Watcher Read Online Free Page B

that disintegrated into a scary-looking cloud when I prodded it with the heel of one shoe.
    I took the shoes to the bathroom and wiped them off with one of the rags Mom kept under the sink there. They seemed to have survived their time in exile without suffering any permanent damage. If they fit him, they’d sure be a help to the old guy.
    That was when it hit me that my original intention when I’d started hunting for them was to throw them out. Only, I couldn’t remember why.

chapter four
    T he second time I saw The Watcher was the day I took the shoes to the bum. He was sitting there in “his” spot like an unsightly fixture, mumbling and fluttering his hands. It looked like he was trying to wave his arms around, but just didn’t have the energy for it.
    I don’t know if there was any sense to what he was saying, but it’s not likely. If you’ve been around many street people you know what I mean. They tend to talk continuously and it doesn’t take long until you get to the point that you don’t bother trying to follow what they’re saying. Or trying to say.
    Fact is, a lot of their talk is angry — kind of outraged and protesting. Most of them seem to be complaining about something. Only, no one is listening.
    They don’t bother me, except for the arm grabbers. That’s one thing I just won’t put up with, someone grappling on to me. Last time a bag lady came up to me and took hold of my arm with her gnarled and dirty hand, I almost shoved her. It would have taken her off her feet and I wouldn’t have wanted that, but sometimes you react to things automatically.
    As it was, I just stopped myself in time. I yanked away from her and walked off while she screeched that her niece had taken everything.
    Maybe her niece had taken everything. Maybe she’d robbed her blind and turned her out into the street. Or, maybe she borrowed a punch bowl once and never brought it back. Or, maybe the old woman didn’t even have a niece. That’s the problem with stories from people on the street. You don’t know if they’re based on reality or if they’re tortured inventions creeping out of minds that have been twisted by some mental condition or too many binges.
    The guy I took the shoes to that day was mumbling again, but this time it wasn’t about the war. I didn’t wait long to see whether or not he was connected to the real world at the moment. I just leaned down and told him I’d brought him shoes.
    He kind of focused for a minute, looking at me like he was trying to puzzle out who I was and why I was talking to him. I held the shoes up where he could see them, said, “These are for you,” and put them in his lap.
    He stared down at them uncomprehendingly at first and then, slowly, his face took on a look of understanding. His feeble hands trembled as they slid off his old shoes and pulled the new ones on. Suddenly, he began to smile and for a second he didn’t look quite so pathetic.
    I found myself smiling, too, which made me feel foolish, so I walked away, down to the corner store for a bottle of Pepsi. Then I headed back home. That was when I saw The Watcher for the second time.
    He was looking out the window of Suleiman’s, a restaurant on the corner where I turn onto my street. I thought at first that he was at a table, having a bite to eat or a cup of coffee or whatever. Only he wasn’t. He was just leaning down, peering out between the images of falafel and stuffed vine leaves that are painted on the window. He looked away quickly when he realized I’d spotted him.
    I still might have dismissed it if nothing else had happened that day. I could have convinced myself that he’d been in there to order take-out or maybe to meet someone who hadn’t shown up yet. Any number of things could have made him look out the window. And if he just happened to look in my direction, well, so what?
    Except that