Calamity Jayne Read Free

strapping—I did no
     such thing!”
    I picked up the newspaper and glanced at it. Our state used to have two daily metro papers, one morning and one evening. Now
     we just have the morning paper. I like to think that means there’s less bad news to report.
    “We made the front page today,” Gramma announced. “All about that dreadful lawyer passing drugs to his client right there
     in the county jail! Can you imagine?”
    “Some attorney-client privilege,” I snorted, not that interested in the penny-ante dealings of a lowlife lawyer and his lowlife
     client.
    “I hope they nail him,” Gram said. “I’ve never liked Peyton Palmer. His hair looks like a toupee and he has nostrils the size
     of olives—those big, black ones, not the pimento-stuffed kind. I never trust a man whose hair looks like a wig. And you know
     what they say about oversized nostrils.”
    “The better to pick with, my dear?” I teased.
    “Secrets,” Gramma said. “It means a person has secrets.”
    “Not anymore,” I said, and waved the paper at her before tossing it aside. “Where’s Mom?”
    “In her office, I expect. Why ask me? I rarely see her except when she needs to fill one end or empty the other.”
    “She’s working, Gram. Besides, you have the intercom if you need anything.”
    “I’m not complaining, you know. No, not me. Why should I complain? I’m just a virtual prisoner here. But I’ve been thinking
     about getting online. You know. Surf the web. Go into one of those chat rooms. What do you think of that?”
    I hoped the tremor in my right eye didn’t show. “Any good leftovers, Gram?” I asked, hoping to derail what was sure to be
     a major pileup on the information superhighway.
    “Here, let me make you a roast beef sandwich, dear. I put a roast in the Crock-Pot the other day and it was so tender you
     could cut it with a fork. I just love the meat at the Meat Market.”
    I helped Gram to her feet and let her fix me a roast beef on wheat with lettuce and mayo and a glass of milk. I persuaded
     her to join me, and we both wiped off milk mustaches with a satisfied “ahhh” once we’d finished our meal. I scooped the evidence
     of our refrigerator raid into the garbage, rinsed the glasses, and stuck them in the dishwasher.
    “That was awesome, Gramma. Thanks.” I gave her a quick hug. “I’ve got to hit the trail or I’ll be late for work. They’re letting
     people vote online for next season’s lucky Survivor contestants, and I want to see their videos before I cast my vote. See you later, Gram.”
    I jogged to my dirty white Plymouth. It coughed and sputtered a bit before starting, and I found myself thinking about those Survivor castaways. Lounging about on the beach getting a to-die-for tan, looking buffer and leaner than if they’d spent a fortune
     at the finest fat farm. No rigid, structured schedule to conform to—except for those tedious little challenges and tribal
     councils, of course. No customers to wear that phony, the-customer-is-always-right smile for. No cones to dip. No curly-Q’s
     to construct. I let out a long, frustrated sigh. Bush-squatting and worm-eating in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of masochistic
     strangers was looking better all the time; hairy armpits, sand up the butt crack and all.
    I wheeled into the employee parking area of Bargain City five minutes before my shift began. I have a regular assigned parking
     space. Don’t get the idea that this is some kind of a perk. My space is out back near the Dumpster. The manager “requested”
     I park in the same spot all the time so I won’t leave ugly oil stains all over his parking lot.
    I resisted the urge to cuss when my customary parking space was blocked by a garbage truck—I’m trying real hard to watch my
     language (after catching Oprah’s two-part show, Personality Makeovers: Breaking Those Bad Habits) . I pulled my car into a space back behind the seasonally constructed greenhouse, shoved my key