Frankie

When Frankie had been honorably discharged from the air force in 1969, he started hanging out at Crescent Beach in Glen Cove. I met him through Jasper, another friend whose father was an alcoholic. It amazes me now how so many children of alcoholics congregate together. Another friend I met there was Kenny, a Vietnam veteran and former star athlete at Glen Cove High.

Frankie loved to bust everybody's chops, and he soon found an easy target in me because I was so gullible. But one night soon after my mother died in March, 1971, his conversation turned serious.

"Jerry, I'm sorry to hear about your mother, man."

"Thanks, Frankie. Her misery is finally over," I replied, referring not only to her body succumbing to cancer, but also her marriage to my father.

"Did she believe in Jesus?" Frankie asked.

"Lock, stock, and barrel, Frankie," I said bitterly, "she bought the whole program."

"Then she's in heaven," Frankie said confidently. "Don't even worry about her."

I looked at Frankie incredulously, and finally said, "Frankie, my mom's in the cold, hard ground and she isn't going anywhere."

"You're wrong, Jerry," Frankie said. Then he repeated, "She's in heaven."

This time, I held my tongue. I'd heard this argument countless times from older people, but never from one of my peers. It took me 21 years to figure out that Frankie was right and I was wrong.

There's a school of thought in Christian theology which states that it takes several touches from Christians to convert a non-believer. My mother was my first touch, and Frankie was my second. It would take many more touches before the job was completed.