Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

Dear Mom and Dad:

I know what youre thinking. Dad, youre wondering where you went wrong. Mom, youre wishing youd quit drinking just a few years earlier. And Tracy, if youre reading this, too, youre thinking about how we used to be such good friends when we were kids, and regretting that since we became teenagers weve barely spoken.

All three of you are definitely crying.

But why? Today is a day of freedom. It is a day that A.J. LEnfant finally made a mature decision. His first as a man. And I know that despite what youre feeling now, you will all be better off soon. So will many others.

I just wanted to write and let you know how it all came to this, and to make sure you understand that it was all completely my doing. Its all my fault.

Im so sorry.

Theres so much to write that I dont even know where to begin. In order to really understand my plight, I need to start with the events of this afternoon

So there we were, Megan and I, amidst the lush Strawberry Fields of Central Park. We were on the west side, a few hundred feet from the intersection of 72nd Street and Central Park West, anchored to a splintery green bench. Exhausted and hot, we sat for a while in silence. After being with any person, even a friend, for almost four hours straight, its almost impossible to think of something to talk about.

I was humming Imagine, by John Lennon, and thinking about how true the song was, and how I wish I could feel peacein my own life and in the world.

You know it: Imagine theres no Heaven. Its easy if you try. No Hell below us. Above us only sky. And I was humming so low that Megan couldnt even hear me.

We shared an uncomfortable silence. For me, its difficult to have a comfortable silent moment with almost anyone, especially a girl, thats not a close, close friend. Ive always loathed those awkward quiet moments, and the feeling of nothingness they create between me and another person.

I probably never told you this, but it happens to me often. As far as Im concerned, the only comfortable silence occurs when youre alone. I mightve felt alone in Central Park with Megan, but thats not the same thing. Her chubby pale thighs were smooshed next to mine, so I couldnt avoid her presence even if I tried. Compelled by my frayed nerves to break a twenty-minute long silence, I began to speak.

See that building, I said, pointing in the general direction of four or five ashen gray Upper West Side apartment buildings jutting into the transparent sky. Thats where John Lennon was murdered. She let out a quiet oh, and I continued. Thats why this part of the park is called Strawberry Fields. Its a memorial to John Lennon, named after the song by the same name.

Come to think of it, maybe she did smile. Maybe she was impressed. WhateverI just kept thinking about John Lennon and how he died so suddenly, and without reason. He was a peaceful man and to die that way was the antithesis of everything he stood for.

Lennons murder has always fascinated me. A few years ago, I read a book about his killer, Mark David Chapman. If my memory serves me correctlyand it usually doesChapman approached Lennon one evening in 1980 and shot him in the chest. Later on, when Chapman was being booked by the NYPD, he was asked for a statement. He didnt say a word. Instead, he quietly pulled a copy of J. D. Salingers The Catcher in the Rye from his coat pocket, and presented it as his statement to the cops. Then he requested that they go back and apologize to the apartment doorman that witnessed the shooting. I guess he felt bad that the doorman had to watch the slaughtering right before his eyes. So, in a way, he was a nice guy. Weird, deadlybut nice. He had all sorts of reasons for killing Lennon, but the reasons have never interested me much. What Ive always loved is that he offered The Catcher in the Rye as his statement, and that he asked the cops to apologize to the doorman. I know exactly how Chapman felt, about the doorman at least.

I couldnt remember whether or not that part of the park was called Strawberry Fields before Lennon was shot. Hell, I dont even remember him getting shot since I was only a baby when it happened. But I knew that it had something to do with his death or the Beatles or whatever, so I figured what the hell.

Megan didnt answer me, but that was okay, because I knew that Id told her something that she didnt know. It was always like that when friends of mine from the suburbs visited me in the city. I always tried to impress them with my vast knowledge of the history and culture of Manhattan Island. I felt obliged to act cosmopolitan and divulge every little tidbit of information that I knew about New York, regardless of how insignificant or half-true it was. Dont ask me why.

Anyway, we sat a little while longer in silence. Bums and freaks and yuppies walked, jogged, and roller-bladed by us beneath the emerald canvas of maple and oak trees above. Half of them werent even that weird, I guess. Some were children and families and old people. But they were all freaks just the same. It was Manhattan, after all, and sometimes I think that everyone who lives there is a kook in one way or another. You must think Im crazy for saying that. I mean, Id love to live in Manhattan, personally. So I guess that makes me one of them. Then again, they say the only difference between a freak and an eccentric person is that the latter has money. So I guess Im the freak.

A man pacing near a splintery, graffiti-ridden, green wooden bench, about ten feet to the left, caught my eye. I watched him closely, desperate for some material to jump-start a discussion with Megan. Ironically, he was singing a Beatles song. Well, at least he thought he was singing. He started by mimicking that annoying guitar riff that starts the song: Bhruhm. And then: Its been a hard days night, and Ive been workin like a dog, he blared, completely out of tune. It sounded more like yelling to me. Then he abruptly cut short his performance to ask for money. Change, actually. Bums always asked for change, as if they had to make an important phone call or something.

Who would he call? I thought. Maybe that was a topic Megan and I could beat to death: What would a homeless guy do with spare change once he got it?

Nah. It was a decent topic, but I couldnt think of anything witty to say, so I kept my mouth shut. I kept watching this guy out of the corner of my eye, trying to seem like I had no interest in what he was doing. Had I shown interest, the bastard probably wouldve come over to sing Hey, Jude or something.

It turned out that this one-man show had a one-man audience. I leaned forward a bit and looked again. A Japanese man sitting on the bench was taping this idiot with a silver camcorder. He chuckled as he taped and it pissed me off. I figured hed probably take the tape back to Tokyo and show his friends what morons Americans were.

What a bunch of freaks, I thought.

A girl no older than eighteen roller-bladed by us with shorts so sheer that her underwear line was visible. Her top was even worse: it was more of a black bra than a shirt. She might as well have been naked.