The Vagabond

It was cool for June, Vag thought, as he came out of the Harvard Square kiosk and put down his B-4 bag. He lighted a cigarette, picked up his bag and cautiously waited for an opening in the maze of automobiles.

"...Be nice if it stays way all summer," a cabbie was saying to his buddie, who nodded in agreement. They both knew it wouldn't and so did Vag. He knew it would be hot, damned hot, and he thought of those stifling summer afternoons when the streets would be deserted and quite and the asphalt would be wet with the curved lines of tire treads.

Going to Summer School seemed ridiculous to Vag, something strictly for pudgy, bespectacled graduate students and spinsterish schoolteachers. He though of the season at the beach, lying in the sun all day, long drives on cool summer evenings. And here he was, going back to school. Back to stifling college rooms and trying to listen to long lectures, while outside, green leaves would sway beckoningly. And here was Vag, carrying his bulging bag down Dunster Street, a cigarette danging from his lips, and beginning to perspire...

Time was lost. Three years they were, and this was the struggle to recapture them. Summer School, Army credits, maybe a few other angles that would get him out of school at a respectable age. He thought he was behind them, his old roommates kid sister who was now getting her Master's and the gal from Newton who had a six-months old infant. And even the guy from the next entry, now an English A section man. He was way behind, he thought and he'd have to catch up. Vag knew it would mean work and for a moment he was almost discouraged.

Then he remembered the last semester. It had been successful, he felt. He had run through his finals with case-well, without too much trouble. And the future...It would be even better. The summer would be long, difficult perhaps... Vag noticed the ruptured ducks and the worn leather flight jacket. No, he wasn't alone.

Vag felt better. At Mount Auburn Street he stopped, and with a flourish flipped his cigarette into the gutter. He turned into Mike's Club, dropped his bag and climbed onto a stool. "Chocolate frappe, please..."