Boy

The general hubbub within the airport had long gone. The glaring
fluorescent
strip lights were no longer an issue. Slowly all claustrophobic
symptoms
diminished and the boy stretched out, wriggled himself and settled down
as
best he could for comfort in economy class.
Too old to be a boy, too young of face to describe a man, he accepted
his confined
surroundings with a slight grin and closed his eyes. In doing so a
single tear
hung precariously on the thick black lashes of both eyes. His smile did
not flinch.
His anticipated excitement as rife as when this flight was confirmed.
His body
language lied. His lips tight, aggresive like stretched rubber bands.
His shoulders
trembled with both happiness and weakness. So desperate as he was for
sleep
which had enthusiastically eluded him for too many nights. The boys
tongue
snaked slowly out to moisten his dry lips. The involuntary movement
rejuvenated
his apparent lethargy. His eyes shot open and he began to quietly cry.
The palms
of his hands shielded his face until the aeroplane landed.
Once inside JFK airport the boy's face disclosed utter amazement,
shock. Unable
to believe where he actually stood. At that moment. On that day in his
life.His wide
round eyes flittered a demented tack of his surroundings. In line, he
ran on the spot.
Dizzy with expectation. Anxious to exit.
White knuckled fingers grabbed the coach driver's welcoming hand. With
his legs
like jelly the boy hauled himself on board. He sat down but was not
still. The passenger
in the seat in front turned and glared. The boy wondered why? But not
for long. 'Stop
kicking!' refused to penetrate his entrancement. His smiled broadened.
He crossed his
legs.
The coach began it's journey. His mouth agape, his arm jerked forward.
One index
finger stretched out like ET's and in his astonishment pointed to
roofs, windows,
walls and gardens of one house after another.
Thousands of fairy lights depicted the winter season. Magical Christmas
shapes,
reindeer, Santa Claus, his helpers, Christmas trees, socks and
stockings
bursting, overflowing with parcels. The closer the coach took him to
the decorations
so the greens, reds, browns and golds became more defined. Rudolph
and
his train of reindeers in line behind their leader became more garishly
illuminated.
Then the coach accelerated sharply and the reindeer's blurred. All
colours merged
into a sludge coloured pathway up toward the chimney when louder
ooooh's and
aaahh's reminded the boy of rockets zooming into the black, invariably
raining
November 5th sky at night. A louder longer exalted sigh caused his neck
to swerve
and his eyes to focus through tree branches shrouded by nettings of
white fairy
lights. Catching the reflection of his eyes in the coach window, the
boy subconsciously
hummed a nursery rhyme to himself, Twinkle twinkle little star.
Mysteriously, unexpectedly all sparkles suddenly disappeared. He
blinked. Flashed
a bemused glance outside and above the heavy traffic this Christmas
Eve. Across
tonight's sky intermittent scraps of tissue paper peppered dirty
splashes on the
watery silver moon. Like grains of sand laced together they floated
down to settle on
the window beside the boy's nose .Before his eyes the virgin snow
melted. He wept to
himself. Swallowed a loud sob. His first white Christmas is over before
it really began.

He woke with a start. The boy rubbed his eyes. Where is he? Does that
sign say
Bloomingdale's? Macy's? Sak's Fifth Avenue? That signpost read
Broadway? All so familiar.
He hasn't been asleep? Absurd a thought. Too excited to sleep. The
day's only just begun?
His hands hurt. He gazed down. He prized open his tightly fisted palms.
Grubby postcards
were crumpled inside. The Empire State? Radio City? Twin Towers? Wall
Street? And
wrapped inside The Statue of Liberty was a glossy photograph of a
helicopter slivering
through countless skyscrapers above New York City. In big black bold
lettering on a
single ticket to fly in the helicopter was his name. He released a
breath he did not know
he'd held. Then with each quick inhalation rapid gasps of cold air
burnt his throat. The
noise deafened. Bending beneath the rotor blades cold wind whipped at
his ears and
lashed his cheeks but his wide grin held fast. Then all clouds, laden
heavy with snow
gave way to a magnificent blue sky. The snow stopped falling. A white
carpet glistened
for as far as his eyes could see.
This is the first real-life helicopter I've ever seen. And I'm actually
inside it. I hope it is
his helicopter. The helicopter I know so well. I'm sure it is. It's the
one he caught hold
of with one hand to save Lois Lane, to prevent a disaster. Good Lord I
watched that part
of the film so many times the tape snapped.
He bobbed up and down excitedly in the cockpit. His hands clenched
around knees
bent under his chin. In a see-saw action he rocked himself as best he
could strapped in
tightly by restraints. Yes, undoubtedly it is definitely Superman's
helicopter. I'd recognise
it anywhere. It is the one his fingers touched. My hero, Superman, he
sighed.
The boy was then three years old. He sat on a wicker basket eating egg
soldiers.
Logs crackled and spat on the open fire. Steam rose from wet washing
hung to dry.
He smelled smoked haddock frying. It must have been a Saturday. That's
how things
were every Saturday when he was a child. At that stage in his life when
his short
chubby finger learnt to co-ordinate. Over and over it would click the
replay button on
the video's remote control set which held his only film,
Superman.
And how he'd cry. Every time at the same part. Repeatedly. Twenty years
ago when
a woman, his mother had soothed a whisper in his ear, 'If you want
something that
much son, I promise you that one day you will fly by helicopter over
New York City, one
day.'