COLUMN: "Every Cloud Has An Orange Line"

From Paul LaMonica's "A Room With A View," Fall '92 One Saturday afternoon in late March, a friend and I boarded the Orange Line at City Hall. We were en route to the Spectrum to see the Duke-Kentucky college basketball game. Among the few people entering the subway car at City Hall was a man who proceeded to walk directly toward my friend and me. Without saying a word, he took the can of soda my friend was drinking from my friend's hand. He then said, "Can I have some, man?" His breath reeked of alcohol. Hoping that he would leave us alone, my friend let him have the soda. The man then walked away from us and asked another person if the train was going to some stop in North Philly. Of course, this train was heading south. The other passenger told him that he would have to get off at the next stop and transfer. All of a sudden the man started screaming. "Damn, I can't believe I got on the wrong train!" he yelled. "Shit! I'm so mad I could just kill somebody! I said I could just kill somebody!" He paused -- as if for dramatic effect -- and proclaimed, "I've got a .22!" He started walking back toward our seats and stopped in front of us. "I said I've got a fuckin' .22! You don't believe me?" Praying the train would get to the next stop very soon, we nodded our heads and assured the man that we believed him. He asked us our names, and we told him. Turning around, he began to address the empty seats in front of him. "Hi, what's your name? Craig? How are you doing? Jim? What's up?" He walked to the door and started to pound on it and cry. "I know who I am! Why do people keep telling me who I am!" After about a minute, the train finally pulled into the Walnut-Locust stop. The doors opened and the man exited. He stopped to tell people who were getting on the train, "Don't sit by them." He waved his finger in our direction. "They're crazy!" My friend and I emitted huge sighs of relief, tried to forget the frightening scene and went on to see one of the best college basketball games ever. The story should end there, but every now and then I still think of that day. It is an experience that would be difficult to forget -- but, surprisingly, one I don't want to forget. I could have wasted this week's column by complaining about my week. I could burden all of you with horiffic tales of clogged sinks, fire alarms and slow elevators. Then I thought to myself. Don't we complain enough already about trivial matters? I'd be a fool to believe that you, the reader, would actually want to hear my lamentations about things we all have to go through. Everyone here at Penn has little gripes about the minor inconveniences that make our stressful lives even more stressful. However, when you look back at these occasions, all they seem to be are minor . . . little . . . inconsequential. I try to think of my experience on that train whenever I feel the urge to complain about something pointless. That encounter was something different from your average, everyday trials and tribulations here at Penn. My friend and I could have been killed. Did the man really have a .22? Probably not, but I don't know. Was he just drunk or high on something? Was he suffering from some type of disorder like schizophrenia? I'll never have the answers to these questions. I often wonder where he is now. Is he in jail or in a hospital? Is he on the streets, still travelling the Orange Line and scaring passengers? Is he dead? Reality here in Philadelphia is that the University does not represent what this city as a whole is like. Over a million people call this city their home. For us at Penn, it is merely a sanctuary from a harsh and cold world. Sometimes we think we have it so tough as we spend four years complaining about anything and eveything under the sun. There are problems far worse than what Penn students face that affect everyone else in this city. Sure, being victimized by crime is a definite problem here in West Philadelphia -- as it is in every other part of this city -- but it is fairly easy to seclude oneself from the rest of the city and all of its other woes. Just think before you complain, and before you travel to parts of the city where students don't comprise a sizable part of the population. On the subways, you're just another Philadelphian. A PENNCard is useless and Escort can't answer your calls anymore. Paul LaMonica is a sophomore Psychology major from North Babylon, New York. "A Room With A View" appears alternate Tuesdays.