Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

We’d all taken the SATs and done well. My 1330 was the highest score. Actually, I tied Kyle. He received a 1330, too. When I revealed my score to him, he grinned with delight. I had studied every night for months, while he hadn’t even opened a book. I always responded to his haughty grin the same way: “Well, Kyle, at least I have a girlfriend!” But that didn’t faze him. “All I need are my left hand and my guitar,” he’d say.

Occasionally, we’d spend a Friday night drinking beer at Cronin and Phelan’s or Rockaway beach. I always kept my drinking in check. As Kyle puked his brains out after his tenth shot of the night, I’d sip a Coke and smile nonchalantly, proud that I could hold my liquor.

Alcohol was an anesthetic for me. I mean, thinking about not getting into the academy, and Maria’s lies, and all that shit. Well, it was just nice to get away from it all, and become comfortably numb. I never told Maria about any of the drinking, of course. If I told her, she probably would’ve started drinking herself.

On Thanksgiving Day, Maria and I went to the parade on Central Park West. I handed her the following poem as we exited the subway to view the giant balloons:

She adored the poem. Actually, it was a song that I’d been working on since the summer. I sang it to her right there on the sidewalk, amidst thousands of people.

It was an exciting day. I’d watched the parade on TV every Thanksgiving since I was a kid, but had never seen it in person before. A pageant of multicolored balloons bobbed down Broadway. Maria and I stood with our backs to an apartment building and stretched our necks out to view Kermit followed by the Pink Panther, both old friends from childhood, hovering above. We stood for about a half hour, leering over the heads of hundreds of families, trying our best to see the balloons. We’d come all this way, and I really wanted Maria to see them up close. Growing impatient with the distance, my neck suffering from tremendous strain, I motioned for Maria to take my hand so I could guide her toward the curb.

“Wait,” she said, “I’m tiny. I can squeeze through. Let me lead the way.”

“Good idea.”

Maria reached behind her and grasped my cold, gloveless hand with her fuzzy mittens. She weaseled her way through the crowd’s crevices and reached a wooden blue barrier that read: Police Line. Do Not Cross. She stood behind me with her arms wrapped around my brown leather bomber jacket, and poked her head over my right shoulder to see the balloons. I leaned forward against the barrier, my nose just a few feet away from the balloons.

Closer, however, didn’t equal better. Not for me, at least. I was so close that I could see things I’d never seen on TV as a kid. Spider Man’s left shoulder was covered by a tacky blue patch which prevented his deflation before the admiring eyes of children. After the parade I found out that the patch had been his life support system since 1987, when the high-powered winds guided him into a lamppost and punctured his rubber skin.

Seeing that patch made me sad. I used to enjoy watching this parade on TV as a kid , I thought, as the aroma of lasagna and turkey, our traditional Thanksgiving combo, wafted up the stairs to my nose . It wasn’t Thanksgiving without that scent. It just wasn’t Thanksgiving without seeing those beautiful balloons.

As Snoopy, dressed as the Red Baron, drifted by, my sadness turned to rage. I was angry at those balloons. I remember getting angry at you, Mom. I’d never savored a Thanksgiving turkey without first tasting airborne nicotine and tar. I’d never sipped a soda at Thanksgiving dinner without watching you sipping rum and Coke in our dining room.

Maria was oblivious to my thoughts as she gazed childlike at the balloons passing overhead. An hour went by when, finally, out of the corner of my eye I saw Santa’s sled drifting down the street.

I remember thinking about when I was a kid, just as Santa appeared on the screen, I knew guests would be arriving soon and lasagna was about an hour away. Adulthood seemed light years away back then.

When I’d left my house that morning, I’d smelled the lasagna baking. Sadly, everything else was different. I was still so jealous of Maria’s—I’m not sure what—I guess everything. I swear, worrying about Maria took up 95% of my waking hours. I had no outlet, no true leisure time. No time to just live in the moment, the Here and Now. Instead of sledding and watching TV on weekends I was worrying about Maria and studying and working, and trying to maintain my GPA. If I didn’t get into the Academy my life would be ruined. There was never anything earth-shattering about an elementary school book report, or having cookies and milk after school. Now my life’s happiness hinged on the Academy’s decision. And even if I got in, I still had Maria to worry about.

“I have to ask you about your vacation Upstate last summer,” I barked to Maria, trying to be heard above the crowd. I said it as if my decision to debate had already been made, my lines already written.

“A.J., we’re at a parade! I thought we went over this! You haven’t brought it up in days!”

“I know, but I just have to know this—did you enjoy getting drunk? What I mean is, are you not doing it anymore because of me, or because you just don’t want to?”

“I—I don’t know. If you don’t like it, then I don’t want to do it, baby.”

I exploded. “What do you mean? You mean that you want to? I thought you didn’t like it!”

“I didn’t like it! I just wouldn’t—” she cut herself off. “Why the fuck do you want to know? Jesus Christ! Right here at the parade! We were having such a nice time. We haven’t fought in days.” Her face looked as though she’d just been stabbed: snow-white, clammy, and cold. Her eyes squinted as if she were holding back an avalanche of tears.

“Can’t you just tell me? I can’t believe this. You fucking bitch,” I said, just loud enough to be heard only by her. But then my voice escalated. “Can’t you just answer the goddamn question?” A little boy behind her turned his head so swiftly that his earmuffs flung off and hit the pavement. Adults and children alike began to stare.

Without thinking, without giving any thought to where I was, I unleashed my arm like a limp lasso, swung my open hand, and whacked Maria’s face. Her head jerked. She looked at me for and instant before sprinting off like a runner at the sound of the starting gun. She squirmed through a crack in the police barricades and raced across Central Park West. She was so upset that she must’ve not been looking at where she was going, and she careened off of Santa’s sled and toppled to the pavement. It all happened so fast that nobody, not even Santa, had time to do anything. There wasn’t a cop in sight; the dancing snowflakes and reindeer just watched in horror.

I jumped the barricade and sprinted after her. I felt naked crossing Central Park West in front of thousands of people. I felt like lightening, I got to the other side so quickly. I was exhilarated, yet angry. Where is she? I thought. Masses of people leaving the parade and she’d just blended in with the crowd. To get to a lamppost I smacked a little girl’s balloon out of the way. I stood on its base and saw Maria making her way to the subway. She’s on her way home! I jumped down and jetted through a stream of people toward the corner.