The Coaster Read Online Free Page B

goddamned question. If Sarah were married to Albert Einstein and someone asked him “So how’s your theory of the universe coming?” she would answer for him. “He figured it out. It’s e = m something.” Remember, Einstein is standing right there.
    â€œBob loves golf. He plays every chance he gets. He’d love to play with John.” I do not love golf. I play golf. I do not play every chance I get. I enjoy it, but a huge part of my pleasure is wrapped up in the group I’m playing with. I’m not one of those guys who’s just happy to be playing, even with someone like John. Of my ten most enjoyable activities, my love for golf would rank about seventh. I would absolutely not love to play with John.
    â€œI’ll have John call you.”
    â€œGreat. Or have him e-mail me.” I much prefer to deal with people I’m trying to avoid by e-mail. It’s a lot easier to craft the perfect turndown of their invitation in an e-mail than it is on the phone. I can slow the game down. There’s no quick thinking required.
    Karen moved off and we made our way through the crowd.
    ***
    Once I’m seated at dinner, I can easily converse with my tablemates, no matter who they are, but I’m terrible at making casual “cocktail hour” conversation. I’m reasonably comfortable among people I know well and people I don’t know at all. I’m most uncomfortable among people I should know but really don’t or can’t remember. Like everyone at tonight’s party.
    The best minglers are the confident types who don’t hyperventilate upon entering the joint. They casually go from one person to the next, knowing all the names and conjuring up the perfect comment for each encounter. They remember a connector for each new person. Maybe it’s something about their kids or their job or a charity thing they are working on, but whatever it is, it’s GOOD.
    The frustrating thing about all these events is they never change. As she always does, my wife continued to greet and converse with people with whom I was only vaguely familiar. I stood, dumbly, behind and beside her, reading the “program” for the auction items as though it contained the escape route out of this hellhole. We encountered a fat middle-aged woman in what looked like a low-cut, flowered housecoat but was probably a designer gown that cost five thousand dollars. She topped it all off with dyed red hair, the kind people used to think was sexy when they talked about dating a redhead.
    Sarah said, “Sheila, have you met my husband?”
    Sarah turned to me. “Bob, this is Sheila Banks. She got us those excellent tickets when we took the kids to Wicked. ” Then to Sheila, “Bob cried like a schoolgirl when he thought both witches were dead.”
    I gave Sarah the evil eye and stuck out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.” When we’re at these kinds of events, Sarah says or does things all night long that make me cringe, but criticizing her would be like a fan in the upper deck bitching about Peyton Manning.
    I had no recollection of Sheila or the play. “The play was great, thanks!” By this point, I was actually sweating on the crown of my head. I could feel it start to pool and I feared a drip might cascade down my nose, causing someone to ask me if I was feeling all right. We moved on into the party, Sarah excited and talkative, me socially exhausted after ten minutes.
    ***
    Reading from my scripted list of the first fifteen plays of the “game,” number one is always straight for the bar. But it’s a Catch-22. I need immediate cocktails to get through the evening, but the line at the bar is a horror of acquaintances who might challenge me on any number of topics that I’m totally unequipped to respond to. I managed to untangle myself from Sarah and Sheila, who had no doubt been having a fascinating conversation of which I had heard