In a seventh grade lunchroom in 1962, many human dramas unfolded.
Mine involved the daily goal to survive.
In a thirty minute period, you had to sit, get called to the lunch line, get served, sit, eat, yak with buds, then leave.
Sitting with pals, and we spot Linda R. in the lunch line.
At that time, girls such as Linda, with puffed up black hair, tons of makeup, skin tight skirts, and fishnet stockings, were called nasty names (I will use one for this story that I personally never used.)
Carmine Colantuono says, “Hey, guys, there’s Linda….watch this!”
Carmine screams, “Oooooohhh, Linda, you are such a skannkkkkk!”
Other guys at the table join in, all but one person,……me.
Steam is blowing out of Linda’s ears, foot is tapping.
The catcalls continue.
Linda jumps out of line and heads toward our table, with the quick tap, tap, tap footsteps that I came to hear far too often in my future life.
With rage in her eyes, she grabs a plate full of steaming spaghetti with sauce, looks about the table, focuses on me, and slams the plate onto the top of my head.
She then walks off.
The guys at the table were purple and screaming with tearful laughter. They both couldn’t look and couldn’t not look at strands of spahetti gooing down the front of my face.
I was going to rage about the fact that I was the only guy who didn’t catcall at Linda.
But it no longer mattered…the spaghetti facial could not be undone.
The worst part? Had to clean up with tons of small, white paper napkins.
As a result, still felt sauce squishing in my ears in fifth period math.
It was not easy being a clueless 13 year old.