The Video Watcher Read Online Free PDF

was talking about, then saw an East Indian girl in a purple tube top and realized that that was his idea of a Latin woman.
    Damien shouted something.
    â€œSay that again.”
    â€œâ€”hope he gets bit by a fucking scorpion.”
    â€œWhy?” I asked, laughing. “Do you hate him?”
    Damien didn’t answer. He downed the remaining beer and told me to guard his stuff while he used the washroom.
    I sipped my drink and watched the dance floor. It was crowded with dancers, but all of them danced in loose groups or alone—none of them danced in pairs. I thought about why I had mentioned Cam’s arrival and realized that I guess I had hoped they would repair their friendship now that they were out of high school. Why this was important to me, I didn’t know.
    Two middle-aged women circled toward the counter. They’d beckoned me and Damien to join them earlier, and I waited to see if they would repeat the invitation. The one with the rhinestone top was staring in my direction, but she didn’t seem to see me.
    A few feet from her, there was another person I’d noticed before. He was about my age, but he had this immense afro that made him look like someone from the ’70s. All night he’d been attempting to dance with someone. He would keep going up, and keep trying to join the circles of dancers. But each time the circle closed without him.
    He had now moved close to a woman in a white halter top and the woman, without losing sync with the beat, turned her shoulder to him, then her back.
    â€œWhat I Like About You,” was just fading out when Damien returned. He was carrying a pitcher of beer. He started to pour some into my glass.
    â€œI can’t. I got to drive.”
    Damien shrugged, and filled his own glass. He pulled out the bar stool and sat on it.
    â€œSo why do you hate Cam?” I shouted.
    The guy with the afro was directly in front of us. He tried casually to attach himself to another circle of women as the circle closed without him.
    â€œWhat?” Damien yelled, craning his head toward me.
    But I didn’t get a chance to repeat the question. The afro kid had his hands on the brass rail in front of us, then his foot.
    â€œHey! Hey ! ” Damien yelled, holding his hands out to stop the guy. But the guy catapulted himself over the counter, catching the pitcher with his knee.
    Beer was everywhere.
    I had pushed back in time to avoid it running on my legs, but Damien’s jacket was soaked. “Fuck,” I thought I heard Damien say as he stood up. He was facing the afro boy, his back to me. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the afro kid looked down, his arms hanging loose at his sides.
    A group of four men stood behind the afro kid, watching. Though the music was too loud to hear anything, I was certain that someone was chanting, “Fight, fight, fight.”
    Damien held his jacket up, shaking it. He pointed at it and the kid said something, nodding.
    After what seemed like a long time, Damien turned to me. “Let’s fucking go.”
    Â 
    The cold night air was a relief. A line up of people stood waiting to enter. The doorman, glancing at us as we came out the door, I guess noticed the expression on Damien’s face. “Is everything alright, gentlemen?”
    Damien stopped. “Look what this fuckin’ asshole did to my jacket.”
    The man leaned closer, and the specks of dandruff became visible on his black dress shirt.
    As Damien started to explain, the people in the line-up watched. The dirty blond with the red poodle skirt had bare legs that ended in Dorothy-from- The-Wizard-of-Oz ankle socks and I was staring at those legs when Damien said, “And he threatened me with a fuckin’ knife?”
    The doorman’s eyes looked like they were going to fall out. “A knife?” he asked, incredulous.
    â€œYeah, a knife,” Damien said, his tone so earnest that even I believed