***Entering North Adamsville High, 1960-For The Atlantic Junior High School (yah, yah I know Middle School) Class Of 1960

A YouTube film clip of Mark Dinning performing his teen tear-jerker, Teen Angel to set an "appropriate" mood for this post.

This is another Frankie Riley story, my old junior high school buddy, a companion sketch to last week’s Frankie’s Atlantic Summer’s Day story. This is the way Frankie told me the story one sunny afternoon so once again it is really a Frankie story that I want to tell you about but around the edges it could be my story, or your story for that matter:

Funny, there Frankie was, finally, finally after what seemed like an endless heat-waved, eternal August dog day’d, book-devoured summer. Standing, nervously standing, waiting with one foot on the sturdy granite-chiseled steps, ready at a moment’s notice from any teacher’s beck and call, to climb up to the second floor main entrance of old North Adamsville High (that’s in Massachusetts for those non-Red Raiders who may stumble across this sketch). An entrance flanked by huge concrete spheres on each side, which were  made to order for him to think that he too had the weight of the world on his shoulders that sunny day. And those doors, by the way, as if the spheres were not portentous enough, were also flanked by two scroll-worked concrete columns, or maybe they were gargoyle-faced, his eyes were a little bleary just then, that gave the place a more fearsome look than was really necessary but that day, that day of all days, every little omen had its evil meaning, evil for Frankie that is.

Here Frankie was anyway, pensive (giving himself the best of it, okay, nice wrap-around-your soul word too, okay), head hanging down, deep in thought, deep in scared, get the nurse fast, if necessary, nausea-provoking thought, standing around, a little impatiently surly as was his “style” (that “style” he had  picked up a few years previously in elementary school over at the old Quincy School  over on Newbury Street, after seeing James Dean or someone like that strike the pose, and it stuck). Anyway it was now about 7:00 AM, maybe a little after, and like I said his eyes had been playing tricks on him all morning and he couldn’t seem to focus, as he waited for the first school bell to sound on that first Wednesday after Labor Day in the year of our lord, 1960.

Should have been no big deal, right? We had all done it many times before by then so it should have been easy. Year after year, old August dog days turned into shorter, cooler September come hither young wanna-be learner days. Nothing to get nervous about, nothing to it. (Did I say that already?) Especially the first day, a half day, a “gimme” day, really, one of the few out of one hundred and eighty, count ‘em, and mainly used for filling out the one thousand and one pieces of paper about who you were, where you lived, and who you lived with. Yeah, and who to call in case you took some nasty fall in gym trying to do a double twist-something on the gym mat, and trying to impress in the process some girl over on the other side of the gym with your prowess, hoping she is not looking just then if you falter.Or a wrestled double-hammer lock grip on some poor, equally benighted fellow student that went awry like actually had happened to Frankie the previous year in eighth grade. Hey, they were still talking about that one in the Atlantic Junior High locker rooms at the end of the year, I heard.

More ominously, they wanted that information so that if you crossed-up one, or more, of your mean-spirited, ill-disposed, never-could-have-been-young-and-troubled, ancient, Plato or Socrates ancient from the look of some of them, teachers and your parents (meaning embarrassed, steaming, vengeful Ma really, not hard-working-could-not-take-the-time-off Pa, in our neighborhoods) needed to be called in to confer about “your problem,” your problem that you would grow out of with a few days of after school “help.” Please.

That “gimme” day (let’s just call it that okay) would furthermore be spent reading off, battered, monotone homeroom teacher-reading off, the one thousand and one rules; no lateness to school under penalty of being placed in the stocks, Pilgrim-style; no illness absences short of the plague, if you had it, not a family member, and then only if you had a (presumably sanitized) doctor’s note; no cutting classes to explore the great American day streets at some nearby corner variety store, or mercy, the Downs, one-horse Norfolk Downs also under severe penalty; no (unauthorized) talking in class (but you could bet your last dollar they would mark it down if you did not  “authorize talk,” Jesus); no giving guff (yeah no guff, right) to your teachers, fellow students, staff, the resident mouse or your kid brother, if you had a kid brother; and, no writing on walls, in books, and only on occasion on an (authorized) writing pad. Continuing rule-ward; get this one, neither Frankie nor I could believe this one over at Atlantic, no cutting in line for the school lunch. The school lunch, Christ, as poor as Frankie’s and my families were we at least had the dignity not to pine for, much less cut in line for, those beauties: the American chop suey done several different ways to cover the week, including a stint as baloney and cheese sandwiches, I swear. Moving along; no off-hand rough-necking (or just plain, ordinary necking, either); no excessive use of the “lav” (you know what that is, enough said), and certainly no smoking, drinking or using any other illegal (for kids) substances.

Oh, yeah, and don’t forget to follow, unquestioningly, those mean-spirited, ill-disposed teachers that I spoke of before, if there is a fire emergency. And here’s a better one, in case of an off-hand atomic bomb attack go, quickly and quietly, to the nearest fall-out shelter down in the bowels of the old school. That’s what we practiced over at Atlantic. Frankie hoped that they did not try that old gag at North and have all of us practice getting under our desks in such an emergency like in elementary school. Christ, Frankie thought (and me too when we talked about it later) he would rather take his chances, above desk, thank you. And… need I go on, you can listen to the rest when you get to homeroom I am just giving you the highlights, the year after year, memory highlights.

And if that isn’t enough, the reading of the rules and the gathering of more intelligence about you than the FBI or the CIA would need we then proceeded to the ritualistic passing out of the books, large and small (placing book covers on each, naturally, name, year, subject and book number safety placed in insert). All of them covered against the elements, your own sloth, and the battlefield school lunch room. That humongous science book that has every known idea from the ancient four furies of the air to nuclear fission, that math book that has some Pythagorean properties of its own, the social studies books to chart out human progress (and back-sliding) from stone age-cave times on up, and the precious, precious English book (Frankie  hoped that he would get to do Shakespeare that year, he had  heard that we did, we both agreed that guy knew how to write a good story, same with that Salinger book that Frankie had said he read during the summer). Still easy stuff though, for the first day.

Yeah, but this will put a different spin on it for you, well, a little different spin anyway. That day Frankie felt he was starting in the “bigs”, at least the bigs of the handful-countable big events of his short, sweet life. That day he was starting his freshman year at hallowed old North Quincy High and he was as nervous as a kitten. He laughed at me when I said I was not afraid of that event yelling at me “Don’t tell me you weren’t just a little, little, tiny bit scared of the idea of going from the cocoon-like warmth of junior high over to the high school.” He then taunted me- “Come on now, I’m going to call you out on it. Particularly since I am one of those Atlantic kids who, after all, had been here before, unlike you who came out of the Germantown "projects" on the other side of town, and moved back to North Quincy after the "long march" move to the new Atlantic Junior High in the hard winter of 1959 so I didn’t know the ropes here at all.” I did not take his bait, thought he was goofing.

So there they were, especially those sweet girl Atlantics, including a certain she that Frankie was severely "crushed up" on, in their cashmere sweaters and jumpers or whatever you call them, were  nevertheless standing on those same steps, as Frankie and they exchanged nods of recognition, since they were on those steps  just as early as Frankie was, fretting their own frets, fighting their own inner demons, and just hoping and praying or whatever kids do when they are “on the ropes” to survive the day, or just to not get rolled over on day one.

And see, here is what you also don’t know that was causing Frankie the frets, know yet anyway. Frankie had caught what he called Frankie’s disease. You have never heard of it, probably, and don’t bother to go look it up in some medical dictionary at the Thomas Crane Public Library, or some other library, it is not there. What it amounts to is the old time high school, any high school, version of the anxiety-driven cold sweats. Now I know some of you knew Frankie, and some of you didn’t, but he was the guy who I told you a story about before, the story about his big, hot, “dog day” August mission to get picnic fixings, including special stuff, like Kennedy’s potato salad, for his grandmother. That’s the Frankie I am talking about, my best junior high friend, Frankie.

Part of that previous story, for those who do not know it, mentioned what Frankie was thinking when he got near battle-worn North Quincy High on his journey to the Downs back in August. I’m repeating; repeating at least the important parts here, for those who are clueless:

“Frankie (and I) had, just a couple of months before, graduated from Atlantic Junior High School and so along with the sweat on his brow from the heat a little bit of anxiety was starting to form in Frankie’s head about being a “little fish in a big pond” freshman come September as he passed by. Especially, a proto-beatnik “little fish.” See, he had cultivated a certain, well, let’s call it “style” over there at Atlantic. That "style" involved a total disdain for everything, everything except trying to impress girls with his long chino-panted, plaid flannel-shirted, thick book-carrying knowledge of every arcane fact known to humankind. Like that really was the way to impress teenage girls. In any case he was worried, worried sick at times, that in such a big school his “style” needed upgrading…”

And that is why, when the deal went down and Frankie knew he was going to the “bigs” he spent that summer reading, big time booked-devoured reading. Hey, I'll say he did, The Communist Manifesto, that one just because old Willie Westhaver over at Atlantic called him a Bolshevik when he answered one of his foolish math questions in a surly manner. Frankie said he read it just because he wanted to see what old Willie was talking about. In any case, Frankie said he was not no commie, although he did not know what the big deal was about, he was not turning anybody in about it in any case, and the stuff was hard reading anyway. Frankie had also read Democracy in America (by a French guy), The Age of Jackson (by a Harvard professor who knew Jack Kennedy and who was crazy for old-time guys like Jackson), and Catcher InThe Rye by that Salinger guy I mentioned before (Holden Caulfield was Frankie, Frankie to a tee).

Okay, okay I won’t keep going on but that was just the reading on the hot days when Frankie did not want to go out, he said after the summer- “test me on what I read, I am ready.” Here's why. He intended, and he swore he intended to even on that first nothing day (what did I call it before-"gimme", yeah) of that new school year in that new school in that new decade to beat the “old Frankie,” old book-toting, girl-chasing Frankie, who knew every arcane fact that mankind had produced and had told it to every girl who would listen for two minutes (maybe less) in that eternal struggle, the boy meets girl struggle, at his own game. Frankie, my buddy of buddies, mad monk, prince among men (well, boys, anyhow) who navigated me through the tough, murderous parts of junior high, mercifully concluded, finished and done with, praise be, and didn’t think twice about it was going to outdo himself. He, you see, despite, everything I said a minute ago had been  “in,” at Atlantic; that arcane knowledge stuff worked with the “ins” who counted, worked, at least a little, and I should know since I got dragged in his wake. That day he was eager to try out his new “style.”

See, that was why on that Wednesday after Labor Day in the year of our lord, 1960, that 7:00 AM, or a little after, Wednesday after Labor Day, Frankie had had Frankie’s disease. He had harped on it so much before the opening of school that he had woken up about 5:00 AM that morning, maybe earlier, but he said it was still dark, with the cold sweats. He had tossed and turned for a while about what his “style”, what his place in the sun was going to be, and he just had to get up. He said he would  tell you about the opening day getting up ritual stuff later, some other time, but right then he was worried, worried as hell, about his “style”, or should he said was upon reflection, teenage angst reflection, his lack of style over at Atlantic. That will tell you a lot about why he woke up that morning before the birds.

Who was he kidding. You know what that cold night sweats, that all-night toss and turn teen angst, boy version, was nothing but thinking about her. That certain "she" that Frankie had kind of sneaked around mentioning as he had been talking, talking his head off just to keep the jitters down. While on those pre-school steps he had just seen her, seen her with the other Atlantic girls on the other side of the steps, and so I am going to have to say a little something about it. See, the previous school year, late, toward the end Frankie had started talking to this Lydia Adams, yes, that Lydia from the Adams family who had run this jagged old granite quarries town here in North Quincy for eons and who employed my father and a million other fathers around here and then just headed south, or someplace for the cheaper labor I heard. This was one of the granddaughters or some such relation I never did get it all down. And that part was not all that important anyway because what mattered, what mattered to Frankie, was that faint scent, that just barely perceivable scent, some nectar scent, that came from Lydia when he sat next to her in art class and they  talked, talked their heads off.

But Frankie never did anything about it, not then anyway although he said he had this feeling, maybe just a feeling because he wanted things to be that way but a feeling anyway, that she had expected me to ask her out. Asking out for junior high school students then, and for freshmen in high school too because we didn’t have licenses to drive cars, being the obligatory "first date" at Jimmy Jack's Shack (no, not the one of Wollaston Boulevard, that's for the tourists and old people, the one on Hancock up toward the Square is the one  I am talking about). Frankie said he was just too shy and uncertain to do it.

Why? Well you might as well know right now Frankie came from the “wrong side of the tracks” in this old town, over by the old abandoned Old Colony tracks and she, well like I said came from a branch of the Adams family that lived over on Elm in one of those Victorian houses that the swells are crazy for now, and I guess were back then too. That is when Frankie figured that if he studied up on a bunch of stuff, stuff that he liked to study anyway, then come freshman year he just might be able to get up the nerve to ask her to go over to Jimmy Jack's for something to eat and to listen to the jukebox after school some day like every other Tom, Dick and Harry in this burg did.

....Suddenly, a bell rang, a real bell, students, like lemmings to the sea, were on the move, especially those Atlantics that Frankie had nodded to before as he took those steps, two at a time. Too late then to worry about style, or anything else. They (we) were off to the wars; Frankie will make his place in the sun as he goes along, on the fly. But guess who kind of brushed against Frankie as he rushed up the stairs and gave him one of her biggest faintly-scented smiles as they raced up those funky granite steps. A place in the sun indeed.

********

....and a trip down memory lane.

MARK DINNING lyrics - Teen Angel

(Jean Surrey & Red Surrey)

Teen angel, teen angel, teen angel, ooh, ooh

That fateful night the car was stalled

upon the railroad track

I pulled you out and we were safe

but you went running back

Teen angel, can you hear me

Teen angel, can you see me

Are you somewhere up above

And I am still your own true love

What was it you were looking for

that took your life that night

They said they found my high school ring

clutched in your fingers tight

Teen angel, can you hear me

Teen angel, can you see me

Are you somewhere up above

And I am still your own true love

Just sweet sixteen, and now you're gone

They've taken you away.

I'll never kiss your lips again

They buried you today

Teen angel, can you hear me

Teen angel, can you see me

Are you somewhere up above

And I am still your own true love

Teen angel, teen angel, answer me, please