Things Go Flying Read Online Free PDF

out of sight beneath the table, but on the other hand, this gave rise to the disturbing illusion that his father was naked. John hadn’t even taken his jacket off. It was all he could do now to keep his bile down and his eyes open.
    John felt like he was on trial, and that he was considered guilty until proven otherwise. This was just like the reverse onus they’d learned about in grade twelve law class, and though he hadn’t had an opinion about it then, now, thinking about it, he did feel a reverse onus was unjust, at least in his case. After all, what had started it all—that bump into the back of the taxi—hadn’t really been his fault.
    But he hadn’t helped his case any by coming home pissed. It must have been the dope—otherwise he’d never have been stupid enough to go drinking with Roy, no matter how grateful he felt—but he couldn’t tell his parents that.
    Now Dylan was making obvious, dog-like sniffing noises around his jacket and smirking, wise to him. If Dylan said anything about the dope he’d kill him.
    â€œIt’s not really my fault,” John began, after his mother had got half a cup of strong coffee into him. She’d put out a bag of cookies, too, but these were ignored by everyone but Dylan.
    â€œHere we go,” said Harold.
    â€œI was just driving along and this cab pulls out in front of me and then stops all of a sudden to pick somebody up. Of course I hit him— anybody would have.” John was feeling indignant now, and even in his relatively weak state he managed to speak with the absolute and righteous conviction of the wrongly accused teenager. “The cop said they always have to charge the one behind, even if the one in front is actually at fault.” Repeating this now, John felt again—fiercely—the injustice of his position.
    â€œYou were charged?” Harold said, exquisitely alert.
    â€œWell, yeah. Like I said, the cop said they always have to charge the one behind—”
    â€œBULLSHIT,” Harold roared, thumping the table, making the coffee mugs and spoons jump. “That’s just bullshit!”
    John felt himself go paler. He was feeling almost sober now, and wide awake, but the nausea wasn’t going away.
    â€œSettle down,” Audrey cautioned Harold.
    â€œWhat were you charged with?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” John prevaricated. “Honestly, I barely touched the guy, it was just a tap—”
    â€œLet me see it,” Harold said.
    â€œWhat?” The autobody shop was closed; it was the middle of the night.
    â€œThe ticket, for Christ’s sake.”
    John groped in his jacket and handed the yellow ticket over, feeling afraid but with enough pluck left to say, resentfully, “It’s not fair. The taxi didn’t have a scratch.”
    All present watched as Harold silently read the ticket and began nodding his head up and down, as if it all made perfect sense. John thought he might have to run to the bathroom any minute. Harold handed the ticket over to Audrey, who squinted at it.
    â€œSo, where’s my car?”
    â€œIn an autobody shop,” John said sullenly.
    â€œHow much damage?”
    â€œThey think it’s a write-off,” John mumbled, in despair now. He couldn’t help thinking how differently this might have gone if he’d been lying in a hospital bed for this conversation. As it was, nobody, not even his mother, had said anything gratifying about him not being hurt.
    â€œWay to go,” Dylan said.
    â€¢ • •
    T HE NEXT MORNING , from his desk at work, Harold called the insurance company, trying to get a sense of the repercussions of John’s accident while carefully avoiding all mention, for now, of the careless driving charge. He arranged for a rental car and dealt with the autobody shop that had his car about the estimate. It all went fairly smoothly, and Harold felt that at least he was doing