John Travolta: My B.F.F.

When I was about seven I used to sleep over my grandma's house all the time. Things weren't too calm at my house, so going to hers was a welcome escape. We had a special relationship and were very close. She told me secrets that you should never tell a seven year old. But I loved every minute of being with her.

One day while I was playing outside, this gorgeous guy came up to me (yes, I was boy crazy even at seven). I knew who he was as soon as I laid eyes on him.

John Travolta.

I would know that Sweathog anywhere. After all, I had his poster on my bedroom wall.

His hair was combed back perfectly, his arms bulged from his white rolled up tshirt. He looked amazing.

And he was talking to me.

He asked if I knew who he was, and I said, "Vinnie Barbarino."

We talked for a while and he told me that he was flying back to California to tape Welcome Back Kotter, so I might not see him for a while. He said he'd try to wave to me while taping.

He made me promise not to tell anyone he was living next to my grandma on Queens Street in the city. I swore I wouldn't. And I didn't.

It was our little secret. Mine and John Travolta's.

A few weeks later I was eating breakfast with my grandma while she read the paper. "Hmm..." she said.

"What?" I asked.

"That seventeen year old boy next door was arrested for robbery."

"What boy?"

"John Travolina. It says here--"

I jumped up.

"Here's his picture," she said showing me the paper. It was him. John Travolta.

I laughed. Poor grandma. So innocent. No wonder John Travolta lived here in the city amoung old people. They had no idea who he was.

I never told her it was fake and that he was really in California taping his show. I didn't bother explaining what I knew immediately: that this ridiculous article was obviously made up so he could go on living in our small city unnoticed.

John Travolina. Heh.