Ariel Horn: A valuable lesson from a stranger

The fall of my freshman year, I met these really unattractive men with mullets on an Amtrak train back from New Jersey to Philadelphia. Not just casual mullets that guys get when they're too lazy to get a haircut. These were all-out mullets, created, I assume, as fashion pieces. These guys were the type of white trash hicks who probably knew all the words to every unpopular heavy metal song. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

I should have known right then, between the mullets and the wife-beaters, not to talk to these guys. So when they started talking to me, I did what every normal person on a train does when approached by strangers -- I lied.

"Yes, my name is Jasmine, and I'm a Ph.D. student at Drexel. I work at the zoo, where I feed the giraffes."

"Eric" and "Harris" (if those were their real names), I soon learned, were touring the country via train. They had once "worked for Amtrak" and were now headed towards Philadelphia. Surely I, Jasmine, a former party planner for Strom Thurmond, knew some places to hang out in Philadelphia besides the zoo?

I wrote down a couple of places for them, and they looked at me wide-eyed with gratitude. Eric and Harris had a little private conference, and then Harris turned to me. "I've got a present for you."

For a brief moment, I imagined that this was going to be the last moment of my life. Harris was either going to unzip his pants and show me his "present" or he was going to take me to some deserted car on the train, mutilate me and then kill me. Just like that. Serves me right for talking to strangers. "A present" indeed.

Much to my delight, Harris did not grab my shirt and force me by gunpoint into a deserted car. Rather, he pulled out a pack of Metroliner Amtrak tickets, from New York to Philadelphia. "Eric and me want to give these to you to thank you for being so friendly and helping us out on our way to Philly. You're all right." I smiled at him kindly, as any giraffe caretaker would, and muttered the obligatory "Oh, I can't" for a couple of seconds before I clutched my greedy little fingers around the pack of tickets, stuffing it in my bag.

Then, Eric offered me an Altoid. I was faced with the age-old dilemma -- Should I take candy from a stranger? I knew it was wrong, but it felt so right! Yes, yes I would. And you know what? It was damn good.

When I got home, I realized Eric and Harris had given me a pack of Amtrak tickets worth over $500 with the name "John Smith" on them. Sure it was sketchy. But wow, talk about the kindness of strangers. From that point on, I realized that literal and metaphorical candy from a stranger is not such a bad thing.

And certainly, you, Penn students, have dutifully taken my "candy" through this column. So now, as the sun sets on my two-and-a-half-year column empire, and as I write this last column, it feels kind of strange that I'm leaving you with nothing more than a proverbial Altoid to keep you warm on those lonely nights without me. And no, I can't leave you all $500 of Amtrak tickets, though god knows if I could, well, I still probably wouldn't.

At the risk of sounding sappy, I've truly enjoyed writing this column and meeting many of you through it as one of my best experiences at Penn. (Haven't enjoyed as much being stalked by both a 1995 alum and a high school junior who fancies himself the next William Faulkner, and lucky me, his mentor.) So this is it. It's over, baby. And with these parting words, I encourage you to take candy from strangers as you've taken it from me, whether it's a dirty Skittle that they probably found on the ground and licked or some pearl of wisdom from a person you'd never expect to hear it from.

And with that, I'm ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille.

Ariel Horn is a senior English major from Short Hills, N.J.

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