A Kind of Flying: Selected Stories by Ron Carlson Read Free Book Online

always write the sexiest titles she could, knowing that some woman on the other team, in the drunken spirit of camaraderie that sometimes waved over the group, would embarrass herself fully doing How to Make Love to a Man and be the talk of the office for a week. I remember in detail the vision of Cindy writhing before the group one night, clutching both her breasts with her hands, thrusting her pelvis at her team as if to drive them back on the couch. I don’t remember the name of the literary work she was describing.
    I wanted to slip through the living room as if I were getting some fresh air and then be gone. Lisa had come from work tonight and she had her own car; I’d see her at home later. There was a time when we had one car, and we used to go places together. It was a used silver Tempest, the car I had in graduate school. The original owner had applied zodiac stickers in circles on all the doors.
    Lisa always claims to hate these parties. We’ll be dressing at home and she’ll wave the hairdrier at me, making predictions. “Karen will wear that blue mini and go after Lou. They’ll have a clam dip diluted with sour cream. Generic sour cream. Did I say generic sour cream? Wayne will move in on me when I sit on the couch and tell me about his kids for two hours. He thinks that’s the way you flirt. Ted will bring his oldies tape. Ellen will be the first one to sing. Tom will be the first one drunk. You’ll get drunk too and come on to Cindy, and we’ll have our little quarrel on the way home. Are you ready? Let’s go.”
    And she used to be right. I would get drunk. I’d end up singing with Ellen and, later, making my three point five crass comments to some of the women. Wayne would do his sincerity routine for Lisa on the couch. He was no dummy; she was always the loveliest woman in the whole house. I’d end up in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with Cindy, sometimes leaning against Cindy and then the counter. It was a party, wasn’t it?
    That was then. Lisa wouldn’t be right tonight, about me. February. It had been a long winter already: five, six parties since New Year’s. No wonder Karen had been able to spot Cindy’s coat. Too much snow, too much fog; by Friday night, no one wanted to go home. Everybody was kind of surprised suddenly to have money, but no one knew what to do about it. Most of us had Ted’s oldies tape memorized the way you come to know an album; when a song ends, you know what’s coming next. We knew what brand everyone smoked and who would lend you a cigarette gladly. We knew that Ted smoked Kools because he’d learned in college that no one would borrow them. We knew what everyone drank and how much. We knew where people would be sitting by eleven o’clock. I knew it all and I just wanted to go home. I was trying.
    I eased by a group standing by the kitchen door, and edged around the two couples dancing to the Supremes. Ellen waved at me from across the buffet table with the breadstick she was using as a microphone. Baby Love. I could see Lisa sitting on the couch. She was smiling at Wayne who sat on the carpet by her knees. I know all her smiles and this was a real one. I had to thread between Victor and his new girlfriend to reach the door and then I was out in the snow.
    Pulling on my coat, I walked down the trail in the falling snow, right into the deer. I didn’t actually hit him, but by the time we both looked up we were at most three feet apart. It was a young male. He had a fine pair of forked antlers and a broad black nose, wet and shiny in the light from the yard lamp. I immediately backed up four or five steps to give him room, but he stood there, casually, looking at me. There were deer all over the city because of the snowfall, but I had never, ever, seen one this close.
    I backed to the door, slowly, thinking to show someone. I forgot myself. I wanted Lisa to come out and see this guy. I wanted Lisa to come out and see this deer and come home with me.