Free Mrs. Million by Pete Hautman

knives was not work, it was slow torture. He had taken the job because it was a condition of his parole that he be employed, and because his aunt Nadine had agreed to hire him, but after three weeks of gluing plaques onto flatware Jayjay had had enough. Now that he had someplace to crash other than Nadine’s back bedroom, he could see no reason to continue his employment.
    Jayjay decided on the long drive, maybe head up to Grand Casino, throw a few bucks at the Indians, maybe hit a jackpot on the slots. He started the car, then noticed the gas gauge was near empty. His smile collapsed, his face contorted and reddened. He drew back a fist and punched the steering wheel hard, ten times in rapid succession, screaming, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He locked both hands on the wheel and became motionless for several seconds, breathing shallowly, slowly bringing his features back to neutral. When he had composed himself sufficiently, he reached out and snapped off one of the knobs from the climate control panel and threw it out the window. That made him feel a little better.
    Putting the car in gear, Jayjay headed up the street to the Mobil station. He pumped ten bucks into the tank, paid the guy inside, and was about to pull out when he noticed the cowboy pumping gas into an old white pickup. He was sure he’d seen the man’s face somewhere before—in the paper, or in a movie or something. Jayjay sat perfectly still, hands on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the man in the cowboy hat, waiting for his brain to sort things out.
    A few minutes before the lunch bell, Principal Grunseth tapped on the glass door of Barbaraannette’s classroom, interrupting her explanation of why the United States doesn’t have a king. He pointed at her, then at himself, then up toward the second floor, then raised his eyebrows. Barbaraannette nodded. He wanted her to come up to his office after the kids were released for lunch. He disappeared from the glass, and she returned to her explanation.
    “So you see, instead of having a king, every four years all the people vote on who they want to run the country.”
    Adam Berg raised his hand. “My dad says that the country is run by Jews.”
    “Our country is run by many different kinds of people, Adam.”
    “He says that school is turning me into a little robot. Robots are cool. My dad smokes cigarettes.”
    “I’m sure he does.”
    “He said that you’re as rich as a Jew now.”
    Thankfully, the lunch bell rang. Barbaraannette herded her kids out into the hall and in the direction of the cafeteria, then climbed the stairs, rapped on Principal Grunseth’s door, and let herself into his office.
    Lewis Grunseth held his forty extra pounds high in his abdomen, giving him the look of a man perpetually holding his breath. He had small, round eyes, an upcurved smile, and he kept his thinning hair cropped close to his skull. Grunseth was only six years older than Barbaraannette, but he had embraced middle age early on. He demanded that the students call him “sir” and that the faculty address him as “Mr. Grunseth,” even in private conversation.
    Barbaraannette, who remembered him mowing their lawn when he was a teenager, had trouble with that, so she usually called him nothing at all.
    “Well, well, if it isn’t the lottery winner!” said Grunseth, standing and gesturing for Barbaraannette to take a seat. “That’s quite a thing! Quite a thing.”
    Barbaraannette sat down. “I’m still trying to get used to the idea,” she said.
    “Quite a thing! Yes sir!” Grunseth said. “Yes sir!”
    Barbaraannette realized with a start that he was nervous, like a man with bad news to relate. Her first thought was that Hilde had had a stroke, or gone for an unsupervised walk and been hit by a car.
    “Is something wrong?” she asked, gripping the plastic arms of the chair. “Is it my mother?”
    “Your mother? No! I just wanted to talk to you, Barbaraannette. Talk about what you’re