A Matter of Conviction

The boy laughed. In the darkness, Hank could barely make out the figures of the boy and the girl sitting on the ground. A match struck and then moved closer to the girl’s cigarette. Her back was to him. All he could see in the sudden illumination was the girl’s startling blond hair. And then the match died.

“I’m glad we got out of that place,” the boy said. “That was the draggiest party I’ve been to in years.”

“Death,” the girl agreed.

Lying flat on the rock, Hank tried to work out an escape route. He did not want to frighten the couple, nor did he wish to embarrass them. But at the same time, he did not want to be a captive audience to their adolescent patter. Unfortunately, the only way back to the street was past the couple who sat under the huge tree to the right of the path. Sighing, scarcely daring to breathe, Hank resigned himself to his fate.

“How old are you, anyway?” the boy said.

“Thirteen. Well, almost fourteen. I’ll be fourteen at the end of the month.”

“You’re still a kid,” the boy said.

“Not such a kid. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“I know older boys.”

“You do?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I got to admit,” the boy said, “you look a lot older than thirteen.”

“Do I look older than fourteen?”

“As a matter of fact, you do.”

“How old would you say I looked?”

The boy was silent for a while. Then he said, “I’d say you looked at least fifteen.”

“That old?”

“Easy.”

“This is nice,” the girl said. “Sitting here, I mean.”

“Yeah. Do you like the summer better, or the winter?”

“Summer.”

“Yeah. Me, too. You can’t get out in the winter. I mean, you know, you’re stuck inside all the time.”

“Yeah.” The girl paused. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Red. What’s yours?”

“Yellow. Who’s your favorite singer?”

“Vic Damone.” He paused. “Oh, no, don’t tell me!”

“What?”

“It isn’t the Pretzel, is it?”

“Elvis? Oh, no. He needs a haircut.” The girl giggled. The boy laughed with her. “This is nice,” she said. “Talking like this. Do you find it hard to talk to people?”

“Sometimes. I find it easy to talk to you, though.”

“Well, I enjoy talking to you, too. It’s especially hard with older people, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Talking.”

“Oh, yeah. Man, I hate to talk to old people. They give me the creeps.”

“Well, I didn’t mean real old people. Like people who are ready to die or something.”

“Neither did I. I meant regular old people. You know. Forty, forty-five, like that.”

“Yes. How old are your parents?”

“Too old,” the boy said, and he laughed.

“Mine aren’t so old.” The girl paused. “But it’s awfully hard to talk to them, isn’t it?”

“Boy, I’ll say.”

“Do you tell them things?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I remember once I was telling my father about how I was involved in this three-way deal where we were saving up to buy a car when we were old enough, you know? I mean, it was a very complicated thing because we were going to clean cellars on weekends and sell the junk and like that, you know? So I spent about a half hour explaining it to him, and then he looks up and says, ‘That’s a good boy, Lonnie.’ How do you like that? I knock myself out for a half hour, all excited about the big business deal we worked out, and he tells me I’m a good boy. I don’t even think he was listening to me, you know that? So after that, I figured the hell with this noise, and that was it. Lonnie the Clam, they call me.”

“My mother thinks I tell her things,” the girl said, “but I don’t really.”

“Well, there’s really no percentage in telling parents anything,” the boy said, “because if they understand it they usually raise hell about it; and if they don’t understand it, you might as well have saved your breath to begin with. That’s the way I look at it.”

“I used to talk to my father a lot,” the girl said. “When I was small. We used to have nice talks.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“Oh, everything. We just talked. I remember I was very proud of myself because I could have grown-up conversations with my father.”

“But you don’t talk to him now?”

“Not very much. He’s busy.”

“Oh, boy, are they busy!” the boy said. “Always running someplace.”

“Besides, I... I don’t have anything to say to him,” the girl said.

“Yeah,” the boy agreed. There was a wistful note in his voice.

“I wish I had something to say to him,” the girl said. “But I don’t. I just don’t.”

“Yeah.” The boy paused. “Well, they’re busy. You know.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

“I mean, what the hell, they brought us this far. Fed us and clothed us. We’ve got to give them a rest sometime, don’t we?”

“I guess so.”

“It isn’t as if they owed us anything, really. I mean, I don’t go for these guys who are always saying, ‘I didn’t ask to be born.’ All right, who did ask to be born? Does anybody have a choice? I didn’t ask to be born, either. But I’m sure glad I’m here.”

“That’s a very nice thing to say, Lonnie.”

“There’s nothing that beats being alive,” the boy said. “Aren’t you glad you’re alive?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

“Sure. So they don’t really owe us anything, you see. They brought us into the world. They gave us life. That’s enough for me.”

“Lonnie?”

“Yes?”

“Do... do you love anyone?”

“How do you mean?”