There are firsthand accounts about the woman known as "Spare Change Lady," "The Spare Change Sir Ma'am Lady," "Nancy" and most unaffectionately, "Spare Change." Tim T. Daub '01, in an attempt to brighten her day, offered her "liberated" food from Annenberg. While she accepted a bagel, an orange and a grilled cheese sandwich after inspection, much to Daub's disappointment, she refused an apple and a Chickwich.

An anonymous Wigg resident once gave her flowers, "because I felt like it." Much to his dismay, her only reply was "It's not food you know," followed promptly by a demand for $20. Another first-year explains a confusing encounter. "I walk by her all the time," the student says, "I don't give her money, but I have no problem with getting her food." The student asked 'Nancy' what she wanted, "'Spare Change' gave a very detailed order: a chicken sandwich on wheat with lettuce and tomatoes." The student picked up the sandwich at ABP, but upon delivery received a shock: instead of a "thank you," Spare Change "glared and said 'where's my drink?'. There's certainly nothing subtle about her. Although 'Spare Change' apologized later," the student was quick to add, "Can beggars be choosers?"

On top of these first-person accounts, rumors abound. Some of the best are that Nancy makes between $75 and $200 a day, she lives in her friend's father's basement, she takes the bus home and goes straight to the bank. Apparently she's saving up for something. By other accounts she has a son, a husband and a father. Her hours are a steady "nine to nine," though Acevedo insists that "she's always there. She's a fixture."

Despite the hearsay and rough stories, 'Nancy' has managed to endear herself to many Wigg residents. Deardourff explains, with only a hint of sarcasm, that "she's kind of like my mom--she wakes me up every morning." With a roommate, he's also writing a song he plans to call "Spare Change Lady," though they only have one verse down ("Dear sir ma'am/ Could you spare some change?"). Ted Wright '01 claims "It's comforting. You're lying in bed, her voice is reflecting off of Boylston...it's comforting." Regardless of their emotions, however, a majority of Harvard Students would have to agree with Acevedo when she says "I don't think I'll ever forget Spare Change."

MENU MAN

Menu Man: the question of "Fact or Fiction" never came up, because anyone can call 5-5700 any time, and there he is, talking about the "egg option" or "spiced oatmeal!" Obviously a man, obviously reading a menu. Obviously Menu Man. But simply knowing that "option number one would be the daily menu" has ceased to be enough, and the question has arisen: What's up with him?

The answer has always been that "No one knows." No one. Here's what students and reporters have had to go on for years--you call, he tells you the menu. One HDS employee divulged that "Menu Man" is not his sole employment; he also works as a regular dining service employee--a chef, a card-swiper or maybe even one of those guys that changes the big bags of milk. A sort of double life, if you will. Reportedly, some of the HDS managers have guesses, but no one know for certain who is living the lie- who is the Menu Man?

Unfortunately, the secrecy no longer creates the campus-wide wonder it is undoubtedly designed to stir. While a few do check the menu on the Internet, most simply take the que sera sera approach--whatever will be for dinner, will be for dinner. Most first-years, it turns out, have never listened to Menu Man, or have come to appreciate his discovery of enjoyment in the simple task of reading the menu. The shroud of mystery, therefore, is very rarely noticed by a large percentage of the population, which is unfortunate, because "they" actually do a really good job of keeping the secret.

Calling the HDS Director's Office in search of Menu Man proves to be quite an ordeal. A woman uses the tried and true "they'll have to get back to" method. That's fairly normal. A two-hour wait ensues and there's been no word from the Director's Office. Another call leads to another excuse--"they're all in a meeting." Who are "they"? And why are "they" in a meeting? What happens at Dining Services meetings? Who is General Wong? Who is the captain of the "Steamship of Beef"? For some reason, the words "secrecy" and "Dining Service" don't seem like they should ever appear anywhere near each other. Bad connotations, and everything.

Hours later HDS calls back, and tersely declares "I understand you want to meet the Menu Man...You can't. However, the Menu Man has agreed to speak with you, but only on his terms." There is no crack in this stoic facade, "You get seven questions. They must be presubmitted to the Dining Services. After that, you can talk to him, when he wants." This must be a joke. But, according to HDS's interlocutor there are no jokes, at least, "Not now. Not about the Menu Man."

Dear God, what twisted plot is this? Forget a double life as a Dining Service Employee. It sounded like the Menu Man's "other job" was more along the lines of a Mafia Boss or "Miami-Vice" style bad guy. Stereotypical images come to mind--phone taps and recorded conversations, telescopic lenses and hidden cameras and men in suits with skinny black ties kicking in the bedroom door at 3 a.m. demanding names, names dammit! All this intrigue is generated from the calming voice that tells students that they can expect "feta sauce...no, I'm sorry, feta sau-tay" or "dried pruuuuunes," and of course "sour cream and lemon poppy cake--oh!" Keeping this in mind, there is nothing to worry about... right?

Seven questions, inquiries that must spread over all aspects of his existence, from profession to his innermost feelings. Seven questions were submitted, and Menu Man did call.

Do you consider yourself a role model? Why or why not?

No, I mean, I'm just a voice, just an entity. How could I be a role model?

Is it hard to keep your secret identity secret? Do you want to tell people?