The Vagabond

Vag bounded up to the Sanctum, leaving small puffs of dust behind him on the steps. The familiar smell of old books, old dust, and old beer rolled out as he opened the doors. Inside, paper cups and half empty bottles on a base of old newspapers covered the floor. The managing editor was asleep on a coach. "Nothing ever changes," thought Vag, and started his search.

He was still looking, burrowing among the complete set of Scott in the never used library, when the managing editor awoke. He was a pleasant young man whom Vag had met at the graduate dinner, and so Vag nodded and said, "Hello."

"What 're you looking for?" said the young man.

"A book," said Vag.

"Lose it?"

"No--I left it here a couple of years ago."

"How come you're looking for it now?"

"I'm leaving town next week. Interning in New York."

"Eight years, huh?"

"That's right," Vag said, "eight years."

The managing editor got off the couch and started fumbling for his tie. "How does it feel?" he said.

"How does what feel?" Vag said.

"Leaving here. Eight years and all that."

"Know what?" Vag said. "It'll be a pleasure."

"After eight years? No regrets."