“Stop the bus!” I yelled.

It was the fall of 1980 and I was sitting on a bus in Peterborough with Bags and we were heading home after a night of drinking and oral recitation.  I had not seen nor had I had any news of Pippa for over a year.  More than eighteen months had passed since that kiss in my bedroom and plenty had happened since then.  The least of which was a new start for me in a new city and the fact that Pippa and I were no longer together…again.

Pippa’s story is complicated.  That was the fallback word I used to describe our relationship.  Words like complicated or complex or confounding sprung to mind but those were just using one letter of the alphabet.  I could pick a random letter and fill a page with adjectives of a similar nature.  Complicated is as good as any.

Pippa’s story is and was complicated.  It cannot follow a linear path and trying to communicate it requires some liberties in the order of the telling.  The kiss and the aftermath relied both on information I experienced firsthand at the time and some I learned later on.  I could relate it in sequential stages but it wouldn’t make much sense.  The short of it was that for a time after that kiss Pippa and I were a couple again and more than eighteen months later we were not.  Her story included a long gap where she was absent from my story and I knew nothing.

I spent the fall of 1979 and most of 1980 not knowing Pippa’s fate.  I knew where she was, or where she had said she was going, but the details of her life during that year remained a mystery to me.  Ben and Sandra refused to tell me anything at Pippa’s insistence.  I gradually distanced myself from them because they were of no assistance as well as being a painful reminder of yet another break from Pippa.

I didn’t know where I had gone wrong but I found myself alone again and reflecting on my love for Pippa and why it wasn’t uncomplicated; for lack of a better word and keeping with the theme.  We had been in and out of each other’s lives so many times we had become like tides that came and went and left nothing but flotsam and debris to be sorted in order to understand the puzzle. 

My last year of high school was torment.  I had secrets I couldn’t discuss and there were secrets Ben and Sandra could not share with me.  I was depressed and anxious all at the same time and when you’re a teenager in love, those feelings are magnified exponentially.  It was a wonder I could function at all.

I had spent the summer of 1979 working midnights at the Texaco.  Rod had offered to get me my old evening shift back but I preferred the later shifts after Pippa left because I couldn’t sleep nights.  I found the only thing that kept me from lying awake was the routine of getting to bed at eight o’clock those mornings after I worked.  I did a four nights on three nights off rotation with Ben working the other nights.  That was easier on my friendship with him as well because he wasn’t sharing some vital information with me so I was putting some distance between us.  

Running was the only thing I kept for myself but even that began to suffer because the irregular shifts weren’t conducive to that pastime.  Nothing happened of any significance over that Summer.  Pippa was gone and I was miserable.

Returning to school in the fall, I was lost.  Broken is a good word too.  I couldn’t believe I had let it happen to me again.  Pippa and I had reconnected and then she left me.  The first time had been my own stupidity but the second time, as far as I knew, wasn’t due to anything for which I could accept responsibility.  It had become a pattern.  By summer we were parted, like the previous year, and I was trying to pick up the pieces and move on.  I was tired of trying to move on.  If anything, besides getting tired of it, I was also getting good at it.  

After our first parting of the ways, I had to recover from anger and jealousy and plow a way forward.  I had found a way and I started to be happy.  Then came that kiss and the reuniting only to have everything come apart again.  That was tougher to move on from.  She had ended it for a rationale I didn’t understand at the time.  Not understanding made it worse because I was looking to place blame or a way to assess what was broken and find a way to fix it.  I found neither.

Grade thirteen was compulsory if you wanted to go to University.  That started to be my focus when I wasn’t pining over Pippa and wondering why everything had ended between us.  I wanted to write and I wanted to be a teacher.  Both of those required a post-secondary education.  Three years of University and possibly a year at Teacher’s College lay ahead of me.  I had to get back to that plan.  I should have stuck with that plan and not had a diversion with Pippa.  The plan was all I had left.

I spent the last year of high school focusing on my education and future goals.  I enrolled in three English courses that year.  One was Canadian poetry and novels, one was British studies, and the last was futuristic literature.  I enjoyed all of them but the futuristic literature was very appealing to me.  I had often compared my life, especially those sections that involved Pippa, as a form of science-fiction because it was a tale that was so unbelievable, it defied logic.  

I threw myself into my lessons and tried to block out everything else.  I wasn’t always successful.  Sometimes one of my readings would remind me of Pippa and I’d wonder anew where she was and how her life was progressing without me.  It wasn’t vanity thinking she’d fall apart on her own but it made it slightly better to think she might not be having an easy go of it.

The three English courses were over two semesters with the British course starting in January.  I wasn’t all that thrilled by the classics of Shakespeare, Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens or even Chaucer.  They were fine in their way but some hadn’t aged well.  I felt the movie adaptations were great for works by authors like Dickens but otherwise I found them dry.  Of course, the unit on British poets was the most distressing.  Why did we have to study Robert Browning again?  

When we inevitably reached ‘Pippa Passes’ I felt my depression waxing full again.  I had studied that narrative the year before I met my own Pippa and the two stories could not have been further apart.  Browning’s Pippa gladdened everyone she passed.  My Pippa left sorrow in her wake.  When it came time to write an essay on the English poets, I conveniently avoided Browning and hoped my teacher wouldn’t notice.  She didn’t. 

The rest of the year was like that.  I was trying to move on but I felt at times I was only spinning my wheels.  Would there ever be another shining future for me?  The last one had only been a glimmering on the horizon that turned out to be a mirage.  When I finally had reached it, I lost Pippa along the way and then she returned and left me again.  It was a nightmarish déjà vu I could have done without.

The summer before University was the night shift again at the Texaco.  That July, Rod and Rhonda got married.  If Rod quitting school and then moving in with Rhonda had been distressing for my parents, it was more so with their marriage.  Neither had wanted big plans and my mother anguished over the civil ceremony at the Justice of the Peace.  Rod asked me to stand as his best man.  I was happy to do it but my heart ached.  Here was Rod getting on with his future like he said he would and he had found a partner to share in it.  Their marriage was a cold reminder that somehow I had failed twice in relationships and both times with the same girl.

They brought someone else in to replace Ben on the opposing shifts that summer.  His name was Mark and I never met him.  Ben had been tired of the late shifts and wanted a job with more hours.  He worked for a lawn maintenance firm and cut grass and pruned hedges.  I saw him around a few times that summer and he always looked healthy and very tanned.  We were friendly but not as close as previous years.

The quiet of working at night afforded me time to write.  I didn’t turn out anything of significance.  I had tried my hand at poetry, having been inspired by some of the Canadian and British poets I had studied.  Most of mine were full of love and loss and lament.  It was amateurish and I eventually ripped them all to shreds.  My poetic efforts are just a memory.  I steered clear from that particular literary outlet afterward.

My education plans had been finalized before I began work again at the Texaco.  I had been offered acceptance at three Ontario universities and had settled on Trent.  I liked the look of the school and the main campus with the river flowing through it was appealing.  They offered a number of interesting English courses as well and I thought adding Psychology classes would be of benefit if I did go to Teacher’s College.

The summer passed and I found myself packed and off to school in Peterborough.  Only my family knew what school I was attending.  I hadn’t shared the information with Ben.  When last we spoke on it I had mentioned the possibility of three different schools.  I hadn’t had any news of Pippa and I was determined she would have no news of me.  I wanted to be my own person and seize a future that didn’t include her.

I had convinced myself I would never see Pippa again.  I had yearned and ached and hoped and dreamed so much over the past year I got to the point where I couldn’t do it anymore.  Pippa was off living her life and I had come to realize that the message was clear she wanted no more part of me in it.  That was tough to accept.  I had imagined her coming back.  It had happened before.  Things we discussed and shared after that kiss in my bedroom were etched permanently in my memory.  They obviously hadn’t been enough for her on which to build a life together.  

Naturally, I didn’t know any of that.  She’d left me and I assumed she wasn’t coming back.  There wasn’t a phone call or a letter or anything.  No news travelled through the family to me and no one else I knew had knowledge of her.  In the absence of anything I eventually gave in to the notion I was on my own once more.  I’d been there before and I was determined not to let it consume me again.

I lived in residence my first year at Trent and it was an interesting experience to say nothing else.  I had my own room but the bathrooms were shared with others on my floor.  It was co-educational and that brought its own challenges.  I didn’t have a sister and having females living close to me and passing me every day stirred things in me I had forgotten.  I wasn’t ready for all that.  I had only loved one girl and never had any crushes.  Suddenly there were new eyes on me I hadn’t expected.  I was sure I had permanently moved on from Pippa but the sight of other females made me question whether I had really let her go.  Part of me didn’t want to know.

My neighbour to the right of me was a fellow by the name of Kevin Baggley.  He introduced himself the first day with beer in hand and told me to call him ‘Bags’.  I had assumed it was short for Baggley but I would soon learn it was also because he carried small bags on his person of candies or treats as well as illegal substances which I never questioned but never indulged in either.  It might have been my small city rearing but drugs didn’t interest me.  The beer was another thing.

The first few weeks of school were the standard getting acquainted notion.  There seemed to be parties in our building almost every weekend that first month.  There was a girl named Libby, from the floor above, who took an interest in me.  She was an English major as well and we shared a couple of classes together.  She’d gravitate toward me at parties and sit with me in lectures.  She was pretty but I had no feelings for her.  Oh, I wanted to but no one compared to Pippa and I had been burned twice.  Once bitten twice shy and all that.  What did it mean if it happened to you more than once?  All I knew was I was afraid to try the water again for fear of finding a drop-off.

Bags kept me company.  He always said what was on his mind and never shied from a difficult conversation.

“You’re a little skittish when it comes to women, aren’t you Jeff?” he asked me once when we were hanging out in his room.

“Bags, you don’t know the half of it.”  The truth was that I didn’t know the half of it.  I hadn’t known what hit me when things started up with Pippa both times and didn’t know anything when they ended.

“I’m from the suicide capital of Canada so nothing surprises me,” he replied.  Bags had mentioned that before.  He lived outside of Toronto and he’d heard that statistic once and trotted it out as needed.  

“I’m not suicidal but I’ll tell you, Bags, I’ve had cause to question a reason for living.”

“Tell daddy-Bags all about it brother.  The psychology’s cheap.  If you’ve got the beer, I’ve got the time.”  Bags was funny.  I’d never met anyone like him.  Ben had been the only other person I had shared intimate things about and still I had kept him in the dark on a lot of things about Pippa and I.

I found myself telling Bags everything.  I held back from nothing and he didn’t interrupt me and never asked a question until I was finished.

“Do you still love this girl, Pink?”

“Sorry Bags, nobody calls me that me anymore.  I’m just Jeff now.”

“Suit yourself Jeffy-boy, I saw an opportunity and I seized it.  By the way, you didn’t answer my question.”

I didn’t answer his question.  He had called me Pink and it had stung.  That was Pippa’s name for me and when I told him about how it started, I hadn’t expected him to take it up.  I had told him everything; everything I knew.  I had even told him what happened after that kiss in my room.  I had thought I would never discuss those events with anyone other than Pippa.

“It’s…,” I began before Bags interrupted me.

“Don’t say complicated.  Everyone uses that word when they want to avoid answering something truthfully.”

“Well, it is, Bags.”

“That’s Dr. Bags when we’re in session.”

I laughed hard.  It felt good to laugh.  I didn’t know why I had shared so much with Bags.  Maybe it was because he was the first person who asked.  It might also have been he was so far removed from my story I thought he could be objective.

“Ok Dr. Bags, let’s see how I answer that.  I do still love her.  I guess that’s as good a place as any to begin.  I’ve never stopped loving her.  We’re not together but I have a hard time letting go.  I keep thinking she’s going to come back.”

“Take a look around.  Do you see her, Jeff?”

“Of course not, but a guy can hope can’t he?

“There we go, buddy, you still want her back.”  Bags paused for a moment before continuing.  “The way I see it, you have to find a way of letting go.  You told me all about that moving on mumbo jumbo but I don’t see that happening while you’re still hanging on.”

Bags was right.  I was still hanging on.  I had told myself Pippa and I were through but something in me wouldn’t admit to it.  Everything had been left so open and raw and Pippa had walked away leaving everything unresolved.

“What do you suggest Dr. Bags?”  It felt both comical and comforting to address him that way.

“You told me about the story you wrote about the Ogre and how you later became your own character.  I think storytelling is the key.  You need to tell your story and let others hear it.  It’ll be like giving it away.  You might find it liberating.”

“I don’t know Bags, sorry, Dr. Bags, it’s a bit of an involved story.  I wouldn’t know how to begin to write it.”

“Oh no, you don’t write it, Jeff.  I said you have to tell your story.  You can’t give away something you’ve written down.  Writing’s too precise and it’s evidence of exactly what transpired.  Your story has to be told out loud and repeated by others until it changes in the telling and it just becomes a mockery of the real events.  That’s when you know you’ve let it go for good.”

At that moment I looked at Bags like he was some kind of genius or a madman.  Oral stories did get corrupted or distorted the more they passed among people.  The written form would prevent that from happening and it would cling to me like another layer of skin I couldn’t shed.  It would be a history I wouldn’t be able to shake.  Bags had hit on something.  Telling it out loud would be me giving it away to be reshaped from person to person until it was unrecognizable.  After that, I wouldn’t care.

“Like I said, Dr. Bags, it’s a bit of an involved story even if it’s only told out loud.”

“I can help you with that.  First, you have to get rid of all those ‘Pink’ references.  You’re Jeff.  Then there’s all that Elvis reference.  Does your story really need all that?”

“Wait, the Elvis bits are important.  Have you ever had a girl sing Elvis to you?  Have you ever cried over an Elvis song when your heart was breaking?  That’s integral to my story.”

“Okay, okay, Elvis in but Pink out.  Don’t get me wrong about Elvis.  I’m a fan of the King.  What about Carlotta?  Do you have any thoughts on trimming that?”

“No way, Carlotta’s central to the theme.  That’s what haunts Pippa.  It’s part of her persona and her raison d’etre.”  I was running with Bags’ suggestion.  I was using literary words and devices in a story I wasn’t even going to write down.

“Alright, we’ve established the girl’s got layers.”

“Exactly!” I enthused.  “That’s how I’ve always described her.”

“Oh, and one other thing,” Bags continued.  “Lose that chapter where she comes back to you after her brother’s death.”

“What!?  Are you crazy?  All of the events after that are how I got to this point!”  I was raging a little bit.  I didn’t want to dismiss everything after Roger’s funeral.  Pippa’s return to me was the core of the conflict that developed up to her leaving again.

“Trim it then.  Only tell the parts you know.  Don’t speculate.  You’re the victim here.  Oh and keep all that Ogre stuff.  It shows you’re human.”

Trimming and editing my own story.  Would it be that easy?  Bags’ therapy method was unique but cutting away at his suggestion was like excising parts of Pippa from my life.  Still, I began to realize this was my story and not hers.  She had wanted me to write her story and Bags was recommending I tell my own.  

I began to take ownership of my narrative.  School wasn’t so intense I couldn’t find time to work on it.  It wasn’t an easy task because I had to close the door to everyone while I recited and repeated and worked on the final version.  Bags was my only audience for some of those rehearsals and he was good at advising me how to shorten some portions and how to strengthen others.  I balked at some of his revisions and fought hard for those I felt were important.  I knew I couldn’t let go of some of those tough memories if I omitted them from the end product.

“Give it to me again,” Bags said to me after I recited my completed handiwork.  It hadn’t been easy to remember everything and I chose not to memorize the story but to focus on what I considered important and a way to repeat it all without veering off into unintended melancholia.

“Haven’t I told you enough times?  You have to be tired of it by now.”  I had lived it and I was getting tired of it.

“Once more with feeling,” Bags responded.

I took up my pillow and took a swing at him.  Bags ducked my attempt and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of jelly beans.

“Where do you get all these things?” I asked as he offered me the bag.

“My sister works in a bulk-food store and hooks me up.”

“Does she give you all the bags too?”  All the items he produced from his pockets came in clear little baggies.

“She snitched me a roll.  They go through so many of them that nobody noticed one missing.”

“I hope most of the contents were obtained on the up and up?” I observed.

“Things from the bulk store, yes.  Don’t ask about anything else.”

I didn’t.  I spun my tale again for him; trying to recall close to how I had told it the first time.

“Just as I thought,” Bags said after I had finished.  “Drop the first-person narrative.  Third person will get across the story just as well.  Besides, it’s another way of distancing yourself from it.”

“Okay,” I replied.  “But I’m putting the ‘Pink’ references back in.  I’ve got to let go of him, too.”

“I’ll agree with that if you make one other change.”

I readied myself for it.  Bags had been correct about most of his propositions but I was prepared to argue any other major revisions.

“You need a title.  I like that whole Browning detail but I suggest ‘Pippa’s Passing’.”

“Why ‘Pippa’s Passing’? I had to ask.

“Two reasons.  One, you mention Pippa’s passing in your motivation while competing in track.  Two, and more importantly, ‘Pippa’s Passing’ has a finality tone to it.

“But she’s not dead.  She’s just not here.”

“Yes, but it’s like finally letting someone go after they’ve passed.  You grieve, you lament, you get angry, you bargain, and then you accept it.  It’s Psychology 101.  Listen to Doctor Bags.”

I worked on it again.  I cut the minutiae of some things and changed the narrative.  It was stronger.  I had already begun to distance myself from the fact it had all been real.  I had recited it so many times to myself I had begun to view it all as just a story and not real events.  I was prepared to unveil it to the world and let it go.

“Now what?” I asked Bags a few days later after I was satisfied I couldn’t perfect it further.

“You launch it.  Nothing small.  You have to send it out in a big way.”

Bags had obviously given this his full consideration.

“Coast to coast hook up?” I joked.

“Not so big but still big enough.”

We were in Bags’ room for a change and he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a flyer.  

“Give this an eyeball,” he said, handing me the paper.

It was an advertisement for a weekly open mic literary night at a downtown pub.  I recognized the name of the location but I’d never been.

“Open mic, have you ever been?” I asked.

“Once,” Bags replied.  “The joint’s dark inside but the beer’s cold.  The night I went was mostly poetry.  Existential crap mostly, ‘we made love and I looked up at the moon for answers but it was the same from all sides’.  Questioning the meaning of life and all that rot.  Nothing was as good as what you’ve got to tell.”

Existential poetry?  That reminded me of the poems I had written at the Texaco.  There had been no therapy in those pieces and luckily no evidence remained to remind me how badly those writings had been.  
“This says open mic is every Saturday.  That’s in two days.  I can’t be ready by then.”  I started to panic thinking about actually performing spoken word in front of a live audience.

“You’re ready now,” Bags countered.  “You can’t have second thoughts now.  This is what you’ve worked towards.  It’s time to let it go.”

Bags was right again.  He’d been right all along.  It had been his suggestion to shape my story like a performance piece.  What had I expected?  Had I put in the effort only to hold onto it like another sad reminder of everything I had experienced since meeting Pippa?

“What about next week or better yet, next month?”  I was stalling for time.  What had I gotten myself into?  Could I really follow through?

“I’ve already signed you up,” Bags said matter-of-factly.  He grabbed the paper from my hand and held it to my face and pointed at the bottom where it said ‘Preregistration Is Required.’

“Wait a minute Bags, you had no right.  What made you even think I’d be prepared for this coming Saturday?”

 “I told you, you’re ready.  You’ve been ready for a week now.  You’ve just been putting a shine on the piece.  It’s polished enough.”

I hated to confess to myself he had been correct almost every step of the way but committing to a date and venue frightened me.  This would start the process of saying goodbye to Pippa permanently.  I’d be accepting she was gone and we’d never reunite.  Was I ready for that ending?

“Okay, Bags, okay,” I said taking deep breaths between words.  “I wish Elvis had a song for this.”  The last statement had been meant as a joke.  I had told Bags all about the Elvis connection with Pippa and her saying Elvis had a song for every purpose.

“Definitely don’t listen to ‘It’s Still Here’ then.

I looked at Bags with incredulity.  He knew Elvis songs too?  I hadn’t been an Elvis enthusiast until Pippa but I wasn’t rampant about it.
“I didn’t take you as an Elvis fan, Bags.”  

Looking at him, I wasn’t sure what he was into.  He was about my height but heavier set.  He had a full beard and he wore glasses.  Nothing said Elvis about him.

“One guitar player to another.  I grew up on The King.  I told you I was a fan of his.”

This was too much.  Two close people in my life and they both had been big Elvis fans?

“Wait, you play guitar, too?  Where is it?”

“I left it at home,” Bags replied.  “I didn’t want to be that guy who gets asked to play something at every party because someone knows I have a guitar.”

“Makes sense.  Tell me about ‘It’s Still Here’.  

“It’s off his ‘Fool’ album from ’73.  The album is actually just called ‘Elvis’ but everyone calls it the ‘Fool’ album because that’s the first track which appears just below Elvis' name on the front cover.”

“Thanks for the Elvis lesson Bags but what’s ‘It’s Still Here?”

“Oh, that’s heavy stuff.  I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Give, Bags.  What’s with that song in particular?”  He had me intrigued and I wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

“Okay, Jeff, you asked for it.  The lyrics are about a guy who has lost his girl.  He sings “you've been gone away one year, and I have not forgotten dear, the love I had for you so long, is still here.”

Talk about a one-two punch.  I find out that Bags is also into Elvis and then he lays on me lyrics from a song that mirrored everything I had been feeling.  

“Yep, I asked for it.  If I wasn’t ready before hearing those lines then I am now. Just one thing, if I go through with this on Saturday then you have to bring your guitar back the next time you come home.  We’re going to find you an open mic night and you’re going to sing that song.”

“Deal,” Bags said.  “I’ll even dedicate it to you.”

“I’d like to see the audience reaction to that dedication.”

By Saturday, I was as prepared as I ever would be.  After hearing the lyrics of ‘It’s Still Here’ I knew I had to get on with my commitment.  It was time for my story to have legs and leave me the way Pippa had.

Bags and I had to take a bus all the way downtown.  It was about a thirty-minute ride and my insides were twisting.  Bags bought the first beer.  My nerves settled a little.  Bags was right again on two counts.  The beer was cold and the place was dark.  

The event didn’t get going until around eight and by then the bar was full.  It was popular among the university and college group but there were older people there as well.  The chatter from the patrons was so loud, I wasn’t sure I’d be heard when my turn came.

Bags and I had rehearsed my introduction.  I knew enough not to start with ‘once upon a time’ but beyond that, I hadn’t thought of anything clever.  Bags had told me to definitely avoid asking everyone in the bar if they wanted to hear a true story.  He said he’d shout ‘no’ himself if I tried that.

Eventually, they called my name.  Up until then, it had been the bad poetry Bags had told me about.  Well, some was good but given the audience reaction, it wasn’t obviously good enough.  Some of the heavy drinkers had gotten a little rowdy early on but management had quieted them down.

There was a little stage set up near the front and I took my beer.  I thought I would need it.  There was no turning back.  Bags’ only advice had been “just get on with it.”

So, I got on with it.  I went right into the story.  “Jeff had loved her from the first time he saw her now it was time for him to let that love go.”  It felt right.  The rest followed easily.

The audience was silent.  I kept on going.  It was cathartic.  I gave away the first meeting, Carlotta, the slap, the Harrier, Viva Las Vegas in the infield, kisses at the Texaco.  Away went Steve Wilson, the first separation, Bastien, the Ogre, Roger’s death, reconciliation, and then the final goodbye.  Everything left me and I made the listeners believe and hang on to my every word.  Finally, I debuted my ending; one I had even held back from Bags.  

“Just when he began to see how things could be, she reached out across the table in a coffee shop, held his hand, and quietly said goodbye.”  That wasn’t how it ended but it was the dramatic finish I thought the story needed.

You could have heard a pin drop.  I could hear someone sobbing somewhere in the room.  Then, and probably led by Bags, the applause was thunderous.

“Man, you nailed it,” Bags said later as we were on the bus back to our residence.  It was after eleven and it was the last run of the night.  

I was feeling pretty good.  I had imbibed a little too much but that was the compliment to my performance.  People kept offering to buy me beer.  I shared liberally with Bags.  He wasn’t feeling any pain either.

“Show me the slips, pal,” Bags added.

“What slips?” I asked in my stupor.

“Don’t be coy with me brother,” he replied.  “You got numbers.”

Bags knew.  There had been no hiding it from him.  I’d been approached by a number of different women and a handful had wanted to give their numbers to this sensitive orator.

“Five, maybe six, tops.  I think I got one from someone’s mother; maybe her daughter, too.  It’s hard to remember.”  I produced the pieces of paper and let Bags peruse them.

“Are you going to call any of them?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.  I’m not into being a bar pickup.”

“You’re selling yourself short, Jeff.”  He passed the papers back to me.  “That’s the world in your hands kid.”  Bags was not just a psychologist in the making, he was quite the philosopher.

“I’ve just given it all away Bags, let me see what the sober light of day brings.”  I was philosophizing a bit myself.

“Oh yeah, you’re into girls who like Elvis and know about running and shit.  How about her?”  Bags leaned over me and pointed out the window.

It was dark and we were riding through a residential area before the driver would turn up a northern route and straight back to the main campus.  Vaguely I could see someone in the dark out for a late jog.  My eyes had been almost lulled into closing by the motion of the bus but I managed a good glimpse of the woman as she passed beneath a street light.

“Stop the bus!” I yelled.  I pushed past Bags and screamed again at the driver.  “Stop the bus!”

Bags was on his feet before the driver edged over to the side of the road cursing all drunken students.

“What’s going on Jeff?” Bags managed as he followed me out to the street.

“No time to talk Bags, Pippa’s passing or we passed her.”  Direction and grammar were the last things on my mind.