I was recently watching an episode of "Madam Secretary." In the storyline, the Secretary of State Elizabeth McCord's husband is a law professor at Georgetown University. Since the show is shot in New York City, they have frequently used my alma mater's campus in the Bronx as a stand-in for the Jesuit university in Washington, DC. So, viewers have treated to multiple scenes of dialogue being played out as the characters walk around Edwards Parade.
That would be Fordham University, by the way. And every time "Madam Secretary" does that, my mind wanders back to that day many years ago. It was the day before I was due to report for freshman orientation. Unlike these current days when prospective college students travel the country visiting the universities on their wish list, I never made a single university tour when I was looking. Nope. I just sent in my applications and what was then a fifty dollar fee.
So, I settled on Fordham in the Bronx, despite the fact that I had never set foot on the campus. Weird, I know. The day before my university journey would begin, my father decided that he and I would take a ride down to see it. Yes, gang, the day before.
"You gotta know where all the bus and subway stops are nearby."
Thanks, Dad. This would be my higher education home for the next four years and all I needed to know was where the Bronx 41 bus stopped?
Indeed, my initial glimpse of my college came as we drove up Southern Boulevard. I saw the football field. I saw lots of parking lots. That would be great for those who were driving to school. Me? Well, I knew where the Bronx 41 bus stopped.
I peered out the passenger side window and saw it. A huge tower sticking out amongst an ocean of green foliage. It looked like something out of Disneyland. Oh, wait, I hadn't been there yet either.
What's that big castle over there?
That would be the majestic Keating Hall. You see it above.
Home of WFUV where I spent a lot of time during my college years. Location of some classrooms where I spent a little time during my college years. The centerpiece of the Bronx campus is old, austere, and historic.
The floorboards in the classes would creak. It had that ancient smell that usually comes from your grandmother's hall closet. Back in the day, there was little air conditioning. You just opened a window. If it hadn't rusted shut.
There would be priests scurrying around from classroom to classroom. Going to a college that had religious roots for me. I wasn't Catholic and my grandmother, when she learned I was going there, was convinced they would turn me into one.
If you didn't want to go to the Campus Center to eat, there were two vending machines on the first floor. One for cups...not cans...of soda. The other for candy. Both had seen better times and snacks probably hadn't been updated since Vin Scully made the school rounds back in the early 50s.
That building, with its dark corners and nooks and crannies, was oddly special for me.
And it was between the second and third floors of this looming edifice where I had two pretty scary experiences.
Let's talk first about the only elevator in the place. For college students too lazy to walk up and down three flights, it provided the lift needed after a long WFUV session or a short Theology dissertation. The elevator itself might have been even older than the building. It was a large size wooden crate that resembled a vertical coffin. I never felt completely safe in there. Not for the queasy or the claustrophobic. But, take it nevertheless we did.
One day, I was scheduled to be the co-anchor on the WFUV Evening Report which aired at 530PM every afternoon during those hallowed days at the station when students actually got to do things. It was a big deal for me as I had never done this co-anchor bit before. We did our usual preparation. Rip the news items off the Associated Press ticker. Maybe try to rewrite one or two, so it sounded like you weren't reading them verbatim.
Around 445PM, I wanted a snack from the aforementioned soda and candy machines down on the first floor. I was hungry. And, after several hours of reading AP recounts of Congressional votes, I was exhausted, too. Too spent to walk down and up three flights of stairs for my Coke and Hershey bar.
I boarded the elevator to Hell.
The trip down was a no brainer. Armed with soft drink and candy, I boarded the wooden crate for the return trip. Just past the second floor, it happened.
Clunk, crash, sputter, phhhhbbbbttt.
My journey, for the time being, had ended.
I generally don't panic in a stuck elevator. Because there's always an emergency button with someone very helpful on the end of the transmission. I pressed it. It took five minutes for somebody to answer the call.
"Si?"
I explained the predicament to him.
"No habla Anglaise."
The chocolate bar started to melt and so did I. Luckily, my magnetic personality is always missed and my WFUV cohorts noticed my absence pretty quickly. And it didn't take them long to figure out where I was. Because the broken elevator was now requiring them all to use the ungodly method of climbing stairs. And my new location between the second and third floor of Keating Hall became a novelty as they took turns calling down taunts.
"What are you doing down there?"
Well, I was really looking for some quiet time before the newscast and I really thought that an elevator shaft provided the best venue.
I pressed the emergency button again.
"Si."
Ugh. I was losing patience and planning to lose most of my friends who were up getting their jollies out of my plight.
When the laughs started to die down, somebody actually went to seek out the non-English speaking man on the other end of my lifeline. But, that didn't result in an immediate solution. I was stuck in that coffin for almost two hours.
And, of course, missed the newscast. I understand that the anchorperson that day signed off by saying good night to Len "whereever he may be in this building."
My other "between floors" experience in Keating Hall was a bit more harrowing. Darn right frightening. And, surprisingly, this time it was on the stairway between the second and third floor.
It was early in my junior year and I had just moved on campus. This was your traditional Fall college day. There was a football game scheduled that night. I was working on something at WFUV and realized that a host of my chums were headed to the campus center for some food. I wanted to catch up to them. So, I ran. And I decided that I could get down the stairs a lot quicker than with my own nemesis, the elevator.
As I started to fly down the first flight of steps, I tripped on my sneaker laces which were untied. I missed the last half of the flight, emulating Mary Martin as Peter Pan. To cushion the upcoming blow on the landing, I extended my hands. And my right one went right through the window.
It was one of those slow motion moments that happen in life. I didn't really feel anything as the hand went through the glass. There was no pain. It seemed all pretty routine. Until I noticed my wrist. With the big gash right on the vein.
And the blood shooting out like Old Faithful.
Hmmmm. This is not good.
I immediately put my left thumb over the gusher and slowly walked down the rest of the stairs. Now it wasn't lunch that I wanted to share with my friends. I needed help to get to a hospital.
My roommate and other cronies weren't that far ahead. After asking me whether it could wait till after they had lunch, I was chaperoned to the campus nurse's office. Where I probably passed out. My next memory was a whiff of smelling salts. Pressure was applied to stop the bleeding, but it was clear that I needed stitches. At nearby Fordham Hospital. Where people went in and usually did not come out.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. A hospital emergency room in the Bronx is automatically a scary prospect. Several gurneys were rushed in with people missing a body part or two. After a while, I realized that my six little sutures would be minor in the great medical scope of things.
The bandage on my wrist was the big hit in the football stands that night. I explained that I was simply trying to perfect my impersonation of Judy Garland.
The scar shows to this day. And I always used a different staircase after that.
And never the elevator.
Yes, all this comes back to me now. About that big castle on the Fordham campus. As I watch Tea Leoni and Tim Daly do some acting on those huge stone steps that are supposed to be Georgetown University.
Dinner last night: French dip panini at the Arclight.
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