November 21, 1963
Dear Mr. Harlequin,
You asked me to tell you what I was doing the day they dropped the bomb. I honestly regret to inform you that my memory of the day is a bit hazy. Not for youth or lack of trying, or even apathy. I’ve tried desperately to remember. Unfortunately I was drunk for most of it.
You see in those days I was something of a social butterfly. Which is to say, I had a lot of friends so that I didn’t feel like an alcoholic.
As I recall I was living in Virginia. A place called Hampton Roads. It’s the kind of place you’ve never heard of unless you’ve heard of it. I remember a lot of sand crabs there. Not so many roads as you’d think though. Strange.
So there I was on that day. Hungover. It happens. My friends were loud and boisterous considering that the night before had been nothing less than an ideal Bacchic orgy. No sex. Just alcohol and dancing. A traditional goat song, if you will.
I decided to not partake, which is strange. Usually I leap at the chance for any kind of alcohol at any time of the day. But something about this particular brand of vodka was unappealing. That never happens. I had had “Aristocrat” vodka from the market for two dollars. It had a syrupy texture. After that, you would think…
I’m off point. So, they dropped the bomb. Of course, back then, no one really understood what that meant. I remember my friend Michael said, “Haven’t they been dropping them?” Strange.
I looked blankly about the room hoping someone would explain everything before I confessed my stupidity by asking what the radio was on about.
How stupid am I? Sober and expecting drunks to explain the implications of nuclear warfare to me. Strange.
I remember my friends were drinking bloody maries all day. They were playing records. Insolent records that drove me crazy. Loud abrasive stuff. I remember thinking that was strange. They seemed to be much quieter people. I had expected Mozart or the like. But it was all Big Band and such. People surprise each other a lot. I suppose the bomb was a surprise to the people of Hiroshima. But no one will know now, will they?
I think it’s kind of funny that all the research and so forth done about the dropping of the bomb has been done by us, who dropped it, and the other side has so little input. Of course, they’re dead… Strange.
Anyway, back to the day. I remember being curious about my fellows that woke up that morning. Kind of observational. They annoyed me but I thought they were fun to watch. I’d say ask Barney Rollins about that day. But he killed himself not too long ago. He was sober too that day. I heard he served in Korea some years later. Came back and started a family, then put a black hole in the middle of it by putting a hole in his skull. I guess killing people didn’t agree with him. Then again he saw no problem killing himself. Strange.
The radio was all about the bomb. It was one of those mornings where all of us were playing records, or they were at any rate, but yet someone had put on the radio as well. A girl was sitting by the radio sipping a Tom Collins at one in the afternoon. She had a blank look on her face. She stared at the ground like she was reading a novel in the carpet. She looked sort of frightened and desperate. The radio said the world would never be the same. She took a big drink.
It was one but we had just woken so, it might as well have been seven o’clock. Strange. Time and reality have a way of failing to congeal sometimes.
My friends… Oh, sorry. I should have told you, I’m writing this letter on a Sunday morning. My friends are here having brunch with my family. I had a burst of energy and thought I’d write while I had the impetus. Is that the right word? Sorry I really detest writing. Not my thing. Anyway, my friends are telling me that they don’t mind my absence from the table but that the typewriter clacking is annoying.
I have moved to the other room and I’m smoking a cigarette now, trying to recall the day. Do you know I don’t even remember the actual date they dropped the bomb? I can remember stupid things like noise and a Tom Collins but if you asked me the date I’d be lost. Strange.
I can’t think of much else about that day except feeling very lost. I mean, not about the bomb, but I guess that too. I just didn’t really know anything about the night before. Anything before, really. I still don’t understand much. I just knew I had been somewhere I shouldn’t have been. No one should’ve been. We had the hangover to prove it. All of us.
They say it goes away if you keep drinking. But I don’t know that that’s a good idea. What if we were “hungover” about the bomb and decided to just drop some more. I don’t think that would be good. No. I definitely think that would be bad.
Still and all… humans can split atoms. Strange.
Sincerely,
Frank Ballast
