Chapter 1

I

June 14, 1994, 9:54 p.m.

Dear Mom and Dad:

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

All three of you are definitely crying.

But why? Today is a day of freedom. It is a day that Joel Joseph L’Enfant finally made a mature decision. His first as a man. And I know that despite what you’re 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. It’s all my fault.

I’m so sorry.

There’s so much to write that I don’t 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, Mary and I, amidst the lush Strawberry Fields of New York’s Central Park. We were on the west side, a few hundred feet from the intersection of 70^th 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, it’s 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 peace—in my own life and in the world.

You know it: Imagine there’s no Heaven. It’s easy if you try. No Hell below us. Above us only sky. And I was humming so low that Mary couldn’t even hear me.

We shared an uncomfortable silence. For me, it’s difficult to have a comfortable silent moment with almost anyone, especially a girl, that’s not a close, close friend. I’ve 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 I’m concerned, the only comfortable silence occurs when you’re alone. I might’ve felt alone in Central Park with Mary, but that’s not the same thing. Her chubby pale thighs were smooshed next to mine, so I couldn’t 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. “That’s where John Lennon was murdered.” She let out a quiet “oh,” and I continued. “That’s why this part of the park is called Strawberry Fields. It’s a memorial to John Lennon, named after the song by the same name.”

John Lennon’s murder has always fascinated me. A few years ago, I read a book about his killer, Mark David Chapman. If my memory serves me correctly—and it usually does—Chapman 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 didn’t say a word. Instead, he quietly pulled a copy of J. D. Salinger’s 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, deadly—but nice. He had all sorts of reasons for killing Lennon, but the reasons have never interested me much. What I’ve 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 couldn’t remember whether or not that part of the park was called Strawberry Fields before Lennon was shot. Hell, I don’t 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.

Mary didn’t answer me, but that was okay, because I knew that I’d told her something that she didn’t 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. Don’t 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 weren’t 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 I’m crazy for saying that. I mean, I’d 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 I’m 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 Mary. 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: It’s been a hard days night, and I’ve 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 Mary 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 couldn’t 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 would’ve 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 he’d 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.

Ah-ha! I thought. Now there’s something to talk about with Mary: nudity. But how could I broach it? I couldn’t just say, ‘Hey, Mary, what do you think of that girl’s tits?’ It had to sound more intelligent than that. Funny, but intelligent.

I thought for a while, gulped the remainder of my fruit punch, and asked, “What do you think about public nudity?” Like a baby that had just passed gas, she squinted her eyes and smiled a bemused smile. She didn’t seem disgusted, but intrigued.

“What do I what?” she asked.

“What I mean is, do you think that a woman should be allowed to walk around topless? Look at that woman over there.” I pointed to the chick on roller-blades. “Do you think that woman should be arrested for wearing that kind of top?”

She thought about it for a second. I sensed that, handled properly, this topic could lead into an even better discussion about sex.

“Well,” Mary responded, timidly, “I don’t know, really.” Okay, so she was confused. That only meant I should help her along.

“I mean, really,” I said, “what’s the difference between walking around topless and walking around with a flimsy tight shirt? I don’t think there is a difference. Public nudity is completely acceptable in some parts of Europe.” Where in Europe, I had no idea.

She paused for a few moments. “I guess there’s nothing wrong with it,” she finally admitted.

Bingo! This nice Irish Catholic prima donna prude from Jersey with a pussy as tight as mouse trap was suddenly a lot more interesting. Jubilated, I rocked from side to side on the bench, anticipating the intriguing conversation about to ensue.

But I couldn’t think of anything else to say to her. Desperately trying to figure out how to extend our conversation, I studied the roller-chick, who had stopped at the water fountain across the pathway for a drink. I stared at her ass for what seemed like light years, wondering why I was stuck with boring Mary when I could be hitting on her.

After at least another ten minutes or so, I thought, that’s it, I have officially run out of things to say to Mary. I just wanted to get up and walk away. That’s it. Bye-bye, Mary. See ya.

But I knew I couldn’t do that. I knew I had to keep sitting and talking for a while. Then I had to walk her to the goddamn Port Authority bus terminal and see her off. Shit. I just wanted to go the fuck home, lay on my bed, and watch TV.

As Mary stared straight ahead—blissfully ignorant of the uncomfortable silence consuming us—I stared at her face. Not bad at all, I thought. She had some bronze freckles scattered across her forehead, and a pudgy Irish. Her chalky skin looked soft and virginal. Two wide milky white cheeks, each with a half a dozen freckles or so, a small nose, and a small mouth, with an upper lip like an rosy eagle fully extending its wings. And wonderful ears—I always thought ears were very important—lay flat against the sides of her head. I would’ve nibbled on those ears today if I’d had the balls to do it. Pasty white thighs protruded from her lavender shorts. A bit flabby, yes. But how I wanted to see the tiny, fiery red flame between them. Heaven, I thought. Heaven.

But that wasn’t going to happen. As much as I desired to be physically close to Mary, I couldn’t bear becoming emotionally or mentally close to her first. I don’t know why—I mean, now that I think of it, I really liked her—but I just couldn’t take that first step.

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, Mary, 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 fifteen minutes of pure silence was all I could tolerate. 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 Mary, the more I miss her. It’s not that Mary 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 Mary’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 Mary, 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, J. 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. 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.

Mary 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, Mary 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 Mary 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 Mary 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 Joel,” 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. Marian and I stood beneath that statue countless times, kissing passionately, embracing. Across Fifth Avenue stood a skyscraper which housed, among other things, F. A. O. Schwartz, another place reminiscent of my dates with Maria. 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 Mary had to twist my arm just to get me to go to the dance.

But, in addition to Mary’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 Mary 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 Mary 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 Mary 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 Mary, 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, Mary 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 Mary and kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, carrot top,” he said, sweetly. And then he strolled away. Mary 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 Mary. 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, Mary 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 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, Mary 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 Mary’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. 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 Mary 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 Mary.

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.

I can’t adequately explain how I felt when I saw this girl. My mind began racing so fast. I remember breaking out into a cold sweat. All at once, I felt both love and hatred—both obsession and revulsion—for this girl I’d never even seen before. She was sexy, yet cute; confident, yet timid; mature, yet callow. She looked just like Maria. And she walked right by me as swiftly as she had arrived.