A Toys-R-Us Antidote To Loneliness

WE'VE BEEN PLAYING "Real Estate Agent" this past month.

Here's how we play: little groups of first-years want to check out a Dunster House sophomore double. So we let them in the door and try to sell them on the House as they stand in a tight huddle in the middle of our common room.

"Dunster is great," we begin. "We love it. The house library is gorgeous. The people are friendly."

They look concerned by our room's limited space, so we add, "Oh. This is probably the smallest room on campus. Don't worry about it; you get better rooms as juniors. . .or so we're told."

But they still look overwhelmed; their eyes flit over everything in our tiny box of a room. There is an awkward silence, and then someone invariably says, "Does...does the Lego phone really work?"

Then we understand their awe. They are enchanted by our toys.

Some call our room "weird," and others think it's just "immature." Some think it's kind of cool to revert to childhood the way we do. But our room's resemblance to Toys-R-Us does not reflect a conscious decision to be anything.

Our room is a sub-concious escape. Escape from things at Harvard that hurt.

Our toys help us avoid loneliness. A double can be pretty depressing if one roommate is away and the Lego phone isn't ringing. But we're never deserted by our three plastic frogs (Isaiah, Ezekiel and Bob) and our orange iguana, John Black.

We escape danger. College is a frightening place, populated with scary papers, teaching fellows and midterms. Toys make us feel safer. If we fear failure on a test, we consult the Magic 8-Ball on our prospects. If it gives an unacceptable answer, we shake it up and try again. Soon it guarantees us that we'll pass with no problem whatsoever. It's good to control your own fate.

Politicians complain that American youth have no heroes. They're wrong about us. Our toys, after all, are examples, role models. Equipped with cheery outlooks, they overcome unspeakable adversity. We twist Mr. Bendy's arms and legs in bizarre contortions--right now he's hanging upside down from a desk drawer. But through it all, he smiles.

The little Lego people who sit on our phone always grin, too--even when we replaced their hairpieces with Lego motorcycle antennas and transplanted their heads to their feet.

Our playthings also provide a temporary escape from social pressures. At Harvard, it's easy to angst about weekends and parties and dates. We stress less when we remember that our toys have no social lives. None. They don't even know what "angst" is.

It's kind of sad, really. The stuffed Maurice Sendak doll calls himself a "Wild Thing," but you can bet he never goes out. The dancing Coke can only dances with himself. (Besides, he needs batteries.) Our stuffed Madeleine doll is no competition. She's led a relatively sheltered life, surrounded exclusively by nuns.

Strangely enough, our geeky toys actually help our social lives. They alleviate those awkward moments--we have enough conversation pieces to last us through our next two years at Harvard. If a male guest starts feeling uneasy, he can always reach for the toys. In Dunster C-26, we've seen it many times.

Scenario One: "Cool!" An 8-Ball! I remember these!" our male friend says. He then pauses to think a moment, shakes the ball and reads the message with great interest. We shudder to think what question he asked.

Scenario Two: Examining the belly of John Black the Iguana, our male friend finds a surprise. "Hey! A suction cup!" he yells. Then he clumsily sticks our iguana on the TV set or computer screen. Thirty seconds later, the plastic reptile falls to the floor. Poor John.

Scenario Three: Pointing at the sacred Lego phone, the visitor exclaims, "Oh my God! Did you make that?"

He pokes at the bricks, trying to figure out which are buttons and which are removable pieces. We probably have to keep an eye on him; he might build high Lego walls around the "3" button. Then how will we call all the other guys?

We wish the entire Harvard world was exactly like our room. Then life would be perfect.

We've actually tried to reproduce Shiny Happy C-26 in Harvard's somber libraries. During reading period last semester, John Black caught a ride to Lamont in a coat pocket. We read Freud and Civil War history, and he sat aside patiently, his mouth open wide in an ecstatic grin. He wanted us to do well; we're sure of this. We get loving support from all our little toy pals.

The price we pay is cleanliness. Lego body parts litter the carpet, Play-Doh cans get kicked under the desks, and pieces of our Cornhusker State puzzle end up in our shoes. "This place is a sty," we've been told.

But it's not a sty--a pig sty is gross, filled with slop. Our mess is not slimy. It's whimsical. It's creative. It's the kind of mess we remember from childhood. We have no gnawed pizza crusts from three weeks ago, no half-filled cans of warm Coke. These are only toys; they don't smell and they don't spoil. Perhaps the Play-Doh could dry out and get stale, but we're careful to close the lids tightly. We are very sanitary with our mess.

There's one thing we should make clear: We do not, repeat DO NOT consider ourselves materialistic. Just because we have the most toys does not mean we are aspiring yuppies.

But we do know one thing: With all of our kiddie memorabilia, we're ahead of you all. Everyone's seen the bumper sticker that says, "Whoever dies with the most toys wins."

That would be us.