Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

We rebounded the next day, as usual. But first Maria had to vent, so she called me early in the morning and began yelling and screaming.

“Look,” I said, “I was just upset that I wasn’t the first guy to bring you to the opera, that’s all.”

“But you were the first guy!”

“What I mean is, you’d done it before. I’m sorry, okay? I love you. Let’s not ruin the rest of Christmas vacation.”

“I’m starting to think that no matter what we do, it has to be my first time ever, with anyone, or you’ll go crazy.” I refused to respond.

It’s funny how normal that conversation seemed at the time and how, looking back on it now, how it embodied our relationship to a degree. When she ruined a date, it was forever discussed; when I ruined a date it was seldom mentioned again. Business as usual. In retrospect, such a habit seems sick and twisted and obsessive. There was, I cringe to admit now, little difference between me and murderer. The only difference between us is that, unlike a killer, I was too much of a coward to choke a person’s spirit in one fell swoop; instead, I preferred to smother it, allowing it to slowly suffocate and die, like a baby trapped under a pillow.

But, hey, I was seventeen years old, for Christ’s sake. I was jealous. Being a girl’s first everything was, I thought, a possibility. Back then, reason was my reluctant foe, compulsion my persistent ally. Not to mention my best friend of all: short-term memory.

Customarily, I’d forgotten all about the opera fiasco by the next day. So it was over. Everything was pretty much okay after that for a while. We went back into the city a few days later and I waltzed Maria through my famous Christmas tour. I did this each year, no matter what girl I was dating. And I always did it the exact same way. The only difference each year was the girl.

First, we took the F train to the 47 th–50 thStreet/Rockefeller Center stop. That brought us to the famous Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. We entered the plaza from Fifth Avenue and made our way through the crowd, past the row of my old friends, those white angel sculptures, flanking the shrubbery that divided the crowd. All you need is love , they trumpeted, though only my ears could hear them.

As we pushed our way toward the tree, I recalled the other girls I’d brought on my famous Manhattan Christmas Tour. The year before I went with Maria, I’d taken a girl named Leslie, and the year before that, Rachel. It had taken me two boring girlfriends and two uneventful tours to find The One. Maria grabbed my hand, and pulled me excitedly toward the base of the tree.

At that moment, I realized that the tree grew smaller each and every year, as the gray Rockefeller skyscrapers towered above the tree higher and higher. I looked at it, despondently aware of this.

A lone Santa Claus stood in Rockefeller Center. Occasionally, he paced between one half of the giant tree’s bottom and the other. “Ho, ho, ho!” he bellowed. “Get your picture taken with Santa.” A small black tripod sat nearby, as well as an even smaller person dressed as an elf.

“Maria, let’s get our picture taken with Santa!” I exclaimed.

“Sure.” She smiled and clutched my hand.

We walked over toward Santa Claus. The closer we got, the more I realized that he was not a jolly old St. Nick, but a filthy wop in a red suit. He was supposed to be covered with chimney soot; instead he was coated with urban grime. The elf that accompanied him was even worse. He was a short, pudgy black man, and held a rotten cigar between his lips. His face was as purple and wrinkly as a prune. His pot belly had split his green vest open. I could see his stomach as it hung down like a pregnant woman’s ten seconds after she broke water. I didn’t know which was worse: the stench of the burned out cigar or the odor of two bodies that hadn’t seen a shower for weeks.

“Do you two lovebirds want to get your picture taken with Santa?” they asked. “It’s only twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars! Twenty dollars! It’s Christmas, and you’re charging little kids and couples twenty bucks to get a stupid picture taken!?” I lifted my head and gazed at the undersized tree.

“Fuck you, Santa!”

Fuck you Santa! God, that line rings in my mind to this day. It reminds me of how I met Mike: “Go fuck yourself, Mike!” Ha! I love it!

Maria wasn’t as entertained as I was. She was so embarrassed by my outburst that she swiftly grabbed my shoulder and yanked me away. Her face said “Bad dog! Bad!” But her mouth remained closed. Good . A fight had been avoided. As planned, we exited the plaza and walked up Fifth Avenue toward St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

St. Pat’s looks as though it was constructed with lofty upside-down granite icicles. I’ve always loved St. Pat’s because it’s even more out of place in midtown than the tree. And yet, Manhattan wouldn’t have been the same without it. I’ve always loved anything that looks out of place but still seems like it belongs.

After sitting on the steps for a few minutes, just holding hands, we decided to go inside. More trouble ensued as Maria and I walked through the cathedral’s giant iron doors. Some old guy—I don’t even know if he worked there or not—tapped me on the shoulder and asked, quietly, politely: “Would you mind removing your Yankees cap in the presence of the Lord?” Startled by his request, I turned my head as he repeated the question. The second time around I noticed an Irish brogue, and smelled whiskey on his breath. “Why, are you a Mets fan?” I asked. He ignored me, but I thought I was pretty funny. He but continued to gaze in my direction as Maria admired the cathedral’s lavish ceiling. She firmly clutched my bicep as if to say, “Hey, A.J., take off the fucking cap.”

There were plenty of little friggin’ kids in the place wearing their hats, so what the hell was wrong with mine? Cocked and ready to challenge this old bastard, Maria pulled me away, this time before I could get in a word edge-wise. I took off my baseball cap. If you ask me, my messed up hair was more offensive than my goddamn hat. Christ, there’s a fucking gift shop in the cathedral. My cap’s no more offensive than the archdiocese hocking plastic Jesus figurines for $12.99 a pop.

Now angry for all sorts of reasons, I dragged Maria out of St. Pat’s and walked up Fifth Avenue toward Central Park. I ached for the spring when, for some reason, I had complete control over our dates. With each passing month since then, however, my authority had weakened. I was once the pilot, co-pilot, and navigator of a beautiful Caribou C-7A, but now I was its helpless cargo, stowed away beneath its belly, blind to its destination.

Cursing out Santa Claus had given me back the ability to command my destiny, if only for a brief moment. But now I was a sad ghost once again, floating down Fifth Avenue, flitting to and fro, above everybody and everything, watching the pavement pass beneath me and being noticed by none. I wasn’t walking down Fifth Avenue; I was drifting. Mentally, I was directionless.

It was the exact opposite of flying a jet, because when you fly, you’re in command. Its your sky to drill through. You pick a spot and you make a beeline toward it. Your two little hands guide tons of steel through the clouds. It has to be that way, or else the aircraft would spin out of control and crash. But with Maria that day—and most of the days before it, and all of the days after—there was little order to my actions. I wanted so badly to be in control once again.

Maria’s past shielded my eyes, preventing me from navigating and flying myself toward a beautiful destination in the distance. I could muster few thoughts beyond those pertaining to Maria’s life before me, and her drinking binge Upstate. Helplessly, aimlessly, I gripped Maria’s hand, hoping that she’d guide me away from my endgame, and toward a destination that she alone could see.