His name was Frankie (my first hero)

His name was Frankie.  I first met him when I was going on seven years old.  He was already half past nine.  He was strong and big for his age.  In contrast, I was small and not very athletic and I struggled with several deficiencies, the most pronounced was the necessity for strong glasses and an awkward speech impediment.  These disabilities were my childhood cross.  I had to bear teasing from the other kids on a daily basis, even the ones I called friends and worse, relatives.  You know the taunts, "Hey, Four-Eyes" and "Stutterer, can't talk right; you must be a retard".  Everyday, trying to laugh it off as I joined the other kids at playing war, cowboys and the myriad of other adventures a group of young kids could concoct from their imaginations.  I loved my childhood friends but their insults could be so cruel, never-ending and the cause for a nightly bout with tears.  I hated being teased.  I hated being me.  And then Frankie came into my life.

The first day I met him I was dropping rocks off the Ridlonville Bridge into the Androscoggin River.  I wasn't suppose to be on the bridge, wasn't suppose to be anywhere that deep and dangerous river but I was enjoying some solitary time and taking a time-out from the ridicule.  As I dropped my fourth or fifth rock into the churning waters below i couldn't believe my eyes as a boy came into view exiting the water under the bridge.  No shirt, but some very soaked jeans cloaked his young body.  In the very best voice I could muster I leaned over and shouted, "what are you doing down there?  what's your name?"

To which, this reply wafted up to my ears, "The name's Frank but my brothers call me Little Frankie and I am trying to capture some mermaids".  (Folks, some memories have a way of staying crystal clear). 

My first thought was that his brothers must be huge, because this kid was big but I could tell he was still very young.  After he joined me on the bridge deck I introduced myself as 'Robbie'.  Something I've only done a handful of times in my life.  And I told him I would just call hime Frank because adding the 'little' predecessor seemed a tad ludicrous.  Especially when standing next to me.  Our real friendship started with my inquiry as to how he got away with jumping in the river and running around town with barefeet and no shirt.  He said he had no rules to follow.  His parents were drunks and even though they didn't smack him around or anything like that, they didn't much care what he did, where he did it or what time of day he chose to show up at home to make his own dinner.  I was enthralled with this knowledge.  A real-life Huck Finn livelihood, what could be more grand?

For the rest of that day, Frankie and I walked around town, talking about the really big stuff:  what each cloud looked like, where the Androscoggin came from, if the Red Sox were capable of putting a winning streak together, and when Tarzan's son became 'Korak' instead of just 'Boy'.  The last would prove prophetic as playing Tarzan would become our favorite role-playing adventure over the next couple of years.  After a few days of running with Frankie and shunning the other kids - the kids closer to my age who took extreme pride in pointing out my inadequacies - I felt there was something different in my daily life.  I was stunned when I realized what it was.  I was hearing my name and only my name.  Frankie didn't resort to "Four-Eyes" or "Blind-Melon" but simply got my attention by saying 'Robbie'.  Folks, it was a precious thing and without even trying, Frankie worked his way into my heart as my best friend.

One day, the other kids were getting up a game of cowboys and indians.  After my stuttered, cautious introductions of Frankie to the gang, Frank and I joined it.  Throughout that afternoon, I knew it was the first time Frankie heard all the slurs directed my way; and I was so embarrassed.  Walking back to his house to make us our own dinner (which I thought was very cool), I broke down and cried and told him I would understand if he joined the other kids in the way that they addressed me.  He stopped walking and the look in his eyes made it apparent that his mind was set to pondering.  After a few moments, he simply confided in me, "Hey Robbie, I sometimes cry to.  My parents don't work, our house is falling apart, see how bad it looks, I even think there's rats in the walls; and all my dad wants to do is sit in his chair and drink.  I cry because I don't want to be like him".

After eating a homemade pepperoni pizza and I believe some tuna sandwiches, I left Frankie to his wrestling (he was a huge Chief Jay Strongbow fan) and went on home thinking that there was indeed far worse things to cry about then being called 'four-eyes' and I truly felt for the hardships faced by my pal Frankie.  Such a strong kid but already feeling the blows of life's unfairness and injustice and of folks interrupted.  When I went to bed that night and did my routine prayer  (y'know, 'now I lay me down to sleep....') it occurred to me that the words 'four-eyes' wasn't all that devastating.

 Over the next couple of weeks, I witnessed the first and somewhat gradual miracle of my life.  A miracle brought to earth through a one-of-a-kind vessel.  The vessel called 'Frankie'.  I didn't notice it at first but it slowly began to dawn on me:  I was hearing 'Robbie' a whole lot more from the neighborhood kids and 'Four-Eyes' a whole lot less.  I didn't know what was going on at first although I was quite sure there was a divine hand at work and not just the maturing of the South Main Street motley crew.  Within a couple of weeks, the "Four-Eyes" and other slurs had all but dried up.  And then, through the unsealed mouths of a couple of my childhood cohorts, I gained the true knowledge.

It seems Frankie had spent the last few minutes of each day's play individually informing each of our playmates how painful broken arms could be in the event they didn't stop calling me names.  In a couple of instances, when these threats first went unheralded, Franking accentuated his request by embellishing a bruise or two upon a few tender patches of skin.  Eventually, he was taken seriously and by the end of that seventh summer, my degrading nicknames had passed into oblivion and I had my first real hero.  Frankie, I don't know if I ever specifically thanked you for this but I do so now.

Frankie and I remained best friends aproximately up to the days he entered high school and then we inevitably grew apart.  By the time I entered high school and enrolled in the liberal arts curriculum, Frankie was down in shop, working on cars, smoking cigarettes and stealing his daddy's beers.  Before we parted as best friends, I witnessed on several occasions how he cried, shed many tears, for fear he was turning into his dad and just didn't want to.  In thinking of Frankie, I like to imagine that his sweet heart stayed pure and innocent longer than the rest of ours.

Over the past twenty-five years, as I traveled around this country - following construction projects - my thoughts have strayed back to Frankie, wondering where he was, wondering who he had become.  Several years ago I got a partial answer.  I came across one of his older brothers in a chat room on our hometown webpage.  Although his brother couldn't tell me where Frankie was, he did divulge that Frankie was undoubtedly losing a battle to self-destructive forces hidden in the guise of alcohol and drugs.

The news I received last week prompted the telling of this tale.  Ten days ago now, Frankie was found frozen to death on a street-corner.  Just a homeless soul with very little clothes clinging to him during a long, cold Maine winter night.  Yes, a homeless soul but a soul that still shines very bright in my memories and in the long buried corridors of my heart.  I'll leave you now with one further little tidbit.  A little fact that i believe speaks volumes of the Frankie I remember, the Frankie who came slipping out of that forbidden river all those years ago to befriend a young, troubled boy named 'Robbie'.  No Frankie never caught any mermaids that day but he did catch old 'Four-Eyes' and helped turn him into the man he would become.

Although Frankie was older, stronger and so much larger than this little friend of his; whenever we played Batman and Robin, he insisted on being Robin.  Whenever we played Tarzan and Korak, he insisted on playing Korak.  You've got to love a friend like that.  You've got to cherish such fond memories like that.  And I do.  God bless.

2008 Robert C Burnham

San Antonio, Texas