Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

I wondered: Why is it called a mortal sin if you don’t die after it’s committed?

Chomping on my Cheerios, faced with a dilemma—to lie or not to lie—I did what I usually did when I had an important decision to make: I took a nap.

Lying in bed, with the blinds drawn, amidst the darkness of my air-conditioned room, each sound of silence pulsated into my ears. It was always like that when I was alone in my room, especially when I was sheltered by my soft covers in the dark.

I began to doze.

I dreamt about a silent room, with tiled floors and nobody to speak to but the shadows. There was a deafening silence around me. As the fear within me filled my chest, and as I turned around to escape, I knocked goldfish bowl to the floor. Its crash echoed around me. Each shard of glass its own entity, making a unique crackle, then spinning like tops, as the water flowed into a puddle around me.

It was a lonely feeling.

For some reason, after Rick’s party, I was always lonely at night. I guess I should’ve been thinking about Maria to calm me. But since her past made me so tense, as I lay in bed each night, I felt death lingering just outside my window. It was a clawed hand ready to strike—ready to take me away, kicking and screaming, to Hell.

I had another dream. There was a janitor at school I knew. Not Zachary, but another one named Nelson the guy who always came in the gym after we played basketball or volleyball, and mopped up our sweat and spit. The thing is, he never seemed to mind mopping that stuff up. He sort of was glad in a way, like he was part of the game. He’d wash the gym windows or pick up the garbage, occasionally glancing over his shoulder in delight, catching a great volleyball play. Sometimes, he’d even stop washing the windows and stand in on the sidelines, cheering us on. Afterward, he’d walk gingerly to the court, wearing a big smile on his wrinkly old face. Most of the guys were oblivious to his existence. But I saw him waving as we filed back into the locker room.

The poor bastard really enjoyed his job. He was the closest thing to a cheerleader we had. Nelson was a real nice man.

One day, toward the end of our junior year, all the guys in our gym class decided to chip in and buy him a gift. A really popular asshole named Dwayne walked around with a brown envelope while we were all changing in the locker room. He asked for a dollar from each of us; that would give him a total of about thirty bucks to buy Nelson a present. I was the last guy he came to, because I always stood in the corner at the end of the bench, changing into my clothes. Actually, I wore my gym clothes underneath my shirt and tie and pants because I didn’t like to let anyone see me naked. But I still didn’t want to be near everyone else. “How ’bout a dollar,” Dwayne said, “for our main man, Nelson?”

“Sorry, I don’t have any money.”

“Oh, come on, L’ Enfant, it’s only a dollar!”

“The name’s A.J. And, no, really, I don’t have any cash on me. I’m sorry.”

“Well, maybe next gym class, all right? Make sure you bring a dollar.”

But he never came back for that dollar, and he knew I wasn’t going to pay up. When my classmates discovered that I hadn’t donated to the Nelson Fund, as the called it, they began to disregard me. I used to ignore them, but now they ignored me.

I never liked gym, so I did everything possible to sit out of the basketball games. Usually, I’d tell the gym teacher that I was sick and he’d allow me to avoid participating. Occasionally, I’d bullshit with Nelson on the sidelines. He thought I was crazy for not wanting to play. “Why you so boring, A.J.?” he’d say in a Jamaican accent. “If I were you, I would want to be in gym all day, playing soccer or volleyball.” I’d just smile back at him, waiting for him to change the subject. My classmates often called out to me, “A.J., get your butt in here, we need you” and then I’d have to rejoin the game.

But the next gym class after the Nelson Fund incident, nobody gave a shit when I sat out. Nobody asked me to join the game. Nobody even looked at me, sitting there alone in the creaky wooden stands. Not the gym teacher, not Nelson. When one kid got injured and had to leave the game, the team was left with 4 players against five. Down one man—and losing by about 20 points—they didn’t ask me to join.

After calling into work sick, I dreamt all of this that morning and afternoon, in no particular order, sort of all together, as I lay shivering beneath my covers in the darkness. The dream ended with an image of Nelson’s happy face—not his body, just his face suspended in midair—smiling at me and saying “hello.”

“Hellooooo,” said Nelson, and then—poof!—he was gone. I sat up, shivering yet sweating, wondering what the hell time it was, rubbing my eyelids open.

I wonder where Nelson is nowadays. He’s probably still a goddamn janitor. The poor bastard.

One Saturday morning, a few weeks after Rick’s party, I walked to work with a fire burning my stomach. My mouth was dry, but I lit a cigarette anyway. It was like sucking on a paper towel. Strangely, my head felt light, but my legs were iron pilings, drilling into the pavement as I increased speed. My heart was punching my chest from within, as if it were attempting to break free. I had downed four shots of whiskey before I left for work.

There is nothing like being drunk. You feel as though you’re flying, and yet you’re heavy. Your perception seems so clear, as if all before you is illuminated by high beams in a pitch black night, and yet you’re unfit to do the simplest tasks. As the sweat began to soak my armpits and clothing, as streams of saltwater rolled down my back and chest, my pace slowed, and I realized that I was walking in the wrong direction.

Skip work today . Go to Maria’s house . Make love to her . Those three sentences whirled around my mind. Those, and I love Maria , I love Maria . They didn’t simply repeat, they throbbed. I had to get to her house. Somehow, I had to get there. Yes , I thought, I’ll go to Maria, express my love, and prove it with passion . I’ll admit that I drank at Rick’s party—and she’ll forgive me . I don’t know if was the alcohol talking. Whatever it was, my mind was set: I wouldn’t—no, I couldn’t—keep a secret from her. Our love was strong enough to withstand all.

I sprinted back home and gunned my car’s engine. Racing toward Maria’s, I thought about what I’d say to her when she saw me. I wondered if she’d notice I’d been drinking, and whether or not she’d forgive me. I just wanted to get it over with—come clean and then feel us become one. I thought about rolling around the floor, embracing her naked body. I hungered to sleep that night with the scent of her skin on my own. I wanted to eat her mouth for dinner, and the rest for dessert. Drooling, buzzing, and panting like an animal, I parked my car and galloped down the block toward her house.

It was like a dream when Maria appeared at the door. Maria was naked although she was fully clothed.

Her jaw dropped. “What are you doing here?”

“Let’s go to your room,” I said, ranting that I’d explain everything once we were locked inside. We sat on the bed, my sweaty hand wetting hers, and I began to stutter. “M-M-M-Maria,” I said, “I want to make love to you today. I know this sounds awful, I know it. But—listen… I really love you, and I swear I would never leave you. I swear we’ll be together as long as you’d like. I swear.”

“A.J., my God…” She was flushed. “This is—my God—this is a surprise. My God, I don’t know what to say.”