moving anytime soon, I stood behind him, the front tips of my sneakers against the soles of his shoes, and pissed a stream of urine right over his back. Kyle and Rick walked in and laughed their asses off. I was like a fucking fountain, peeing a yellow arch over this guy’s head.

For some reason, I completely missed the sink as I exited the bathroom, and didn’t get a chance to wash up. By this time, everyone had moved into the basement. It was around midnight, and had started to rain pretty hard. Everyone was drunk. Realizing that I had forgotten to wash my hands, I plunged my hands into a fish tank, and then wiped my hands on my jeans.

Whether most of Rick’s guests were amused by my behavior or not I have no idea. But I felt as if they were, so I continued with my ridiculous antics. And I continued drinking.

Even drunk, Kyle got more laughs from the crowd than I did. More genuine laughs, at least. Impersonating an Olympian, he completed a somersault at my feet, and announced, “I won’ the gold! I won the gold!” He could barely stand band yet he somehow managed to jump.

One of Kyle’s tumbles landed him smack into my knees; I fell to the ground beside him, chuckling like an idiot. Placing my arm around his shoulder, I whispered to him—although it was probably too loud to be a whisper—that he was my best friend in the world.

“I love you, man,” I said. He said he loved me, too. And then, somehow—and I really have no goddamn idea how this happened—Kyle and I were engaged in an open-mouth kiss, just for a split second. In disgust, yet hysterical, we retreated from one another’s faces quickly. Everyone got a kick out of it.

As drunk as Rick was, he still managed to place some plastic garbage bags beneath myself and Kyle in an effort to salvage his carpet lest anyone lose control and vomit again. But Kyle refused to lie on the plastic. He chose instead to hop on the couch nearby, and lay there, with his head on its side, hanging over the edge.

“Oh, man,” he moaned. “I think I’m gonna…” And with that, he proceeded to puke. I’d seen him eating potato chips earlier that evening. And now I saw those chips for a second time, swimming in a brownish, rummy river overflowing from his mouth, dripping down the side of the couch. Ashamed and saddened by what I saw, I promised myself to never drink another drop of alcohol again. What I saw before me was the reason I’d never wanted to drink in the first place. I’d seen it too many times before.

Rick stumbled down the steps into the basement with more garbage bags clenched in one fist and the remnants of a bottle of vodka in the other. I attempted to stand up, swinging my hands toward his, begging him to give it to me. Or maybe it was his brother. Everything was so blurry I still don’t remember. “This much more,” I begged, on my knees, with my index finger and thumb forming what looked like a pinch of something. “Just this much more.” I kept repeating it.

Somehow I approached two hot blondes that Rick worked with. “I just wanna tell ya,” I said, drooling, slurring my speech, “I love your boobs.

“No,no!”—I shifted my gaze from one girl’s rack to the next—“I love your boobs.” They looked more shocked than offended. Lucky for me they were drunk, or I probably would’ve gotten slapped. Nect thing I know, I’m pulling my dick out of my pants, asking, “want some of this?” and smiling like a goofy bastard.

Apparently, Rick’s brother felt that I was losing control of myself, so he yelled at me, “Shut up!” and pushed me down onto the plastic, threatening to beat me up if I didn’t go to sleep. Quickly, the room was emptied, and only me, Rick, Mike, and Kyle were left. Somebody shut the lights off, but I don’t know who.

The next morning I woke up on a black plastic bag on the hard basement floor, without a headache, hangover-free, as if I’d never touched the liquor in the first place. I peered at Kyle, lying on the sofa across the room. The left side of his face was encrusted with dried-up vomit. His pants were down, but nobody knew how they got that way. Without uttering a word, Kyle stumbled up the stairs and took a shower. Mike was opened his eyes and just started laughing at me. Although I didn’t feel hung over, I guess I looked pretty bad. Mike hadn’t drunk as much as Kyle or me, but he looked as ugly as he usually did.

Kyle returned. We had a good laugh about the party last night. I lit a cigarette. By the second or third puff, I was consumed by the urge to throw up. I felt as if I were choking on my own tongue, so I snuffed it out between my foot and the plastic beneath me.

Kyle smelled the rancid scent of burning plastic and announced, “I farted.” He looked a little out of it.

“You okay?” I asked.

He paused for a moment. “I’m still pretty drunk.” I found this hard to believe; but, then again, what the hell did I know? He was so messed up that morning, he said, that he showered on his hands and knees in Rick’s bathroom. He didn’t do a very good job, because most of the vomit was still stuck to his face and clothing afterward.

Somehow, we all got home that morning. I had my car, but I honestly don’t remember driving it. I offered to bring Kyle home, be he took the train with Mike.

At my kitchen table that morning, drinking a glass of orange juice, I wondered what to do. Nobody was home, and I had to be at the deli soon. I would’ve called Maria, but I couldn’t figure out what to tell her about the party. She might break up with me once she found out that I’d gotten drunk. I’d committed a mortal sin: I was the son of an alcoholic dating the daughter of an alcoholic who’d kill his girlfriend if she had ever gotten drunk—and I’d gotten drunk. And I didn’t give a shit.