This column is the first chapter of Book Four: Little City on the County Line
“Who’s that blue-eyed blond making a beeline for our table?”
Surrounded by a chorus of high-spirited conversations mingling into a euphoric harmony under the fluorescent glow of the high school cafeteria, this mild-mannered freshman quizzed his boon companions after settling into their familiar six-seater table near the south exit, leaving one chair noticeably empty.
“That’s Bruce Thalmann,” Robert “Magsy” Magnifico noted. “He’s been in Robbie and my choral class the past two years; and since there’s an open seat, we invited him to join us.”
“So, he’s a songbird?”
“What’s wrong with songbirds?”
“Take a chill pill, Marcus Welby, M.D.,” Jeffery “Jeff” Olinger snickered, poking me in the ribcage. “I was just joking — no need to get your panties in a bunch.”
“But… now that I brought it up,” he continued, giving me a mischievous grin, “what kind of bikini briefs are you wearing today — solids or stripes?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Curious George,” I chuckled, as he playfully tugged on one of my belt loops.
“You girls need to settle down,” Alan “Fud” Franz teased, wagging a finger from the other side of the small rectangular table, “before I sit on both your heads and pass a silent stink bomb.”
Eww!
After Robert G. “Robbie” Brough, Jr. introduced us to the newest member of the most diverse lunch table in the entire dining hall, I flashed my pearly whites and asked a pointed question.
“Hey, aren’t you in my math class with Mr. Boots?”
“Guilty, as charged!”
And just like that, Bruce was one of us, swapping first-day highlights like he’d been part of our tight-knit crew all along.
Still reeling from their latest case — the mysterious missing wallet stuffed with hundred-dollar bills — the trio of young super sleuths stood in the northeast stairwell, heads hung low, on the first day of the fall term at Lincoln Junior-Senior High School.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” Robbie exclaimed with an exasperated sigh after handing back our computer-generated class schedules. “When you told me about your room assignments on the phone last night, I thought youns were just joshing me.”
“How’d this even happen?” Magsy muttered, shaking his head at the reality of our first-ever separation since entering junior high. “I figured, with your dad being a Riverside administrator, he’d pull some strings to keep us together in homeroom.”
“Are you kidding me?” the amiable redhead interjected, pretending to pick the wax from his ears, thinking he misheard the leader of the pack. “If anyone could fix our homeroom assignments, it would be your Uncle Dominick — an assistant principal here at Lincoln.”
“Whoa, Nelly! Let’s pump the brakes on this runaway train before it goes completely off the rails.”
“Times are definitely changing,” I admitted, gathering my thoughts to put a positive spin on the situation. “Although we were privileged to be in the same homeroom for two years in a row, this was bound to happen sooner or later; but at least we’ll be together every morning.”
“Mark’s got a point,” the black-haired Italian agreed, readjusting the backpack hanging from his shoulder. “Besides spending time together here each morning, we’ll also see one another at lunch as well as a couple of classes throughout the day.”
Once the eight o’clock bell sounded, the three of us, along with a handful of other students, trudged up a flight of stairs before walking down the hallway to our individual destinations on the south corridor near the second-floor bridge.
Shortly after locating our lockers in the congested thoroughfare, and depositing personal paraphernalia, we stood in the doorway of our respective classrooms — the police chief’s youngest with Mr. Frank Genevieve, the school administrator’s oldest with Mr. Donald Shaffer, and this minister’s second-born with Mr. Richard “Rich” Bartolomeo — waving to one another as the tardy bell rang out ten minutes later, before disappearing behind closed doors.
By the time the noon meal rolled around, these three musketeers had already congregated together in civics with Mrs. Kathleen Cole and separately in math with Mr. Frank Boots and in science with Mr. Shaffer.
And they were looking forward to finishing out the day together for CPR & First Aid with Mr. James “Jim” T. Irwin Jr. on the third floor, where they could raise imaginary swords and shout out their celebrated motto — all for one, and one for all.
“Time flies when you’re having fun!” the top cop’s offspring mentioned, returning from dropping off his compartmentalized tray at the food service window.
“Is that why lunch always seems so short?” I inquired, glancing up at the Italian stallion on the opposite side of the table. “It seems we barely have enough time to eat before the bell rings.”
“That’s because your mouth is on autopilot,” Fud blurted out.
“How rude!” I gasped, clutching my chest in mock offense before breaking into laughter.
“There you go again — getting your panties in a bunch,” Jeff guffawed, tugging at my belt loops for another look-see. “Maybe you should switch back to tighty-whities, because I think those bikini briefs are riding up your derrière.”
“You’ve got a very peculiar fascination with my underwear,” I shot back, playfully pushing the would-be Peeping Tom back into his seat after nearly giving me a wedgie.
“I’m curious,” Bruce spoke up, turning to the red-haired gridiron baller. “I noticed you were eerily silent when the guys were teasing our budding thespian for his eloquent way with the spoken word.”
“My mama didn’t raise no fool,” Junior divulged, looking over at me with a mischievous grin. “Since Mark and I both have the gift of gab, I wasn’t about to call everyone’s attention to it.”
“I’d have to agree with that assessment,” Magsy laughed, giving his fellow gridiron baller a wet willy.
“That’s like the pot calling the kettle black,” he added.
Just when things were about to get interesting, the bell sounded, marking the end of lunch period as scores of our talkative peers began making their way toward the exits.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” the Riverside administrator’s son expressed, with a flamboyant wave of the hand. “You boys have a gay ol time in English I with Miss (Karen) Marino learning how to diagram all those sentences like lopsided trees without any leaves.”
“Likewise,” Alan sounded off, sporting a Cheshire cat grin. “I hope youns have a very entertaining time with all the other girls singing your little hearts out in choral with Miss (Cynthia) Pertile.”
The three songbirds broke out into song with the 1960 smash hit by Ray Charles — Hit the road, Jack. And don’t you come back no more, no more. Hit the road, Jack. And don’t you come back no more.