The Video Watcher Read Online Free PDF Page B

him.
    â€œWhere? What does he look like?”
    The description Damien gave, fortunately, wasn’t too accurate; he described the guy as having dreadlocks. He gestured with his head to where we’d been sitting, and the man, leaning forward and pointing, said, “There?”
    Damien nodded.
    â€œOkay, thanks.” He patted Damien on the shoulder. “Can I get you another drink?”
    â€œWe’re fine,” I said.
    â€œYou sure?’
    I assured him we were.
    â€œI’m really sorry this happened. Come again, guys. Next time I’ll make sure you get free drinks.”
    We thanked him and left.
    I’d parked the car on Robson. As we started back, Damien and I were silent. The streets looked how they always looked after you left a club, cold and deserted. It must have rained when we were in the bar because everything had a fresh shine to it.
    When we turned onto Seymour Street, Damien said “Sorry dude, sorry dude,” making his voice sound like a stoner’s. “Sorry dude, Sorry dude— Fuck ! ”
    â€œIs that what he said?”
    â€œFucking hippie.”
    â€œHe didn’t have a knife, did he?”
    As if in explanation Damien said, “Look what he did to my jacket.” He held up the coat, the Manchester United windbreaker his dad bought for him in England.
    â€œA brand new fucking jacket, and some Rastafarian dumps beer on it.”
    Â 
    We were almost at the car when Damien said, “Just one more beer.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œJust one.”
    We checked one place—that bar wanted five dollars to enter. The next club was the same. When we finally found a bar without a cover charge, it was a café on Burrard Street. There was a group of young men in the fenced section under the canopy, but inside the café it was deserted. The woman behind the counter was olive-skinned, and was so short only her elfish face showed above the glass. Damien ordered the pitcher special and I asked for steamed milk. When I placed my order, the young woman made a cute expression. I tried to think of something witty to say to her as she prepared the orders.
    â€œI should have wasted that fucker,” Damien said.
    â€œYeah, you should have,” I said, watching the woman froth the milk with steam.
    â€œBut I didn’t, did I?”
    â€œNo, you didn’t,” I said.
    When we were seated, Damien asked, “Why did I even order this?” and pointed at the pitcher.
    â€œBecause you’re an alcoholic,” I said. I began to laugh, but stopped, noticing the expression on his face.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “We’ll go soon. I probably won’t even finish this.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    He showed me his jacket again and said, “I should have wasted that fucker.”
    â€œUh huh.” My eyes followed the server as she wiped the counter with a cloth and washed the cloth and wrung it out.
    â€œBut I’m so controlled. I mean, isn’t that the most controlled thing you can do, a guy spills beer all over your jacket and you’re like cool about it? One of the guys standing there said, ‘Man, I would’ve wasted the guy,’ but I didn’t, right? I just stayed cool. Now that’s controlled, isn’t it? Right, Trace? Right?”
    â€œUh huh.”
    The server was now on the lap of one of the guys under the canopy outside. He’d passed her a hand-rolled cigarette—or maybe a joint—and I wondered if she knew them, or if they’d just invited her to join their group.
    â€œThat’s controlled, isn’t it?”
    â€œThat’s controlled,” I said, wishing that I knew the answer.
    â€œAnyway, I’m almost finished,” Damien said, dumping the last of the beer into the schooner.
    The bubbles on the top of the foam in the pitcher started to pop.
    By the time we got back to his place, he’d want more. That, and to listen to the cassette