Free The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God & Other Stories by Etgar Keret Page A

on the cross, just like Jesus. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say. I’m always armed with the rightsentence, whether it’s for the Father Confessor, for a hooker in a bar, or for a Federal agent. But with him? With him I was a scared little kid again, at the orphanage, cringing at every unexpected move. And he was a good man, the good man, I’d never be able to waste him. No point even trying. My finger just wouldn’t wrap itself around the trigger.
    â€œSorry, Mr. Grace,” I whispered after a long while. “I just . . .”
    â€œYou just can’t kill me.” He smiled. “That’s OK. You’re not the first, you know. Two other guys have returned the envelope before you. I guess it’s part of the curse. It’s just that you, with the orphanage and all . . .” He shrugged. “And me getting weaker every day. Somehow I’d hoped you could return the favor.”
    â€œSorry, Mr. Grace,” I whispered. I had tears in my eyes. “I wish I could . . .”
    â€œDon’t feel bad.” He said. “I understand. No harm done. Leave it.” He chuckled when he saw me pick up the tab. “Coffee’s on me. I insist. It has to be on me, you know. It’s like a disease.” I pushed the crumpled bill back in my pocket. Then I thanked him and walked away. After I’d taken a few steps, he called me. I’d forgotten the gun.
    I went back to get it, cussing quietly to myself. Felt like a rookie.
    Three days later, in Dallas, I shot some senator. It was a tricky one. From two hundred yards away, half a view, side wind. He was dead before he hit thefloor.

Katzenstein
    I n Hell, they put me in a cauldron of boiling water. My flesh smoldered and burned, my skin was covered with blisters, and the pain was so bad I couldn’t stop screaming. They had these giant screens where you could see everything that was going on in Heaven. Suffer and eat your heart out, watch the screen and suffer. I think I spotted him there for a second, playing golf or cricket or something. There was a kind of close-up of his smile, and right after that they showed this couple making love.
    Once, after we’d made love, my wife said: “Seven years you’ve been with them, slaving for them, bringing work home every weekend, and now, when push comes to shove, they won’t give you a promotion. And you know why? Because you don’t know how to sell yourself, that’s why. TakeKatzenstein for example.” I took Katzenstein for example. My whole life I’d been taking Katzenstein for example. I wanted to take a shower, but there was no hot water. The water heater was broken. Took a cold shower instead. I bet Katzenstein has a solar heater.
    In high school, I couldn’t get into honors class. To my mother, it was a really big deal. She cried her eyes out, and said I’d never amount to anything. I tried to tell here how tough it was to get in, that only ten percent made it, only the really smart kids. “I met Miriam Katzenstein at the grocery store today,” Mom sighed. “Her son got in. Is Miriam Katzenstein’s son smarter than mine? Not on your life! He just tries harder. And you—it’s as if you’re trying to spite me. Driving me to an early grave.”
    Wherever I went he was always there for them to compare me to. In class, on the block, in the yard, at work, everywhere. Katzenstein, Katzenstein, Katzenstein, Katzenstein. It’s not that he was a prodigy or anything. An average guy, no genius, no great shakes at athletics and not very sharp either. Just like me, only a tiny bit better. A tiny bit here and a tiny bit there and another tiny bit . . . Hell.
    It was my own idea to quit my job. It cost me plenty of fights with my wife, but eventually she resigned herself to it. We moved to a different city, far away, and I started working as an insurance