THE VAGABOND

Briggs Hall . . . where in the devil is Briggs Hall? What's the hour? Five to seven. Twentyfive minuets late and he wasn't even sure how to get to the darn dormitory. Vag half-ran, half-walked across the Cambridge Common toward the Commander Hotel. He knew that was in the general direction of Radcliffe, but his face was flushed from hurrying and his mind was a wastebasket of torn-off thoughts. He couldn't even remember exactly what she looked like. He had danced with her when he crashed the Freshman get-together; taken her out for a cigarette; walked her home . . . and the conversation had never once sunken to the level of "What courses do you take?" That was all he remembered and that was enough.

By five minutes after seven he was nearing his half-dreaded goal. As he approached the front door, all Vag's hitherto generalized confusion centered on one specific fear: he had no car . . . would she mind going into Boston on the subway? Of course she would. She had worn an expensive dress at the dance. And a fur wrap too. The dress and the wrap came before his mind's eye in painful detail. Why hadn't he thought of borrowing a car? He was over half an hour late as it was, so maybe she had gone to supper with the other girls, or maybe he had made a mistake and this was the wrong night. Girls hate subways. Fine time to think of that. Why did he ever make this date in the first place? For a desperate split second he wished that the evening were in back of him and not all to come . . . and then, in spite of himself, he had rung the door bell.

I'm terribly sorry I . . . Oh, that's all right . . . And I haven't even got a car . . . I love subways . . . I promise you that never again . . . Forget it--I'm hungry--let's go.

They did. Vag took her arm and they walked to the Square and down the cement steps to that underground platform that seemed twice as ugly to Vag, now that he was escorting a girl. Just as they got to the bottom of the steps a subway rumbled up. People pushed for the turnstiles. Vag fumbled for two dimes. Keys, paper clips, everything small and bothersome came out of his watch pocket--but no dimes. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a dollar, then had to wait in line for the cashier. Just as they got through the turnstile, the subway's doors shut with a grim thud and it nosed down into the dark underground passage. They got the next one all right, but it was so filled that Vag couldn't get her a seat till after Charles Street. Then, when the eight minutes were up and the car jolted to a stop at Park, he was so confused that he took her straight upstairs to Tremont Street instead of going on another subway to Boylston.

Once in Boston, the biggest problem was still to be faced. Vag's roommate had given him the name of an Armenian restaurant which had "lots of atmosphere," They took a full twenty minutes to find the place, and when they finally did it turned out to have so much "atmosphere" that Vag was sure she would think it a joint. The menu was filled with foreign names that seemed as long and complicated to cook as they were to spell. It was so late when they finished eating that, if he hoped to get back to Briggs by the ten o'clock deadline, movies were out of the question. So they walked slowly up Washington Street, eye-feasting in several open jewelry stores and auctions, pricing cocktail shakers, pewter beer mugs and Egyptian rings. Then, at nine-forty, they took the subway back to Cambridge.

Everything had gone wrong. Vag wished she had been a cousin, or a blind date, or at least not so beautiful and delightful about it all. He even got her back to Briggs three minutes late, which might have been worth it if they had done anything tremendously spectacular.

"Next time I'll really give you a royal evening," Vag stuttered. "And I'm sorry that . . ."

"Oh, stop fishing for compliments, you crazy dope." Saying this, she laughed, mussed up his hair, ran up the steps, and disappeared behind the forbidden doors of Briggs Hall.

Vag shoved his hands into his pockets and walked slowly back toward Harvard Square. What a beautifully clear night, he thought. What lovely trees in the Cambridge Common.