The Other Side of Me. Sidney Sheldon

scanned the list. ‘This is great.’ I checked off the courses I wanted and then handed the list back to her.

      She looked at it and said, ‘You’re taking the maximum amount of courses?’

      ‘That’s right.’ I frowned. ‘But Latin isn’t there. I really do want to take Latin.’

      She was looking at me. ‘Do you really think you can handle all this?’

      I smiled. ‘No problem.’

      She wrote down ‘Latin.’

      From the registrar’s office, I went to the cafeteria kitchen. ‘Can you use a busboy?’

      ‘Always.’

      So I had another job, but it was not enough. I felt impelled to do more, as though I were making up for lost time. That afternoon I went to the offices of the Daily Northwestern, the school newspaper.

      ‘I’m Sidney Schechtel,’ I told the man behind the desk with a sign marked ‘Editor.’ ‘I’d like to work on the paper.’

      ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘we’re full up. Try us next year.’

      ‘Next year will be too late.’ I stood there thinking. ‘Do you have a show business section?’

      ‘A show business section?’

      ‘Yes. Celebrities are always coming to Chicago to do shows here. Don’t you have someone to interview them for the paper?’

      ‘No. We—’

      ‘Do you know who’s in town right now, dying to be interviewed? Katharine Hepburn!’

      ‘We’re not set up to—’

      ‘And Clifton Webb.’

      ‘We’ve never had a—’

      ‘Walter Pidgeon.’

      ‘I can talk to someone, but I’m afraid—’

      ‘George M. Cohan.’

      He was getting interested. ‘Do you know these people?’

      I did not hear the question. ‘There’s no time to lose. When their shows close, they’re leaving.’

      ‘All right. I’m going to take a chance on you, Schechtel.’

      He had no idea how excited I was. ‘That’s the best decision you’ve ever made.’

      ‘We’ll see. When can you start?’

      ‘I’ve already started. You’ll have the first interview in your next edition.’

      He looked at me in amazement. ‘Already? Who is it?’

      ‘It’s a surprise.’

      It was a surprise to me, too.

      In what spare time I had, I interviewed many minor celebrities for the newspaper. My first interview was with Guy Kibbee, who was a minor character actor at the time. The major stars were too important to be interviewed for a school newspaper.

      I was working in the checkroom and the drugstore, I was taking the maximum number of courses at school, plus Latin, I had a job as a busboy, and I was on staff at the Daily Northwestern. But it wasn’t enough. It’s as though I was driven. I thought about what else I could do. Northwestern had a great winning football team, and there was no reason I couldn’t be on it. I’m sure the Wildcats could use me.

      The following morning I went out to the football field where the team was practicing. Pug Rentner, who went on to a glorious career in the NFL, was the star of the team that year. I walked up to the coach, who was on the sidelines watching the action. ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’

      ‘What’s on your mind?’

      ‘I’d like to try out for the team.’

      He looked me over. ‘You would, huh? You’ve got a pretty good build. Where did you play?’

      I didn’t answer.

      ‘High school? College?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Grammar school?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      He was staring at me. ‘You’ve never played football?’

      ‘No, but I’m very quick and—’

      ‘And you’d like to be on this team? Son, forget about it.’ And his attention went back to the scrimmage.

      That was the end of my football aspirations.

      The professors at Northwestern were wonderful and the classes were exciting. I was hungry to learn everything I could. The week after I started school, I passed a sign in the corridor that read: ‘Tryouts tonight. Northwestern Debating Team.’ I stopped and stared at it. I knew it was insane and yet I felt compelled to try out.

      There is a maxim that death is the number two fear that people have, and public speaking is the first. That was certainly so in my case. To me, there was nothing more terrifying than public speaking. But I was obsessed. I had to do everything. I had to keep turning the pages.

      When I walked into the designated tryout room, it was filled with young men and women waiting their turn. I took a seat and listened. All the speakers sounded fantastic. They were articulate and spoke fluently, with great confidence.

      Finally it was my turn. I got up and walked over to the microphone.

      The man in charge said, ‘Your name?’

      ‘Sidney Schechtel.’

      ‘Your subject?’

      I had prepared for this. ‘Capitalism versus communism.’

      He nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

      I began to speak and I thought it was going very well. When I got halfway through my subject, I stopped. I was frozen. I had no idea what came next. There was a long, nervous pause. I mumbled something to end the speech and slunk out, cursing myself.

      A student at the door said, ‘Aren’t you a freshman?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’

      ‘Tell me what?’

      ‘Freshmen aren’t allowed on the debating team. You have to be an upperclassman.’

      Oh, good, I thought. Now I have an excuse for my failure.

      The following morning the names of the winners were posted on the bulletin board. Out of curiosity, I took a look at it. One of the names was ‘Shekter.’ Someone with a name similar to mine had been chosen. At the bottom of the board was a notice that those who had been selected should report at three-thirty in the afternoon to the debate coach.

      At four o’clock I received a telephone call. ‘Shekter, what happened to you?’

      I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What? Nothing.’

      ‘Didn’t you see the notice to report to the debate coach?’

      Shekter. They had gotten my name wrong. ‘Yes, but I thought—I’m a freshman.’

      ‘I know. We’ve decided to make an exception in your case. We’re changing the rules.’

      So I became the first freshman ever to be accepted on the Northwestern Varsity Debating Team.

      Another page had turned.

      As busy as I forced myself to be, something was still missing. I had no idea what it was. Somehow I felt unfulfilled. I had a deep sense of anomie, a feeling of anxiety and isolation. On the campus, watching the hordes of students hurrying to and from their classes, I thought, They’re all anonymous. When they die, no