Read Online Day Into Night by Dave Hugelschaffer - Free Book Online

used to unless I’m in the shower. I can’t think of much to say, but what I do seems immensely funny.
    “What do you do?” she says.
    “I’m a forest ranger. Me and my buddy, Carl, here. Twig pigs.”
    “Really?” She looks intrigued. “That sounds like a fascinating job. Do you sit in lookout towers and watch for fires?”
    It’s the same idiotic question I’ve heard a thousand times. Everyone thinks a forest ranger spends his day with a pair of binoculars vigilantly scanning the forest. Or wrestling grizzlies and saving imperilled deer. But it’s been a few years and tonight I don’t mind. I’m ready to impress. “Yeah, that and there’s the tree counting.”
    “Tree counting?” she says, a look of mild perplexity on her lovely face.
    “Yes.” I pour another glass of draft for Carl and myself, allow the suspense to build. “We have to take care of the trees right? So, we gotta know how many we’ve got in inventory.”
    She nods, following right along.
    “So we count them.” I point to the other patrons. “One, two, three ...”
    “You don’t count each individual tree, do you?”
    “No.” I try to look serious. “We used to, but now we stick bar codes on them, just scan them as we walk past. Makes it easier to tell which ones are missing.”
    She smiles — she’s onto me. “You don’t do that.”
    “Well ... not really. We do something called timber cruising. Use statistics.”
    Based on reality, the conversation flounders. I sip my beer, try to look jovial. But I’m remembering the last time I tried to show someone what I really did at work — when I really did the work. It’s not doing wonders for my mood and I attempt to compensate by drinking faster. Fredricks has been watching the strange and desirable lady seated beside me and drifts over, sticks a chubby hand across the table at her, introduces himself.
    “Casey,” he says in his most debonair fashion. “Just call me Case.”
    “Christina Telson,” she replies, batting her eyelashes at him.
    I’m jealous. I didn’t properly introduce myself or ask her name and I frown at Fredricks, who’s purposefully oblivious. Under the table, I slide my hand onto her thigh but she gently sets it aside and for the next few minutes I sit still, feeling guilty and rejected. The tiny table is so loaded with drinks the wood is no longer visible and I retaliate by drinking a whisky I think belongs to Fredricks.
    Someone leans over the table and shoves me. “Hey! I’m talking to you, shit head.”
    It’s a Neanderthal — short, squat and unshaven. His face is sunburned and dirty. His hair, the colour of oily steel wool, appears to be attempting mutiny and his eyes are filled with a hostile anticipation. I’ve forgotten the cardinal rule of bar survival — never point — and despite the numbing effects of too much alcohol and too little sleep, I get a nervous clench in my gut. I’m too far gone to defend myself.
    “What?” I say innocently. The faces around the table are pensive, waiting.
    “You heard me, shit head. You’re too goddamn stupid to sit with a woman like that.”
    I want to point out the hypocrisy of his statement but the Neanderthal is suddenly jerked out of my personal space. I get one quick back glance of Brotsky’s face as he tows the intruder to dry dock. “What the hell was that about?” asks Fredricks. I shrug and we watch from across the crowded bar. Brotsky and the stranger stand in a corner by the washroom door. The stranger keeps pointing toward our table, his gestures emphatic. Brotsky meets my gaze and frowns, pulls the Neanderthal into the washroom. I’m half tempted to follow them in, sort this out, but a primitive part of my brain dedicated to self-preservation prevails. Instead, I turn to the woman beside me, determined to redeem myself for neglecting proper introductions. I offer a hand.
    “Porter Cassel.”
    Her hand is warm. “Christina. Nice to meet you.”
    It all seems so formal. I think