Calamity Jayne (2 page)

“You wearing that same outfit again?” My grandmother acknowledged me with her customary greeting.

“It’s my work uniform,” I told her, knowing full well she knew it anyway.

“You can’t be seen wearing the same outfit day in, day out, kiddo. People will think you’re hard-up.”

“I
am
hard-up, Gramma,” I said, and gave her a peck on a dry, rouged cheek. “I have a dead-end job—no, make that
two
dead-end jobs. I live next door to my folks. I eat practically every meal here with the exception of the ones I snitch at
Uncle Frank’s. I
am
hard-up, Gram.”

She chuckled. “Naw, you’re just a late bloomer, sweetie. That’s all. Just like your Grandpa Will, bless his heart. He did
things in his own good time. Eventually, he found his way in the world.”

“He took over your uncle’s hardware business, Gram.”

“He knew a good opportunity when he saw it.”

“Great Aunt Eunice says you threatened to divorce him and marry Old Man Townsend at the lumber yard if Grandpa didn’t join
the business.”

“I did no such thing. The very idea. And he wasn’t Old Man Townsend back then, my dear. He was quite a 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 ring into my pants pocket,
and trotted into Bargain City with a full sixty seconds to spare.

“Cuttin’ it kinda close, aren’t you, Turner?” Landon, the customer service dude on duty greeted me with a smirk. “Good news.
You’re gonna have to cover sporting goods, too. Peterson called in sick.”

I groaned. Terrific. That meant hoofing it from one counter to the other all night. No
Oprah
. No
Wheel of Fortune
. No run to the Sonic for a chili cheese dog and tots. And precious few potty breaks.

“Maybe it will be a slow night,” Landon tried to console me.

“It’s Friday,” I pointed out. “When’s the last time we had a slow Friday night?”

“From what I hear, most of your Friday nights are slow,” was his response. He didn’t sound like he was joking.

“Who told you that?” I demanded, irritated to learn that how I spent my weekend nights, or didn’t spend them, was the topic
of conversation among my coworkers. Working two jobs had a tendency to put the kibosh on any social life. Once I actually
found both the time and the energy to date, there was always the pesky little matter of locating the guy. I’m not that picky,
but I do have some standards. Only unmarried men with full-time employment (I can’t afford to support anybody else), a terrific
sense of humor, and a full set of pearly whites that don’t require removal at bedtime need apply. And believe me, folks, in
my little one-horse town, said applicant line ain’t snaking around the corner and down the block.

Landon scratched his head. “That little gem was courtesy of your brother Craig. I think it was Townsend who said to cut you
some slack, that you were busy embarking on a new career, and with a few more months’ practice, you’d have those little curly-Q’s
at the top of the ice cream cones down pat.”

I wrinkled my face. Ranger Rick again. One of these days Rick Townsend would go too far and I wouldn’t be responsible for
the consequences. “I lead a very satisfying social life, contrary to what my brother and his absurd friend say.”

“Yeah, right,” the smirking customer service clerk responded. “And I have Jennifer Lopez waiting for me at home wearin’ nothing
but my Old Navy T-shirt and a smile.”

“More like
George
Lopez,” I muttered. “Say, don’t you have refunds to quibble over? Customers to service? Something?” I headed to the employee
area and grabbed my red Bargain City vest and prepared to begin a shift already guaranteed to last longer than an Academy
Awards show. Or a pair of shoes you hate.

Two hours into my shift, I was cursing my cutesy new footwear. Running shoes would have been a much better choice, white ones
with red shoestrings and bright red oblique stripes down the sides. I jogged from the electronics section to the sporting
goods section like a shopper during the four hour only sale on the morning after Thanksgiving. By the time ten-thirty rolled
around, my tail was dragging lower than the rusty tailpipe on my Plymouth.

“I should get double pay for working two counters,” I pointed out to the assistant night manager as I prepared to leave.

“As I recall, we never docked you for that snack cake display incident,” he had the gall to remind me.

“And I still say that was a stupid place to put a giant creme-filled sponge cake,” I argued.

“Hit the road, Turner. You’re scheduled back at eight
A.M.
tomorrow, aren’t you?”

I nodded, bummed by the thought that I would go home and fall into bed, only to awaken and return to the exciting world of
Bargain City at first light.

“At least you’ll have a free Saturday night to enjoy your satisfying social life,” Mr. Customer Service interjected, pulling
off his vest as he prepared to end his shift.

“Oh? You get fired from the Dairee Freeze, Turner?” the night manager asked.

“No, I didn’t get fired from the Dairee Freeze,” I responded.

“Her uncle owns the joint,” Customer Service explained.

I glared at them both. “See if I throw in any extra toppings on your next Dairee Freeze visit, gentlemen.” I stomped to the
exit before it dawned on me that I’d neglected to remove my own Bargain City vest. The heck with it. I’d taken enough abuse
for one night. My feet were killing me, and my ears were still ringing with:
Customer assistance in sporting goods. Customer assistance in electronics
. I closed my eyes against the throbbing of my temples. First thing when I got home, I was going to pop a couple of headache
tablets, wash ‘em down with a light beer (or two), and fall into bed. I sighed. The only male companions I had waiting at
home for me were two hairy gents badly in need of new flea and tick collars, toenail clippers, and some tartar-control mouthwash.

I plodded to my car near the back of the darkened lot. I opened the door, jumped in, and winced when the maracas joined the
drumbeat in my head. I turned the key and prayed. Yes! Whitie started without a whimper, sputter, cough, or belch. I eased
out of the parking space, hit the headlights, and headed out of town. We live around seven miles from Grandville, the county
seat, on a curvy, dead-end gravel road off an old county blacktop.

Once I left the lights of town and turned onto County Road G-14, I glanced down to check my speed. Sometimes I get a little
heavy on the accelerator. The dashboard was dark as my mood. What now? I tapped the dash with a knuckle. Nothing. I checked
to make sure I still had working headlights. I fumbled around in the dark and finally found the radio, then pulled a face
when a voice boomed out of the speakers discussing campaign finance and soft money. As opposed to hard, I suppose. Hey, as
if it really makes a difference to politicians what their campaign money feels like, as long as it’s green and negotiable.

I punched the buttons to switch the radio to one of my country channels. Instead, a noisy rap erupted, followed by an investment
chit-chat (like I want to hear how well others are doing) and finally, golden oldies from my parents’ heydays. I hit all the
buttons again. Where was She Daisy? Tim and Faith? Shania?

I twisted the dial. Probably the same snafu that robbed me of dash lights had erased all my radio station settings. I finally
located my favorite station broadcasting the top-of-the-hour weather forecast. A chance of thunderstorms Saturday afternoon
and evening. Figured. The last time I had a weekend night off, gas was below two bucks a gallon and the only Hilton that mattered
had room service and pay-per-view.

I hummed along with the radio, keeping time on the steering wheel with my fingers, when I became aware of a thumping very
much out of sync with the music. I shut the radio off and listened, grimacing when the car began to wander not-so-subtly to
the right. Flip-flop. Flip-flop. Flip-flop. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. I pulled a face. This couldn’t be good.

“Well, hell!” I slapped a palm over my mouth. “I mean heck!” I steered the leaning vehicle to the roadside, and cursed my
lack of luck, lack of cell phone, and lack of knowledge concerning the location of the four-way directional hazard flashers
of my own vehicle. I stopped the car and opened the door, trying to calculate the odds of there being a flashlight in my vehicle,
then recalculating the odds of it being one that actually worked. I leaned down and stuck a hand under my seat, probing for
a light. To my amazement, I pulled out a neon, glow-in-the dark, plastic flashlight. Cocky, I enjoyed the rare moment of personal
triumph a bit before remembering to try the switch. I held my breath. I pushed the switch and wanted to crow with self-satisfaction
when the light actually cast a respectable beam (after I gave it a couple light raps on the steering wheel). Ditz, huh?

I moved roadside to survey the tire, casting the flashlight beam first toward the grassy roadside ditch, praying there were
no creepy-crawlies or leaves-of-three lurking in the darkness for an unsuspecting khaki-trouser leg. I turned the beam on
a tire as flat as my chest in high school. I groaned, then groaned louder when the flashlight flickered once and went out.
I gave it a good, hard shake and it came back on, albeit dimmer than it had been earlier.

I muttered a few choice naughty words I couldn’t say out loud due to my self-improvement pledge, and chewed my lip. This was
great. Just great. Alone on a dark country road, a good two to three miles from home with a flat tire, no cell phone, no AAA,
and no one to come looking for me when I didn’t get home. Wasn’t this when the dude wearing black coveralls and a Captain
Kirk mask usually showed up?

I narrowed my eyes at the darkness around me, then shook my head. Get real. I lived in rural Iowa. The most serious crime
I could recall was when Rodney Kirkwood got arrested six years ago for wearing a dress to the senior prom. An off-the-shoulder,
burgundy strapless. The color didn’t suit him. And he hadn’t waxed. A real crime.

I trudged around to the driver’s side, pulled the keys out of the ignition and went back to the trunk. I stuck the key into
the lock, but it refused to turn. I tried again. It wouldn’t budge. I put the key up to the fading flashlight and squinted
at it. Right key. I tried again. No luck. I yanked it back out, and tried to remember the last time I’d opened my trunk. I
frowned. Had I ever opened my trunk?