frank barbagiovanni

There was this kid in sixth grade.  His name was Frank Barbagiovanni.  A name like that, you certainly don’t forget.  He was one of the more innocuous pseudo-bullies that wandered the halls of Fairfield Woods Middle School.   It’s my thought that the moustache and leather jacket (he’d wear it, even in the summer) are what gave him that air of playground authority.  I don’t know that I ever saw him beat anyone up or pick a fight.  He was, however, friends with Chris Lupo.  If I recall correctly, Chris Lupo liked to put his head through things like cinderblock walls and small children.   He was certifiable.  Frank was guilty by association.    I never really had a problem with him, though. I think we may have even been in gym class together.

Sixth grade was waning – summer had arrived.  Soon, we would be let out the front doors of the school, shrieking with joy into the sun and likely day camp.   It was time for the annual sixth grade, end of the year dance – Luau theme of course.   This was my first dance, and I was ready to woo Kate Simses, the squeaky-voiced object of my unrequited affection and catalyst for newly surging hormones.    There was a minor problem that day; I didn’t own a Hawaiian shirt.  The change of clothes I brought with me to school that morning was “summery”. I figured, well, that would just have to pass.  Momma Rossi would not have bought me something as garish as a Hawaiian shirt. God bless her and her fashion wisdom.   I knew I’d certainly be swank enough to ask Kate to dance to Stairway to Heaven at the end of the event (because all middle school dances end with the Led).   At the very least, I would stare at her from across the room, looking away any time her eyes might chance in my direction.

The magical bell that signals a day’s end had finally rang.  The dance would begin in roughly half an hour.  It was time to get changed.    The boy’s lavatory was jam packed with kids putting on their Hawaiian finery.  Did every kid in my class own a Hawaiian shirt?   My resolve was slightly shaken – maybe my mother had wronged me by not buying that Hawaiian shirt.  I decided, no, she couldn’t be wrong about that.  I stepped into a stall to change.  I felt strange getting undressed in front of my classmates.  Perhaps it was the patch of hair on my stomach that would later help define me as a man and rock and roll god.

The jury is still on out the x-factor that makes an adolescent boy behave aggressively sans warning.  Maybe, through the thin metal of the stall door, he could sense that I wasn’t getting into a Hawaiian shirt.  Maybe he wanted to expose the man-hair.   To this day, I don’t know.  But, something snapped in Frank Barbagiovanni and he kicked the bathroom stall wide open.  There I was, standing completely shocked, in my summery shirt.   Everyone was looking at me.  Frank was laughing and stroking his moustache.   I had to act fast to save face.  So, I bolted out of the stall and pushed Frank with all my might.  He hit the opposite wall.  Not hard, though, as I think I only probably used fifty percent of my might.  Frank launched at me and we went sailing into the sinks.

To this day – I don’t know where Brian came from.  

In a flurry of flannel, backpack, and limbs, my bespectacled compadre erupted from the shadows and had Frank completely lifted off the ground and pinned against the wall. “Holy shit!” I thought as I ran out the bathroom door like a complete chicken.  

And that was that.

My first fight was a cameo appearance.  Frank started it and Brian finished it (I gather).     My contribution was somewhere in the middle - worried about my hair and my summery vestments.  I did ask Kate Simses to dance, though and I’m pretty sure she said yes.