In praise of Frank
Got an email from a girl who relocated to San Francisco for a job years ago. In the last line, she wrote, “Hey, do you know Frank Beneduci? I sit next to him at work.”
I hadn’t heard that name in a long, long time, but yeah, I remember Frank. Frank was in my homeroom at Central Junior High School in Hingham a thousand years ago. Back then, you started every day in seventh grade with the people whose last name started with the same letter as yours. I was one of the B’s, and so was Frank.
Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Ray Waters would count us up, and make sure we were all present. Mr. Waters did not tolerate tardiness or horseplay.
I remembered Frank as a funny guy. Frank proved my memory to be accurate when he revealed that he was still upset over the fact that he never got to kiss Sarah Bush, who was also in our homeroom, and was certainly the prettiest girl in the history of humanity.
For reasons that no one could explain, Sarah looked around Mr. Waters’ homeroom, reviewed all the boys whose last name began with the letter B, and chose Rico Bickford as the apple of her eye. Frank’s still bitter. Rico’s probably still smiling.
So with all I remembered about homeroom, how did Frank remember me? He had one, and only one question, which he passed through our mutual friend. “Do you still have wicked chapped lips?”
While Frank had no recollection of my beautiful head of hair, my exceptional punctuality, mediocre athleticism, and eager if unexceptional trombone playing, he did have a picture perfect memory when it came to my chapped lips.
On the day Frank asked his question, some two and a half decades after I had seen him last, I had a cold sore on my lower lip roughly the size of a silver dollar. At this point, “wicked chapped lips” were a dream that was just as out of reach as the prettiest girl in the school.
Isn’t it ironic that we never forget the sad moments, the humiliating awfulness, yet struggle to recall the moments of inspired glory? The memory of Rico Bickford walking on clouds because sweet Sarah took a liking to him comes forth in my mind like a haze, as if it were the bowsprit of a clipper ship piercing a thick fog for a moment, only to disappear again.
But the moments of supreme indignity, of Lord-and-the-Flies-like pain and suffering are there like they happened yesterday.
Take for instance that day in shop class. While the girls were elsewhere learning Home Ec, Rico Bickford bent over to pick up something and his best friend Michael Housman was inspired to drill a hole in the seat of Rico’s trousers whilst he was still wearing them.
If I live to be 150 years old, I shall never forget the look of shock and betrayal that came over Rico’s face, realizing that the only thing that separated him from certain impalement was a convenient crack in his anatomy that gave the drill bit just enough room to avoid the most tender of flesh. Housman laughed so hard I thought he would wet his pants.
If you can’t escape your past, maybe the best you can hope for is to distance yourself from it. Perhaps that’s why Frank moved to California.
Joe Berkeley writes from his home in Hull where
he is surrounded by painful childhood memories.
He can be reached at josephwilliamberkeleyjr@yahoo.com
I hadn’t heard that name in a long, long time, but yeah, I remember Frank. Frank was in my homeroom at Central Junior High School in Hingham a thousand years ago. Back then, you started every day in seventh grade with the people whose last name started with the same letter as yours. I was one of the B’s, and so was Frank.
Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Ray Waters would count us up, and make sure we were all present. Mr. Waters did not tolerate tardiness or horseplay.
I remembered Frank as a funny guy. Frank proved my memory to be accurate when he revealed that he was still upset over the fact that he never got to kiss Sarah Bush, who was also in our homeroom, and was certainly the prettiest girl in the history of humanity.
For reasons that no one could explain, Sarah looked around Mr. Waters’ homeroom, reviewed all the boys whose last name began with the letter B, and chose Rico Bickford as the apple of her eye. Frank’s still bitter. Rico’s probably still smiling.
So with all I remembered about homeroom, how did Frank remember me? He had one, and only one question, which he passed through our mutual friend. “Do you still have wicked chapped lips?”
While Frank had no recollection of my beautiful head of hair, my exceptional punctuality, mediocre athleticism, and eager if unexceptional trombone playing, he did have a picture perfect memory when it came to my chapped lips.
On the day Frank asked his question, some two and a half decades after I had seen him last, I had a cold sore on my lower lip roughly the size of a silver dollar. At this point, “wicked chapped lips” were a dream that was just as out of reach as the prettiest girl in the school.
Isn’t it ironic that we never forget the sad moments, the humiliating awfulness, yet struggle to recall the moments of inspired glory? The memory of Rico Bickford walking on clouds because sweet Sarah took a liking to him comes forth in my mind like a haze, as if it were the bowsprit of a clipper ship piercing a thick fog for a moment, only to disappear again.
But the moments of supreme indignity, of Lord-and-the-Flies-like pain and suffering are there like they happened yesterday.
Take for instance that day in shop class. While the girls were elsewhere learning Home Ec, Rico Bickford bent over to pick up something and his best friend Michael Housman was inspired to drill a hole in the seat of Rico’s trousers whilst he was still wearing them.
If I live to be 150 years old, I shall never forget the look of shock and betrayal that came over Rico’s face, realizing that the only thing that separated him from certain impalement was a convenient crack in his anatomy that gave the drill bit just enough room to avoid the most tender of flesh. Housman laughed so hard I thought he would wet his pants.
If you can’t escape your past, maybe the best you can hope for is to distance yourself from it. Perhaps that’s why Frank moved to California.
Joe Berkeley writes from his home in Hull where
he is surrounded by painful childhood memories.
He can be reached at josephwilliamberkeleyjr@yahoo.com
posted by joe berkeley at 6:00 AM
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