Little Boy (2 page)

But since I didn’t want to take the time to
get close to her, and since she wouldn’t give it up unless someone
at least feigned interest, she was useless to me. Thinking this
today, I longed for her to simply glance at her watch and say it
was time to split.
Oh, Megan, we are done!
I thought.
Finito!

Christ, what could I say? A beautiful day in
Central Park; robins chirping in their woody homes above; the sun
piercing the tree limbs like pins poking through a green
trampoline—and a pretty redhead boring the shit out of me.

“Public nudity,” I chuckled, half-heartedly.
“It’s a funny thing.”

Okay, now I was desperate. Four hours of
nonstop talk and God-knows-how-long of pure silence was all I could
tolerate. I looked around, desperate for an escape route. People
continued to stroll by. Shielded from the bustling traffic by a
thicket of bushes and shrubs, I could hear the dim tick of my
watch. You know you’re bored when you here your fucking watch
ticking.

Yet the more I think about Megan, the more I
miss her. It’s not that Megan wasn’t all right to hang out with.
She was pretty and bright. I knew she was on some sort of
scholarship at college. I had thought it was a full scholarship,
but before today I never asked much about it.

She’d sit around lazily sometimes at school,
like everyone else, so much so that you’d think she was a slacker.
I actually felt sort of a bond with her when we first met, because
I thought we were both slackers.

But one night before a big test, she invited
me to study in the library. I found her listening to Mozart on her
CD player, sipping Chai tea, alone. She seemed to know a peace that
eluded me.

We sat around and talked and laughed about
how there was this big test the next day and neither of us was
studying for it. But I knew that she was prepared and I really
wasn’t. And she was so calm…and I was nervous as hell.

Startled by Megan’s tranquility and
confidence, tensing up, breathing deep, I cracked a few sexual
jokes in front of her. Not so much jokes, really, but references.
Innuendoes. I was hoping that if I implied something subtly, she’d
get the hint, and just magically take off her clothes. It wasn’t so
much that I wanted to make out; I just wanted to see her naked
without having to charm her or prove I was better than her
friends.

It was especially titillating to think that
about Megan. I was sure she had never let a guy feel her up, let
alone see her naked. I wish I could have just snapped my fingers
and made her clothes come off. Just like that. And after seeing her
that night in the library, I resented her for not responding to my
thoughts: “As you wish, A.J.”

I never allowed us to get close because I
felt like she presented her friendship to me as a gift—a gift I
didn’t deserve. So I also resented her for acting like I did.
Resentment’s a funny thing. Even at this moment, I can’t figure out
whether I liked her for resenting me or resented her for liking
me.

But I liked her just the same. In fact, I
just liked her as much as I could have possibly liked another
person, given my life so far. I felt this way especially because I
was an exception to her usual crowd of friends. She hung out with
people mostly like her, who mostly did the same sort of boring
stuff that she did. Her father was a deacon and a lawyer. Real
educated. Very religious. But not very wealthy. She once told me he
defended the poorest people he could find and received little pay
for his services. I remember her telling me this the first day I
met her. I don’t think she ever described what her mother did, but
I’m sure it was a housewife or something like that. So her friends
were different than me, and her family, I knew, was a lot different
than mine. It’s not like you guys are evil people. You’re not. But
Dad, let’s face it, you’re no deacon, and Mom, you’re no ordinary
housewife.

Megan and her family are from just over the
bridge in Rutherford. But even though she grew up pretty close to
where I did—probably in a neighborhood that looked a lot like
Flushing, too—she would’ve been shocked if she knew what sort of
person I was, and what sort of things I’d done. It almost makes me
laugh to think about it. I won’t bother describing why just yet.
For now, I’ll just say that despite some similarities, Megan and I
were two completely different people. That’s why I always felt
strange around her. I couldn’t get it out of my head that if she
knew my whole story, she’d never speak to me again, or that she’d
somehow figured me out, but was too polite to ditch me.

***

I spoke to Megan a lot at school, in the
library, and at lunch. But I’ve only seen her face twice off
campus, once in Central Park today, and once last December, just
before Christmas.

Each December Hunter College hosts the Deck
the Halls Ball. We’d only known each other for a few months, but
Megan was the kind of girl who was happy going to a dance with a
male friend. “It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other,”
she said. Until that dance, I hadn’t been outside the house much
since last June. “Come on A.J.,” she pleaded. There’s an ‘80s theme
and you once told me you loved ‘80s music.”

“I did?”

“Yes, the first day of school, the day we
met.”

I smiled. “Okay, I’ll go.”

The Deck the Halls Ball was held at the Plaza
Hotel at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South, right
in the heart of midtown. In front of the Plaza was a golden statue
of a man on a horse covered with pigeon crap. The pigeon crap, of
course, wasn’t part of the statue. I had stood beneath that statue
countless times, kissing Maria passionately, embracing her.

Across Fifth Avenue stood a skyscraper which
housed, among other things, F. A. O. Schwartz, another place
reminiscent of my past. Several blocks below stood St. Patrick’s
Cathedral and Saks Fifth Avenue. Maria and I spent so much time in
this part of the city—going into Saks to browse, hanging out in the
park by the pond—that as soon as I exited the R train in midtown I
was shell-shocked. I knew that would be the case; that’s why Megan
had to twist my arm just to get me to go to the dance.

But, in addition to Megan’s pleading and the
open bar, there was one other reason that I was willing to go that
night: I wanted to see the inside of the Plaza. Whenever Maria and
I went to the city, we always talked about going inside just to
sneak a peak. I know it sounds dumb because it’s just a hotel, so
why we were so nervous I have no idea. But we never did get to go
inside.

The only way I could get through my first
social experience after Maria was by drinking. Heavily. Thing is, I
somehow had told Megan that I didn’t drink. I also smoked, but I
told her I didn’t smoke, either. I guess I did it to give her the
impression that I was a good and decent person, just like her. I
knew that Megan had never smoked or even tasted more than a sip of
beer in her lifetime; had she known about the real me, she surly
wouldn’t have spoken to me, never mind ask me to a dance. The funny
thing—now that I think about it—is that she never even asked me if
I drank or smoked. I just somehow told her I didn’t.

So there I was, approaching the end of my
first semester of college with this nice Irish girl from
Rutherford—daughter of a deacon, for God’s sake—and I had to sneak
off by myself and down a beer while she wasn’t looking. I still
remember asking around for a piece of gum on my way back to meet
Megan on the dance floor because I didn’t want her to smell my
breath.

Eventually, I had more than a few beers—about
five or six the last time I counted—and it started to show. Panting
from the oppressive heat, my inebriated body practically slumped
onto the dancers as I zigzagged my way back to Megan, beer in hand.
My forehead was slick with sweat and my shirt was soaked. I was
delirious. Somehow I got caught up on the dance floor in sort of a
mosh pit, and I jumped around in a drunken stupor flailing my arms
and screaming like a mother fucker with everybody there. Or nobody,
depending on your perspective. The way I flagrantly disrespected my
escort would’ve given even the saintliest woman a coronary. I feel
so bad about it, now that I think about it.

By the time the dance let out, Megan was
noticeably pissed. It was pretty obvious to her that I was drunk
off my ass. But that wasn’t the biggest misfortune of the night.
Once outside the Plaza, as we waited for a few of her friends to
show, some asshole approached Megan and kissed her on the cheek.
“Good night, carrot top,” he said, sweetly. And then he strolled
away. Megan didn’t seem to mind his farewell. But I did. I was her
fucking date! He stepped over some blurry line I’d drawn in my
sloshed head—and I was pissed.

Jealously, I looked at Megan. Angrily, I
turned my head toward the bastard as he walked away. I lunged after
him through the crowd, pushing spectators aside as if I was in a
field shoving ears of corn out of my way. All in one motion, I
tapped him on the shoulder with my left hand and socked him in the
gut with my right. Down he went. What happened after that I don’t
recall. For all I know, he leaped up and beat me to a pulp in front
of the most beautiful hotel in New York. From that point on, the
scene is a blur; only the emotions I felt are crystal clear.

Horrified, Megan didn’t speak much after
that. As I walked her to the Port Authority bus terminal, I still
remember asking, “You’re not mad at me are you?” She smiled,
politely, and forced out a “No, of course not.” But I knew that she
was. And it kind of pissed me off that she didn’t show it. I
dropped her off. She grimaced and turned her back and walked to the
bus, silently. We both knew that whatever relationship we had was
over.

We didn’t make eye contact for the next
several months following that, never mind speak. Then, just a few
days before St. Patrick’s Day this year, we wound up in the same
place at the same time and struck up a conversation. She confessed
that she really was mad at me the night of the Deck the Halls
Dance. But, she said, it wasn’t that I had sneaked off and gotten
wasted, and not even that I’d decked the hood. “You tried to make
yourself out to be someone that that you weren’t. I’m not angry,
I’m really just disappointed in you.” That day I learned a profound
lesson: Whenever you make believe you’re something you’re not,
don’t slack off on the impersonation. That’s when you run into
trouble.

Soon enough, Megan and I started to become
friendly again. Not friends, but friendly. The difference is
difficult to explain. But I do know this: The number one thing that
kept our relationship alive was my attraction to her. I have to
admit, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to be friendly with her if
she was ugly. But even with Megan’s good looks, I didn’t have the
slightest desire to hang out with her outside of school. Mostly, I
enjoyed being alone.

***

After school let out last month, she started
calling me at home, asking me to hang out. She had forgiven me. At
first I resisted. But she continued to bother me.

One night she called me and practically
begged me to see her. I didn’t want to go, but she
begged
,
and that was reason enough for me. It turned out that she was
planning on going to law school, so I figured if we went out at
least we’d have that to talk about. More importantly, I thought it
would be a nice way to dovetail into more interesting conversation,
on a more personal level. Even though I’d known Megan for a while,
I’d never bothered to ask much about her life.

It turned out to be an eventful afternoon. I
got more than I bargained for. So did Megan.

As I said, we were sitting there in Central
Park during our “date” or “get-together” or whatever the hell it
was—in what I think was Strawberry Fields—and I barely had the
energy to continue speaking. I kept envisioning her stripping naked
before me, just like I did when I was in class and she was sitting
nearby. If she wasn’t going to get naked, I just wanted her to go
back to New Jersey and let me go to sleep.
What a mistake it was
to see her!
I thought. I would’ve loved to stay in my fucking
room all day, nestled under the covers, air conditioner blowing
hard. I was so bored that I knew it would be my last time out of
the house for a long, long time.

I started thinking:
Maybe forever
. I
swear I only started contemplating suicide so I wouldn’t have to
deal with her any longer. I could see the headline on the front
page of the
New York
Post
the next day: Man, Early
Twenties, Strangles Self in Central Park.

Finally—
finally!
—we started talking
again—about her plans for the future, of all things. How fun. She
rambled on and on about how she wanted to go to law school or
something. Her goddamn plans annoyed me, so I tuned out.

My eyes began to rove, and then I was
bewitched by a girl I saw. An angel, actually. She was short—only
about five-foot one or two. And what wonderful hair. It was the
color of anthracite coal, shiny and black, whipping in the wind she
created with her speed. She was walking briskly, like she had to
get someplace in a hurry, on the right side of the pathway across
from the side I was sitting, dodging the people marching toward
her.

And she had brown eyes, too. I could
tell.

Her breasts were large, but in perfect
proportion to her petite, compact body. She was a sleek black
Stealth Bomber, parading uninterrupted and unnoticed by all except
me. She was a miniature but glamorous model dressed in tiny white
shorts that barely covered her ass. She was the type of girl who
could make any man grovel on his knees, begging for her love.