Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

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.

Muh-reee-uh! The canopy was so tight and motionless that the little light piercing through appeared more like twinkling stars than sun rays. Muh-reee-uh! The dinning and humming of the traffic and people created a bustling wall of silence that separated me from Megan and everything beyond the tress.

Hoods and yuppies and weirdos walked by us, rushing in one direction or another. They seemed happy, so I peered at them in disgust. As Megan chatted away, I thought: None of them know what I’m feeling , and none of them could possibly understand my condition . I studied each passer-by intently, searching for reasons to hate them. I heard the rumble of a Concorde in the sky above, probably on its way to Paris, glanced at it in disgust, and returned my gaze to the pathway before me.

That’s when I saw Maria.

She hurried by Megan and me; she made eye contact with neither of us. I wanted to run up to her and ask what she was doing there in Central Park that day. Oh, my dear, sweet Maria, did you travel into the city in hopes of finding our initials in our tree? Did you recognize me on the subway ride that morning, hoping to confront me one last time, and spit in my face?—or shoot me?—or hug me? Yes, that’s it! Maybe you saw me on the R train and wanted to declare that you’d finally read my poem and desired to be my present love once again? Sweating, I contemplated these and other questions for a few moments. I never unearthed the answers, though, because, upon my second look, Maria had vanished.

I tensed-up. My flesh turned cold and hard. My body hair stood on end. The homeless man reappeared, the one that was singing A Hard Day’s Night just a few moments before. I could have sworn I heard him change his tune, and begin singing—yelling, actually—the words to The Long and Winding Road .

How does he know? I wondered. How does he know?

Did Maria spitefully give him a buck and request that song after noticing me on the bench with Megan? I hated her for doing that. And I felt as if all of Central Park’s visitors were covering their mouths, smothering their giggles, not because they were happy, but because they were laughing at me. As I sat on that goddamn bench, with a goddamn girl I didn’t want to be with. The sounds of the park became a drum playing a slow roll, taunting me, mocking me.

Most distinctive in my left ear was that bum singing that goddamn song; most distinctive in my right was the little, stupid conclusion to what was until that moment Megan’s soliloquy.

“So, that’s it,” she said, “I really want to be a corporate attorney. My dad’s not just a Deacon. He’s an attorney, too, but he works mostly on cases involving very poor people. It’s not like we’re rich or anything. He said I should shoot for something better, for a job where I can not only have my own office and make good money, but also defend high class people. The money’s not that important to me, though. I won’t owe much after college, because I’m in the Air Force ROTC program at Hunter, and it pays most of my tuition.”

My ears perked. I felt as if I’d been given a steroid injection.

“I never mentioned that I was in the ROTC, did I? I guess that sometimes I’m sort of embarrassed about it, you know, because I couldn’t afford to go to school without it. And I never had much of an interest in the Air Force. To be honest, I really just do it for the financial aid. It’s not bad, though; I get to fly planes at Camden Air Force Base in Jersey. It’s pretty cool. And when I graduate from college in a few years, I have to serve in the Air Force for a while. But that’s okay. I heard that it’s good to take a few years off after college before you go to graduate or law school. It should be a good experience. Hey, didn’t you mention once that you were really into planes and stuff? A.J.? A.J.—are you all right?”

She’s in the ROTC? Megan’s a fucking pilot? The blaring drum roll engulfed my trembling body. It was anticipating something or another, though I didn’t know just what.

Megan sounded so—what’s the word I’m looking for?— sure . Sure about herself and about her plans for a bright future. She was confident, but not cocky; happy, but not idealistic. There was nothing about her that I could have possibly hated that moment, and that’s precisely why I loathed her so. That’s why I didn’t respond for a few moments, hoping she’d think that I wasn’t listening, that I didn’t give a shit about her goddamn plans. She’s a tease , I thought. But what she was teasing with exactly, I had no idea.