Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

Every bite of that plane food was like surf and turf. I savored each taste because with each taste came another dose of encouragement, another glance of confidence—from you.

From my father —those words, I thought, described me so well. I was from my father . I was all that you made me. All the good, at least. My intelligence, my sense of humor, my good will—each matched yours. And, that day, I realized how much of you I could be. If only I had listened to your words, “Here and Now.” But I couldn’t focus on the present. I could only daydream about the future, and obsess over Maria’s past, whether it was last month or ten years ago.

Maria never came up when I spoke to you. In fact, I never spoke to either of you about my girlfriends. As far as you knew, Maria was just some girl that I was dating, a friend you’d seen at the house a few times, nothing more.

Dad, I remember wanting to tell you how pissed off I was at her, how she’d let me down. I knew I needed your advice. But, I don’t know, for some reason I couldn’t ask you.

I remember nodding off halfway through my second beer on the flight. When the plane landed, the Rocky mountain peaks were radiating in the distance. It was a bit chilly outside, but I was warm within. I have a good feeling about this trip , I thought. This is the only school I need to see .

Surrounded by snow-capped mountains in the distance, we strolled through the windy acreage of the United States Air Force Academy. The United States Air Force Academy— now there was a name I could get used to. There were no hoods there, no guidos. I was fearless amidst the Rockies. The mountains protected me from all that I hated back in New York. Planes zipped overhead. I saw so many planes in the air that I thought I’d been transported to the future, where cars are non-existent, and everyone commutes like birds.

I thought of that day at Rockaway beach with Maria. That day, I remembered, was when I looked up at the sky, her body cradled in my arms, stretching my neck to the heavens, aching for something meaningful in the distance.

In Colorado I found out what I was searching for: the Rockies. And there they were before me. I was in awe. Dad, I remember seeing my reflection in your glossy, tired eyes; I was wearing a cadet uniform, smiling, worry-free. I wanted so badly to make that reflection real, for me and for you. I vowed right then and there to work the hardest I could that upcoming school year to become a member of the United States Air Force Academy’s class of 1997.

Man, was that a beautiful campus. I loved it all, but my favorite place was the Cadet Chapel. When I first walked down the center aisles, I felt like the inside was caving in on me. But I looked up at the succession of massive, diamond-shaped steel panels, I felt reassured. Bathed in multi-colored sunlight beaming through stained-glass windows, I felt warm, and trusted the unseen strength of the chapel.

Outside, seventeen aluminum spires towered one hundred and fifty feet into the air. That weekend, those spires were begging me to believe in something. Not necessarily a god, but something. I imagined myself kneeling before the altar in that chapel, praying to… to… to I don’t know what… to whatever sent me to the Academy. The proof of its existence would be found in the sky above that chapel, where I’d soar like a bird through the clouds, kissing terrestrial misery goodbye.

But , I thought, for the moment, I’m on the ground . Standing beneath the high Colorado sun, fixated on the chapel, my optimism dissipated, and I felt emptiness beneath my ribcage. It was as if my heart had vanished. I don’t how to describe it, exactly. I was hoping for answers… someday. But I was conscious of my actual life. Or, rather, something that was missing from my life. But I didn’t know just what. I thought: Something’s just not right . I feared that even the Academy would not fill this unexplained void. It’s difficult to explain the feeling I had, but it remained with me the whole weekend, cutting through my happiness like a hot knife through butter. Just when I thought it was going away— WHAM!— it struck me again.

Each time I was smacked by a wave of sorrow, and something mysterious pulled me down. Even before that great chapel, my feet were flat on the grassy knoll but I felt as if I was being sucked into a sinkhole. Each time I felt the urge to cry, but I forced it back with all my might.

I didn’t want to cry in front of you, Dad. But I probably should have. I should have told you about this strange new feeling, but I was scared. And besides, you were so happy that weekend that I just couldn’t bear to ruin it for you.

“That’s where you’re going to eat your three squares a day,” you said, beaming like the sun behind your head, pointing to the commissary. I remember you looked over at the beautiful Olympic-size track and said, “That’s where you’ll run—for hours. And boy will they make you run until you drop!” You were so proud of me, even though I hadn’t done anything yet.

The thing is, I felt like I let you down already. Stressed from training that hadn’t even begun, I thought maybe it wasn’t even worth applying to the Academy. It seemed overwhelming. I mean, there are over four thousand students at the Academy. Each one graduates with a BS and the rank of second lieutenant. Each one is authorized to fly. Each is an adult. A man. Even back then I knew that I had no idea how to be a man.

For crying out loud, I was just seventeen. I was still waiting for the day when I woke up and felt like an adult. I longed for that demarcation. I didn’t think it would ever come for me, whether I became a pilot or not. I did not think I would ever become a true man.

I was so scared. It was like that feeling I get when I climb the stairs in my house—like someone was trailing me. Except that feeling only comes late at night, amidst the shadows of the stairwell. Suddenly, the same feeling was following me around that Academy, sure as my shadow was.

I was caught between two possibilities: either the Academy would cure me, or it would not alter the dreadful, childish inertia of my life.

Walking with you, Dad, it was almost as if you knew what was going on, but just didn’t say anything. But then you’d glance at me and smile a really proud smile, one that I never saw in Queens, and I’d feel thankful for your sake that you didn’t have a clue.

We strolled into the Academy gift shop and were surrounded by a countless typical college mementos: shot glasses, bumper stickers, banners, and, suspended from the ceiling above the store’s entrance, the Air Force flag.

S o beautiful , I thought. It was royal blue with gold fringes. In the center was large eagle, wings extended, surrounded by thirteen white stars. While touring the campus, I’d seen in gracefully whipping in the wind on a pole opposite the Stars and Stripes. I didn’t realize I could buy one.

“Can we get one?” I asked, pointing at the velvety flag above us.

“Sure,” my you said. “Anything you want.”

Back in Queens, the flag and the photo of you, Dad, would forge a shrine to the Air Force right in my own little bedroom. They would inspire me each morning to work hard, to get into the Academy.

“Put it right on your wall,” you said, smiling. “I’ll even help you hang it up.”

And you did. We placed to the right of my V-J Day poster and to the left of my picture of you. I was glad I had the kind of dad to help me with stuff like that. I could’ve murdered a man, and been completely guilty. But still, you would stand right next to me as I was being sentenced, pleading with the judge to set me free. That’s just the type of man you were—and still are. He was everything Maria’s father was not. There’d never been so striking a contrast until those few days in Colorado.