“Jammie Dodgers!”
“She can come in. The front door’s unlocked!”
He stormed out of the bathroom, angrily muttering under his breath about how no one listened to him. Jammie opened the front door.
“The door’s always unlocked! Why aren’t you coming in?”
The woman in a cute fall attire turned around, descending the brick front porch stairs. When Jammie followed her, saying he was sorry, she just shook her head. She got in her car, about to drive away when Jammie put a hand on her shoulder.
“What do you want?”
He threw his hands up. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“You said you’d stop.”
She looked at his arms. They were highlighting them, like streaks of red, white and blue. Or at least that’s how the drugs discoloring his veins looked like to her. It was disgusting. Whenever she suggested therapy, he fell onto the dilapidated couch he called a second bed, flipping on the TV. Watching nothing but trash. She paid for a therapist, but he had never gone.
“Yeah…” Jammie stuffed his vein-bulging hands into his ripped jean pockets. “I know—”
“That you don’t care, Jam. I’m tired of you rolling out of bed at ten in the morning and staying up till three. You blow me off, too. Sorry, but I’ll come back when you straightened up your life.”
She left, leaving Jammie to decide whether he was going to agree this time about BetterHelp therapy. A couple times, she had him over for dinner, discussing whether he’d go. He shrugged, ate something and left, barely thanking her. He knew she wanted a real man.
Well, he said, that’s how she saw it. At least he came. At least he showed up. At least he made it to the interview.
In ripped jeans and a dirty, stained T-shirt. You couldn’t care less about our wedding in four months. You act like you can’t—no, won’t—do anything but lounge around, eating whatever’s edible in the fridge. What would you think if you suggested that we meet at a fancy restaurant, and waited hours only to find out I was napping the whole time? Or that you had to pick me up from the airport, and saw that I just didn’t want to text you about a cancelled or delayed flight?
She had said this over and over again. And every time Jammie promised to be good—to shower, shave, wear something other than stained, ripped or ugly clothes and work at least part-time—he failed. She always told him to start over—brought him coffee, brought him medicine, gave him McDonald’s—but he would always relapse into old habits.
He tried, he had said.
He went back inside, tears in his eyes. After slamming the front door, he balled his fists. She doesn’t know how hard it is to say no to something you’ve been snorting up your nose since the ninth grade because you’re always at parties, where they’re handing them out to everyone, and if you don’t take one, you’re a loser. She don’t know what it’s like being told I can’t work if I’m on drugs. She don’t know nothing!
He went to the bathroom, slamming the door. Clutching the sink counter with both hands, he breathed long and slow. Something crossed his mind. But she loves you. She wants a man who can twirl her around, hug her fierce and whisper his love for her.
He blinked back tears, fear sparkling in those brown eyes. What if, he thought, she dies on the way home?
He bolted out of the house and ran to the local coffee shop. But she wasn’t there. His heart racing, Jammie went to the police station.
“Please—someone. I need help finding my fiancé. She’s—”
Everglades was standing under a street lamp. She waved coldly. He ran to her. “Please—I can make it up to you—”
“Prove it.”
And she walked away, cross-armed. Getting in her car, Everglades didn’t even look at Jammie Dodgers as she pulled out of the parking lot. He ignored a concerned policewoman as he headed home, grabbed some pizza from the fridge and heated it. Looking at the overflowing mountain of garbage that was home to buzzing flies and maggots, he felt sick. He looked at the dirty floor. Jammie grabbed some trash bags, opening them and dumping the junk. Rotten banana peels, half-eaten licorice, crushed soda cans, paper plates stained with pizza, pizza crusts, party cups once filled with beer and Sprite, McDonald’s bags, French fries, half-eaten hamburgers, to-go boxes, rotten peaches and bananas made him gag. The stench was unbearable. He dashed outside, vomiting over the back porch railing. Jammie wiped his mouth. He returned to work, intent on never seeing this much crap in his life again. Even his college roommates told him to get a better place than this junk yard.
He had shrugged his shoulders.
He scrubbed the empty trashcan. When he couldn’t remove a stain, he put it—along with the five trash bags bulging with rotten food—outside with the trashcan. Jammie cleaned until the linoleum shone, returning the mop to the laundry room. After opening the fridge, he plugged his nose. Jammie grabbed a rag, dousing it with water and blue Dawn soap. Scrubbing for hours, Jammie wished Everglades would at least see the floor.
Next was the bedroom. He tripped on a pile of sweaty gym clothes, a rubber ducky and a small wad of candy wrappers, falling onto the bed. Taking a huge whiff, Jammie wouldn’t forget the nostril-clogging stench. He stripped the bed, throwing everything—even the comforter—in the washing machine. The last time he did clothes was when Everglades and he was in high school.
They had just finished college two weeks ago.
Yes, nothing in Jammie’s life seemed to go right. But he tackled that room, deep cleaning it. Soon, the windows reflected the dangling light bulb above his bed, and his desk was free of the dust bunnies, but his stained carpet had to go. He retrieved a pad of paper and a pencil from his desk drawer and wrote a note about calling the rug installation people.
When Jammie had cleaned his room and the guest bedroom the best he could, he strained his eyes to look at the microwave clock—12:33 am. He froze a little—it had been that long? Jammie shook his head, a hand to his forehead. I can’t believe it. I actually wiped this place of its dust, dirt and trash.
He called Everglades, but she didn’t answer. He texted her. He felt the pull of the TV, the couch and the small wooden table he used as a footstool. He scratched his eyes. I’ll take care of the couch tomorrow morning. Then call the—oh my gosh!
Jammie stared in horror as foam was frothing out of the laundry machine. White bubbles soon towered a little above the five foot seven inch man. But Jammie trotted over, jamming a finger on a button, stopping the spin cycle. Everything went still. The shelves, products and sink were covered in white foam. How much cleaning product did I use?
Jammie said he’d figure it out in the morning. Exchanging his tang top and khaki shorts for a balled-up oversized T-shirt he found in the back of a drawer, he threw himself onto his mattress.
Goodnight, world. See you in the morning. Hopefully better.
When sunshine had broken through the windows, Jammie stretched, yawning. He looked at his microwave’s clock—ten thirty. A knock startled him.
“House inspector. Anyone home?”
“Yeah!”
Jammie threw on his khaki pants before answering. When he opened it, Jammie apologized as the man gave him a very disappointed look. Jammie explained that he was going to get a job soon—
“Son, I don’t enforce the rules around here.” He walked through the small house, taking a look in the bedroom, laundry room, kitchen, office room and even the back porch. “I mean, you’re blessed to be a homeowner, and this is what I have to see? Come on! Someone called me—”
Everglades. Jammie knew.
He pointed his pen at the ripped, stained couch. “Sell it, trash it or clean it up—do something. You have eight months until you’re evicted. Stay safe this winter—if you’re not already on the streets.” When he had shaken Jammie’s hand—which Jammie hoped with all his heart wasn’t too sweaty—the house inspector left, closing the door behind him. Jammie cleaned the mess in the laundry room. Over the next few months, he restocked the fridge, pantry and laundry room with fresh food and cleaning products. When it snowed, he shoveled his driveway. When Spring came, he mulched his flowerbeds, ridding the earth of the weeds and brown leaves, replacing them with roses, lilies, verruca and azaleas.
He called Everglades, but she snapped at him that she had work. Ending the call, Jammie returned to his room, desperate for change but so wanting to crash on the couch while the TV blared football or baseball. Ever since he said he wanted to play one, Everglades just shook her head.
Yeah, and I’m the president of the United States.
He laughed. Well, it’s a thought!
Jammie, get your life in order. People are refusing to visit your home. I don’t know what it takes for you to win an interview, walk out of the house—
Jammie showered. Two minutes later, he had added deodorant and men’s face cream. Fresh for the day, Jammie, wrapped in a towel, went to his closet to pick out something. After breakfast, he called the carpet installation people about getting a new carpet. They came, inspecting the old one.
Jammie really wanted Everglades to be proud. Something in his mind told him not to just do it for her. But he listened as the answer—over five hundred dollars—made his hands sweat more than when he heard he only had eight months until he was sitting on the sidewalk, begging for a sandwich.
Everglades would never marry him. She’d have gone off with two rings on her finger—
“Sir?”
One of the installers looked at the bottoms of his shoe, making faces at the gum. Horrified, Jammie apologized, his hands really sweaty.
After the new carpet had been laid some days later, Jammie fished in his desk drawers for a credit card. Grabbing the first one he saw, he slipped it into the electronic device, apologizing profusely. “What would kill your false sorry would be if you stayed this clean.” One of the installers tapped the beeping machine, and Jammie removed it. When the guys were gone, Jammie pursed his lips.
“I can do whatever I want with the carpet.” He muttered darkly. I don’t need some installers telling me what to do. He got rid of his couch (amazed at his own strength as he carried it outside to the trashcan), going to his computer late that night. After seeing a picture of a smiling woman holding a cup of Starbuck’s coffee next to We’re Hiring!, Jammie applied.
I’m going to make Everglades wish she owned this house!
The next day, Jammie prepared for his interview. During breakfast, he looked at his phone.
Have a great day, Jam! You can do all things through Him who strengthens you!
He smiled. “Sweet.” After starting the dishwasher, Jammie grabbed his wallet and keys, heading for the car. He turned the key, but the car didn’t start. He tried again.
“Come on, car! I have an interview today.”
The car refused to bring Jammie to that interview.
He grumbled, got out and slammed the door. His face crumpled. What is so hard about keeping my life together? I have less than a year to get my house in order, I don’t have a car and I… He put his hand to his mouth, tears pouring down his cheeks. Please, God, do something. Make my life count!
He felt someone say, Then start over for Me, not Everglades.
Suddenly, he saw someone driving down the road. Waving to her, he thanked her profusely as she stopped. She moved her purse beside her, asking where he was going?
“Oh—Starbuck’s! I have an interview.”
She looked him over, but didn’t say anything. Confused, he studied her—she had a matted hairdo, weirdly shaped glasses and ugly clothing. When they got there, she led the way to a back room, where a computer-owned table sat in front of two chairs. He claimed one, and the woman sat in the office chair. She asked questions, and he sat up straight, answering each one respectfully and—to his surprise—smartly. When they were done, she removed her disguise.
“Yes, Jammie. Everglades is sick. She was going to do this herself, but—”
“Crystal, please. I understand—”
“that it’s April Fool’s Day?” Crystal walked around the desk, and punched Jammie in the shoulder. “Jeez, man, lighten up. Hey, at least we got to see each other.”
But Jammie didn’t feel so fooled. He didn’t want to be tricked right now. All he wanted was to see Everglades’ smile. He hadn’t since she checked him into therapy in high school.
“The truth is, Crystal, I understand it’s April 1, or whatever, but I want Everglades’ hand in marriage. I don’t want to keep begging.” She nodded as he talked, but told him she had work. She offered him a ride, but he declined. Walking back to his house, Jammie had a sinking feeling Everglades would never forget this day. Ever.
He continued cleaning the house in his scrubs, giving away old, ripped and stained clothes. Ensuring the washing and drying machines were in order, he surprised himself how good he was at fixing appliances. Straightening up, Jammie walked over to his computer, applying for a positon at the local warehouse. He heard how desperate they were to sell such household items. After cleaning up the porch and yard, Jammie felt proud of himself.
Thank you, God, for the strength to get this all done.
One day, Jammie, eating Corn Flakes, answered the knock.
“Hey—the front porch and driveway look terrific!”
The inspector held out a hand after half-an-hour of inspecting Jammie’s new home. He squeezed it. Then his phone rang. It was the warehouse. Returning their call after the inspector left, Jammie went in for an interview. Walking to the warehouse down the street, a red-faced Jammie mentioned that his car wasn’t working. Someone said he could repair it. Jammie was in tears.
Oh, God, you are so good!
That night, Jammie wrote two thank-you cards to Crystal and the warehouse. Knowing Lowe’s was open late, Jammie drove to the store and picked out a new couch set. It delivered the next day. He hired some painters to freshen up his walls. Jammie woke up a few days later to the good news that the warehouse hired him on the spot. Months went by. Jammie went to see Everglades. She said she had contracted a deadly disease. Jammie stayed with her, wishing he were a doctor. She said there was no cure. Jammie bit his lip, praying God would heal her.
Even if you don’t, Lord, I trust you.
Jammie went to rehab, but Everglades passed away. Jammie knew he would see her again. A week after the funeral, at the coffee shop, Crystal and Jammie burst into tears.
“She was the best sister ever!” She sobbed.
Jammie consoled her, ignoring some onlookers. He drove her to his house, promising her anything.
“You repair home appliances, Jam, but you also repair people’s hearts.”
“Really?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks!”
One day, Crystal was sitting at a table outside the coffee shop. Jammie walked up to her. “Hey!” He showed her his arms. She squealed.
“Are you—”
“Four years sober? Yes!”
“Congratulations, Jam. I’m so proud of you.”
And Jammie knew God was proud of him, too.
One night, when he was working overtime, his boss approached him. “You know, Jammie, I’ve been noticing that you arrive early and work late. I thought I’d give you this.”
It was paperwork for a raise. Jammie smiled. “Thank you, sir!”
“And also, I’d like to take you to my office. It’s important.” But he didn’t look so happy about the great news. Jammie’s stomach churned. After he followed his boss upstairs into his computer room, light burst on, and several people yelled, “Happy Birthday!”
Jammie covered his mouth. “Oh my gosh, you guys! How’d you—“
“All Crystal’s idea!”
Over cake, Jammie told her about his raise.
“I know, silly! Mr. Oaks told me. He used it to surprise you.”
“Oh!” Jammie laughed as Crystal punched him in the arm.
A few months went by. Jammie led several coworkers and Crystal through his pristine house, everyone adoring the back porch. Before she left to meet a friend for coffee, he got on one knee, pulled out a black box and opened it. “Will you marry me?”
Crystal covered her mouth with her hands, nodding profusely. Jammie got up, put the ring on her finger and grabbed her into a hug. The following year, they married. He received a Master’s degree in electrical engineering, moving into a small mansion in the heart of the city. Crystal telecommuted. Soon, a baby boy was born.
One night, Jammie watched Crystal rock him to sleep, chuckling how she was the one telling him to answer the door for Everglades. He smiled wide, snuggling with his loving wife after she put him to bed. She was similar to Everglades but a much more humorous. Everglades sometimes forced a smile but never truly laughed. She was deathly allergic to comedy shows.
In the depths of his soul, he was glad he had married Crystal instead.
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