“I want to see you pull yourself out of that bag!”  When my friend said this, I wanted to punch him as hard as I could in his upper right arm.  We had started the evening, close to dinner, and we had got off transit and were now walking towards Hart House.  It was an exciting evening for me, and I was imagining what it was going to be, being impressed by what it all was.

I had been carrying a big bag…  Big enough for my friends to continually call it “Elissa‘s Suitcase,” …for close to a year at that time.  I was also always digging in it to find all the little things that get lost in big bags–keys, lipstick, hand creme, mirrors, day timers, and the odd Novel that I happened to be studying.  There were also essentials that came and went, like umbrellas, extra totes, phone, transit tokens, and concert tickets.

On this particular night, we were going to “hang out” at the Hart House Graduate’s Lounge. A Jazz Band affiliated with the University’s Music Program were performing.  Friends of friends, and our friends, heard of the concert and we were all invited to go and sample the quality of the music.  Anything that is good and new, and that would make a student look smarter or richer always got my attention.  And, often, my financial support as well. So, with this mood and atmosphere, we were walking through the late spring evening chill, the night sky reaching into twilight.

When we get to the stone steps leading into the Victorian era stone building, kept warm by radiators and fireplaces, when the windows that swing open are shut, and we get into the line-up that has formed from the inside and is beginning to spill onto the stone steps.  Everyone in the line-up are our age….  Young adults….  Who have a certain type of sophistication.  That, that says, French beret on head of long hair, in leather and pants, and dark glasses (only glasses, if we don’t own those shades), even if, in North America, it is closer to being in a long shirt over leggings with hobo bag matching that cute leather jacket.  So, we fit in.  And we were excited.

The tickets to the concert were considered cheap….  Any concert any student could get into could cost over a hundred dollars…  buying not only an evening with the band, but an evening with proper acoustics, access to alcohol, and the chance to be milling with large groups of people who think like you.  So, we were thinking that having everything we could want, and paying less than fifty dollars for it was a true, “Score!”  We loved it, even before it had started!

We were excited!  We were not in line for very long.  We stood and move by inches for about five or ten minutes.  And, having our tickets checked by the ushers, we followed the sound and scent of people towards the lounge.  Once inside, there were bar stools, regular tables, and room for standers.  The lounge felt different than a regular bar because we were surrounded by wood, a heightened ceiling, and stone at intervals as well as at the fireplace. There were painted portraits of past deans and presidents.  And, I would’ve swore, the scent, alternating, of weed and vanilla cigarillos!

We preferred to sit on the bar stools, at tall, round bar tables.  It was difficult to spot, but the bar was against the wall  where we came in through the door.  My friend suggested he get us both each a beer, and I agreed.  I started rummaging in my big bag, and my friend, yet again, said in his sarcastic, derogatory tone…  “I want to see you get yourself out of that bag!”

“Oh…  You be quiet…!  And go and do your job!  It’s one beer for you and one beer for me!”  as I told him loudly, my bag fell, upside down, spilling everything of mine inside the bag on the sticky wooden slat floor.  It was my world with its secrets revealed  My things of importance, my things of worth, and all of it was getting dirty and getting dirty stares in a public drinking house.

I felt as if some random stranger had reached up my skirt and felt me up.  I felt dirty, and the situation disgusted me.  But my friend was nice.  He immediately came to his knees and began to help me pick up everything and put it back inside the bag.  As he stood up with the filled bag in hand, he said to me, “You have the best bag!  Love it!”

I wanted to say something derogatory to him…  But I didn’t.  He should know how to treat a girl who is his friend.  Betrayal is not a way to treat someone.

The rest of the evening was not bad at all.  We stayed the night and my friend was nice.  We still liked each other, and that was important….  I did not regret anything that happened.  The warmth and safety of where we were and who we were is what has kept this memory for me.  I think we will forever always be friends!  Whether or not I still have my big bag!