Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

But for a brief time after I met Maria, I could be pretetty witty and gregarious. And, of course, I really like talking about jets and the Air Force, but other than Maria, it was always hard to find girls that like to talk about that stuff. With Maria, instead of talking about what I was into, I tried to discuss what I think she was interested in. But I was never interested in the same things that others were. Which is why, until Maria, and after Maria, I never really could stand being with a girl—or anyone, really—for more than just a little while.

My relationships with girls never lasted for more than a few months. I suppose that’s natural for a teenager. While my behavior was common, my reasons were not. At some point in each relationship, when I grew bored with the girl, I’d become really obnoxious. I did it by choice, though. I did it so that the girls would become disgusted with me, leaving them no choice but to dump me. I never, ever could break up with a girl. Lynn was the closest I’d ever come, and even that was forced by me. I just couldn’t bring myself to say, “I think we should just be friends” because that was a big lie. I didn’t want to be friends. And while so many other guys didn’t want to either, I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

My friend Kyle likes to talk, too. But the thing with Kyle is that he says just what he needs to say—nothing superfluous. And even though we’re both funny guys, he always knows just what to say, and just when to stop. Example: A few days after we went Upstate, me and The Family went out for my birthday. We always went out for our birthdays. It was a tradition.

But on the day that we were supposed to go out for my birthday, Mike and Rick decided to play a little joke on me and Kyle. It was a hot day in June, right after Maria and I started dating, and I drove over to Astoria to meet The Family. I parked in front of Kyle’s house off Steinway Street and we walked up to Mike’s. On our way up the block, from Mike’s fifth floor window, Rick saw me and Kyle and figured it would be fun to dump some cold water on us from Mike’s apartment. Kyle and I were walking up the block, oblivious to their plan. As we passed below Mike’s window, Rick soaked us with ice water. Coupled with his love of films, Mike had a habit of videotaping things, so he taped the whole event and showed it to us later.

It wasn’t until I watched it all on tape that I realized what had happened. As the water slapped down on us, I pointed at Mike’s window and yelled out: “Mother-fuckers!” I didn’t notice that there were little kids playing baseball in the street, and moms with their children in strollers right in front of Mike’s apartment building. All I felt was my soaked shirt; all I heard was the echo of Mike’s laughter.

I suppose that the neighbors must’ve been pretty pissed off. I know I was, because Mike and Rick had actually surprised me, and it was in a way that I would’ve liked to have surprised them. It was actually one of the most clever jokes anyone had ever played on me, even though it wasn’t that brilliant.

Mike gave me a copy of the tape, and I’ve watched it over and over again, literally hundreds of times, ever since it happened. In fact, I watched it earlier this evening. I never show it to anyone else, of course; but I can’t stop watching it. I don’t get a thrill from seeing myself get soaked. There’s something else about that video that I’m fascinated with—and that’s Kyle. As the water sprayed all over us, I looked up at the window and cursed and yelled. But Kyle—Kyle didn’t say a goddamn word at first. In fact, he didn’t even look up to find out where the water came from. He casually strolled through the water, as if it were not there. He just mumbled a quiet “thank you” to no one in particular, almost as if he appreciated being wet.

Rick and Mike laughed from above. When Kyle and I got into the elevator, we looked at one another, each wearing faces that said: “Oh well, they got us.” And we both knew that we’d strike back with an even bigger and better joke when Mike and Rick least expected it.

“Why aren’t you angry at them for soaking us, why don’t you care?” I asked in disbelief, as the elevator in Mike’s building slowly rose to the third floor.

Just as the elevator doors opened up to a dark hallway, Kyle placed his hand on my shoulder, looked dead-straight into my eye, and said: “Because I always win.”

It was time to get a job, or at least that’s what my parents kept telling me. So I walked along 69 thStreet, near my house, looking for one. My father kept hounding me to get another office job. But I didn’t want to do that shit. Just the thought of faxing and filing and wearing a tie made me cringe. So instead, I started working at Key Food deli, a few blocks away. It didn’t pay much, but the hours were good—four to eight each weekday afternoon except Fridays, and all day ever other weekend. It was nice to have Fridayss off, because the beach wouldn’t be too crowded. I couldn’t wait to get back to Rockaway.

So the first Friday I had off I went to the beach and brought Maria with me. We piled into my car on a scorching July day. I’ll never forget the date: July 31, 1992. On the ride to Rockaway Beach, I popped a tape into the cassette player and blasted some Frank Sinatra. Maria loved Old Blue Eyes, too. After a few songs, I switched to the Yankee game. They were having a summer to remember, just like me. Man, was I happy. There’s nothing like driving on the bridge over Jamaica Bay with a beautiful girl at your side.

I thought about writing a poem for Maria. There she was, donning a crimson red tee shirt and white shorts—she looked especially sexy in white shorts—right over her tight white bikini. My god, she was beautiful.

It was a uniquely dry afternoon. As we cruised over Cross Bay Bridge toward the water, arid, salty air blew through the window of my car as if it were funneled by a giant fan. The asphalt barreling toward me sparkled like tin foil in the sun. I played more Sinatra, and just as the Chairman of the Board sang the last line of Summer Wind , I pulled into a parking space within a few feet of the beach boardwalk.

By the time we nestled down on the beach, I’d heard at least half a dozen languages being spoken, all calm and pleasant. Rockaway represented the best that the city had to offer. People respected the beach, and noise was kept to a minimum by the gush of the waves hitting the white sandy shore.

I took my shirt off, and basked in the sun, singling Under the Boardwalk by the Drifters. Maria smiled along. What a fabulous day. She’d prepared ham and cheese sandwiches for us, and carried a little red cooler that kept the root beer icy cold. I couldn’t have asked for a better afternoon.

Maria wore purple sunglasses and a yellow sun hat. I wore my favorite white Yankees cap. I buried her in the sand; she splashed me in the water. It was wonderful.

Laying on our backs in the sun, I held Maria’s hand. “So, you’ve never been to this beach before, right?” I asked her, assuming that she hadn’t.

“Oh,” she said, “I have many times. I used to come here with Rosie, and a few other kids I hung out with in the park. A bunch of us used to come.”

Huh? “Well, how did you get here?” I asked.

“I came here in Guido’s car. Rosie was his sister, and he used to drive us here a lot.”

“Who the fuck is Guido?” I asked. I will never forget that goddamn name—Guido. That fucking guinea bastard brought my Maria to the beach before I did.

“I told you, he’s just my friend’s sister. I didn’t really know him all that well.”

“You drove in a guy’s car, and you didn’t know him that well?”