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hs70150.jpgbuy prints of select halfsquatch photographs at etsy or dawanda. (prints of all photographs are available upon request) day 70

Lisa Richman couldn’t face going home. Not yet. It was a quiet Tuesday night in downtown Whitehorse and she sat on a barstool at Paddy’s Pub drinking bottled beer and trying not to think about Bob or Julie or Rebecca or Yoshi — especially Yoshi and how she acted like she didn’t remember her, which was unbelievable and ridiculous and petty. Lisa was appalled. And she was blameless — whatever Bob said didn’t matter. It wasn’t her fault Rebecca checked out of the Art Motel before she had a chance to talk to her. It wasn’t her fault that Yoshi was an emotionless, lying cunt who wouldn’t say where Rebecca went. It wasn’t her fault, not her fault – none of it – not a chance, no way.

Lisa was more than halfway to drunk.

Ben, too, was more than halfway to drunk when he slid into the chair beside Lisa. She noticed his Cure T-shirt and nodded approvingly. “I saw them in ’eighty-five in Vancouver.”

“Seriously?”

Lisa nodded and downed the last third of her beer. “Seriously. October ’eighty-five. Pacific Coliseum.”

“That’s awesome.”

“It was.”

“I’m Ben.”

“Lisa.” She rang her empty bottle against his. “We’re going to need more drinks.”

Ben was from a town in Saskatchewan Lisa hadn’t heard of, but he lived in Saskatoon. He was twenty. He was studying to be a pharmacist but dropped out. He’d had the same girlfriend since high school, but she wanted to get married, so he broke up with her. Now he wanted to rent a canoe and paddle solo up the Yukon River to Dawson City. He wanted to be alone and at one with nature, he said, to meditate and contemplate. He wanted to camp and chop wood, grow a beard and kill moose, a caribou, or a fox – maybe a squirrel. He’d flown in two weeks ago. He was still clean-shaven and in Whitehorse. There was no canoe and no hunting. Someone he’d met said Dawson City was overrated.

Ben asked her if she’d been to see the Lady Sasquatch and Lisa changed the subject.

She regaled him with stories of all the times she saw all the coolest bands. She left out any mention of all the ones that she liked but only in secret, who played the songs she recorded off Top 40 radio stations and listened to on her cassette Walkman late at night and under the bedcovers.

She told her Johnny Depp story. When she got weepy over the passing of her pet albino ferret, some twenty-two years ago, Ben squeezed her thigh. He stared at her chest. Her T-shirt was tight and adorned with red rhinestones that spelled LONDON PUNK. She smiled coyly and cocked her head to one side. Her asymmetrical bangs spread into a perfect triangle. Ben said he said some coke back at his hotel. They drank two more drinks and left. He told her she was the coolest woman he’d ever met.

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                                                                                                                                                          ©2008 pamela klaffke