The Coaster Read Online Free Page A

day to be the first nominee for one of these awards to say, “I’m sorry, I’d love to be your Man of the Year, but we just can’t afford it.”
    ***
    Sarah was stopped every ten feet as we made our way across the ballroom. We got ambushed by an attractive woman who engaged Sarah like they were old friends.
    â€œSarah! It’s great to see you. I’ve missed our weekly meetings when we were on the Shymana Committee.”
    I may have the name of that committee wrong.
    â€œI know, Karen! That was so fun! Have you met my husband, Bob? Bob, this is Karen Summers.”
    The woman stuck out a hand expensively manicured in one of the gothy dark colors that are popular now with the middle-aged.
    It’s always seemed to me it would be difficult to be taken seriously in business or government with painted finger- and toenails. All the men in their conservative blue suits and red power ties would think to themselves, You’re playing with the big boys now. My time is worth thousands of dollars an hour and this chick spends her time trying to decide whether or not to put a flower on her big toe.
    Karen eyed me mischievously. “So we finally meet. I’ve heard so much about this mysterious husband of Sarah’s but I’d never even laid eyes on him. I was beginning to think Sarah made you up.”
    I’d heard this one before, the accusatory jab about how I never showed up to anything, so I had a ready reply, which I never used. “Sarah keeps me locked in the basement and only lets me out for special occasions like sex and charity events. Unfortunately, mostly charity events.”
    â€œThey’re really one and the same from my point of view,” Sarah might have replied.
    â€œCharity begins at home, honey,” I’d have answered. We would all laugh.
    Truthfully, I gave a fake chuckle, but it was the best I could do. An actual laugh at an event like this would be a rarity for me. Or any time, really. I’m not an easy laugher who makes everyone feel like they’re engaged in hilarious banter at a cocktail party. I’m the guy you’re never really sure is kidding—I almost always am—but you can’t tell from the expression on my face. Many successful people are humorless and literal to a fault. As a rule they’re not sure what I mean, so they move on to a new topic. Great. The last thing I want is some old society matron leaning in close to me and shouting over the noise, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” I’m not equipped with witty, pleasant small talk.
    Back to Karen. I seldom hear the other person’s name when I’m being introduced. I’m too busy searching my brain for something clever to say to register information about my verbal sparring partner.
    Sarah turned to me and said, “Have you ever met Karen’s husband, John?”
    I gave my standard reply. “I’m sure I have.” I am sure I have. He’s the kind of guy I’ve most certainly met but don’t remember, which would apply to the majority of the upper crust of this city.
    Karen said, “You guys should get together. I’m sure you’d hit it off.”
    â€œOf course you’re sure,” I muttered under my breath. “You’ve known me all of ten seconds.”
    â€œShe’s right,” Sarah said. “John’s a lot of laughs. He’s always telling jokes.” Although I might gain some insight into the current level of racism in the Midwest, the thought of hanging around with a noted joke-teller makes me ill. Guys who tell jokes aren’t funny. They memorize jokes because they’ve got no material of their own.
    Karen said, “You guys should play golf. Do you play, Bob?”
    Sarah jumped in and answered. If she thinks she knows the answer, she can’t help but interrupt me. She’s like the little girl in class everybody hates because she raises her hand for every