The Vagabond

Vag skinned his finger on the typewriter shift key as the loud knock shattered the methodical clicking in his room.

"Come in," said Vag.

Nothing happened. "Entrez," cried Vag, thinking it was probably a friend.

The door opened and a face crowned by what appeared to be a mail man's cap appeared and surveyed the room. Seeing the room empty the mail man entered. "You Jones, or Vag?" the face under the cap demanded.

"Oh-oh" thought Vag to himself "this man knows my name." "Yes," er--that is to say, I'm Vag."

"You got a dollar, Vag?" "Well, er, what for?" Vag thought of that dollar he had been saving to use for a movie if he could ever get this paper done.

The face under the cap softened ever so slightly and said, "The Letter Carrier's Benevolent Association. It's for mail men who don't work. We get money from you guys every year. One dollar."

Vag thought of the wonderful combined charities drive that came around once every year where he was told there would be no more soliciting. "I've got my rights," thought Vag. "To Hell with this guy."

"One dollar," said the face under the cap.

"On the other hand," thought Vag, "this guy knows my name." Vag imagined the draft-notice that might accidentally be misplaced. Vag a deserter. Vag a coward. Prison.

"One dollar," said the face under the cap, still with a slight smile.

"If only Jones were here like he was when that cop came around. He'd known what to do," thought Vag as he reached into his pocket.