COLUMN: "When Sheldon Smiles"

From Debra Pickett's "Studs In Strange Places," Spring '92. Monday morning, 5:30, Fairfield, Connecticut. The alarm clock wakes me. A taxi to take me to the train station will arrive in fifteen minutes. I quickly throw on my clothes, steal one of my boyfriend's baseball caps (to cover my yet-uncombed hair), stick three dollars in my pocket, and trudge towards the door. It has been a wonderful weekend's visit, but now it is time to go home. I stop at the bathroom in the hall, which proves to be a pointless exercise, since only the urinals are working and I cannot find my toothpaste. I leave the dorm, catch the cab, and make it to the train station. As I arrive, I hear that the 6:11 train for New York will be arriving on Track B. It's early and it doesn't occur to me that Philadelphia probably isn't a stop on the way to New York from Bridgeport, Connecticut. But, hey, how many 6:11 trains can there be? I get on the train and, while I'm contemplating what a deal this "Excursion" fare is, the conductor is having a friendly discussion with the guy behind me. The train begins to move. In a minute, the conductor finishes his chat and asks me for my ticket, which I gladly hand him. "No, ma'am," he says. "I need your ticket for New York." "This is the only ticket I have." "This is an unreserved ticket to Philadelphia, Ma'am. You're on a reserved ticket-only train to New York." So, I explain to him that I had been having a really bad week and decided to go see my boyfriend at Fairfield University, but I couldn't take off from work on Friday, so I had to travel on Saturday, so I wanted to get the most out of my trip, so I decided to stay until Monday and the very nice person on the telephone said that I could take the 6:11 and arrive in Philadelphia at 9:15 a.m., so I could easily make my 10:00 a.m. class. And he says,"You'll have to get off the train at the first stop, or, buy a ticket." "How much?" "Fifty dollars." "What's the first stop?" "New Rochelle." You know, I've never been to New Rochelle and this just didn't seem like the time. So, I argue. I say that it's the train company's fault. After all, they told me about the train. I say that it's the guy at the Bridgeport station's fault. After all, he might have mentioned that this was a reserved ticket only train. I say that it's my boyfriend's fault. After all, he's the one that went to Fairfield. In desperation, I say that it's Sheldon Hackney's fault. After all, if we didn't pay him so much, tuition wouldn't be so high, I wouldn't have had to work on Friday night, I wouldn't have had to travel on Saturday, and I could have come home on Sunday and none of this would have happened. I take a breath. He isn't swayed. He brings back two thugs, who inform me that I must get off the train in New Rochelle. I cry. They say they'll get the head conductor, George. George says that he'll let me stay on the train until New York. George is sure that there'll be a train to Philly from there. I'm sure, too, but I have this feeling my three bucks won't cover it. George says I can use my Bridgeport ticket. "Train 61," George says. And, so, I arrive in New York. It's 8:00 a.m.. Train 61 for Montreal departs at 8:05. Montreal? I spy a desk that says "Information." Train 61 really is going to Philadelphia. The Montreal thing is just a mistake. In the distance, I hear "Train 61, now boarding, Track 53." I'm at Track One. Tackling commuters -- there were a few -- and old ladies, I make it to the train as the doors are closing (I have bruises to document this part). I throw myself in, grab a seat, and swear that I'm going to name all of my children George. I face a few more conductors -- none of whom seem to be very familiar with Conductor George -- who want to know why I bought a ticket out of Bridgeport if I was travelling from New York. "Tax laws," I say. I arrive in Philadelphia at 9:35 a.m., having been, at some point, relieved of my three dollars. "Sorry, this facility closed due to water shut down." I drag myself upstairs, squrim through the History of Modern Philosophy and, all I can think is: I have to pee, therefore I am. My next class is in Annenburg. There are bathrooms, too, in Annenberg. The theme from "Chariots of Fire" is running through my head, and, as I start (uphill!) from College Hall, I wonder, "How can I walk and still keep my legs crossed?" My suitcase drags behind me, rattling as it bumps along on the cobblestones of Locust Walk. My bags grow heavier, my bladder fuller, and I decide that I am ready to die, right in front of the Christian Association. How convenient. Then, I see him. Sheldon. And he smiles at me. I, through a haze of train scum, exhaustion, and frustration, smile back. The bathrooms at Annenberg are working. And the moral of the story is this: Just when it looks like life is going to dump you in New Rochelle, and when all the bathrooms are closed, you run into someone, like George, or, even better, like Sheldon, and life doesn't seem so bad. · Debra Pickett is a freshman English major from Franklin Township, New Jersey. Studs in Strange Places appears alternate Mondays.

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