Writing by William Mays
WILLIAM MAYS is a writer, editor, photographer, and book publisher. He and his wife own and manage MaysPublishing.com.
Jimmy, Too
The invitation glittered—gold embossed letters on a cream-colored envelope addressed to Jimmy Waterfield. Of course, it wasn’t intended for him. No one ever invited him to anything. It was for the other Jimmy Waterfield, the Famous Jimmy Waterfield, and had been mailed to the wrong address.
It was obviously an invitation to some high-class event. He ran his hand over the embossed letters, feeling the texture, imagining himself in a tuxedo, hobnobbing with all the important people.
He looked around his tiny efficiency apartment. It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t made more of his life. His parents hadn’t been there for him; his teachers had never liked him; girls showed no interest. It was their fault.
An exciting thought popped into his head. He would call the lady whose name and address was on the envelope. She would be so happy to know about the error that she’d invite him to whatever event this was. This might be his big break. He could quit his job as a clerk at the Heavenly Hardware Store and move up to better things.
He Googled the name and address. No phone number.
That left no choice. He opened the invitation. Wow. It was every bit as fancy as the envelope. On heavy card stock, it invited Famous Jimmy to a Christmas party. It gave a phone number for the RSVP.
His fingers trembled as he pressed the numbers on his ancient flip phone. Courage, he told himself. Be bold, be confident.
“Hello,” a woman answered with a cultured-sounding Southern voice.
Jimmy started sweating and hung up. No, he hadn’t lost his nerve, he told himself. The personal touch was required in this situation. He got in his rusting fifteen-year-old Toyota Tercel. A plume of burning oil trailed behind him.
The house was big and grand, a palace with fountains and rose bushes in the yard and columns on the porch. A wrought-iron fence surrounded it. The gate was open.
He parked right in front and walked up the white-stone steps. Two men were hanging strings of Christmas lights on the eaves; another two men were setting up a display of Santa and his reindeer pulling a sleigh.
Up, up, and up he walked, his heart beating as he approached the huge door. Invitation in hand, he rang the doorbell. He imagined the gracious owner, probably a Southern lady of distinction. She would be overwhelmed with joy that he had brought the invitation, and she would invite him in for tea. Then she would invite him to the party. He would be offered a job. His life would be better.
A maid answered.
“Are you the plumber?”
“No, I’m not a plumber. I, uh—”
She gave him a withering stare, and he turned and ran down the steps. He stumbled and fell to the ground. The maid was standing at the door watching. He got to his feet and sped away. Suddenly, he realized that it was past time to go to work. Burning oil, he raced to the Heavenly Hardware Store.
“Late again, Jimmy,” his boss said, his arms crossed on his bulging stomach.
“I had car trouble.”
“It’s always something.” He smiled that sadistic smile of his. “Today, you’re working returns.”
There was no worse job than returns. Heavenly Hardware was anything but heavenly when you had to take your stuff back. It was eight hours of nonstop verbal abuse. There was an angry, psychotic carpenter, several disgruntled do-it-yourselfers, and even a Cub Scout Leader wanting to return a tent that leaked. Gloriously, the day was almost over when a fancy-looking man came in to exchange a lawn chair.
“It rusted almost immediately,” he said.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we only accept returns on this item for fifteen days. And you bought this sixteen days ago.”
“But it rusted. It’s defective.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and he focused on Jimmy’s nametag. “Jimmy Waterfield, huh?” he said in a loud voice. People turned to stare. “I bet it’s tough going through life with that name in this town. People probably make fun of you all the time. You can have the chair, Jimmy Waterfield. Donate it to one of your many charitable causes.”
Everyone in the store turned to look. Jimmy felt swallowed up by shame. He decided that he was no longer going to put up with the endless cruelties of the whole world. He was going to the party.
He called to RSVP the following day.
“Hello,” the woman answered.
“This is Jimmy Waterfield.”
“Oh, my, yes,” she gushed. “How are you, Jimmy?”
“I’m fine. I’m calling to RSVP for your party.”
“You sound—different.”
“Oh, I had a bit of a cold, but I’m better now.”
“I’m so glad you’ll come.”
“Will it be a large gathering?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Formal?”
“Well, you know, Jimmy, as you and I have discussed many times, people dress so poorly these days. The old terms like “formal” and “casual” hardly mean anything.”
“Yes, yes, I know, it’s shameful, but will it be something of a formal event?”
“Oh, yes, of course, and I am sure you will know exactly what is appropriate. Jimmy, you always set the trend.”
On the day of the party, he went to a tuxedo rental store and chose the most expensive one, imagining a much thinner, more handsome, taller version of himself.
Feeling like a celebrity, he raced to the party and parked down the street so no one would see his old car.
The Christmas decorations in the yard looked beautiful all lit up. Santa and his sleigh and reindeer glowed with hundreds of white lights. Inside the house, there was a grand entryway with a jeweled chandelier, and there were equally luxurious rooms leading off from it. Everyone stared at him. They were obviously jealous of how good he looked. No one was dressed like him, though. Some wore suits, but no one wore a tux. It didn’t matter. He was Jimmy Waterfield, trendsetter.
A large, imposing woman in a red sequined dress greeted people. He recognized her voice from the phone call. She noticed him and stopped to watch him. There was a puzzled expression on her face. She probably knew all the guests and didn’t know who he was.
Snagging a glass of champagne from a tray, he hurried off to one of the side rooms and found a table with canapes. He took a fancy little plate and loaded it up high. People stared. He liked the crackers with blue cheese but didn’t care for the ones with black fishy-smelling stuff and set them back on the tray, including a half-eaten one. People again stared.
The hostess appeared at the door with her arms crossed across her massive breasts and scanned the room. He loaded up a few more blue cheese crackers on his plate and raced off to another room. The place was a veritable Buckingham Palace. He hid among a group of old men talking about dental surgeries. The hostess didn’t show up, and he hoped she’d lost interest.
“And you are—?” one of the old men asked. He had a big gray mustache and looked like a walrus.
“I am Jimmy—Smith."
“And what line of work are you in, sir?”
“Hardware.”
“Ahh, I see,” the walrus said. “Computer hardware.”
“No. Hardware. Saws and hammers.”
“Ah, you’re a building contractor.”
“Yes, exactly.”
Not wanting to answer any more questions, he moved to another room and found a group having a lively discussion about interest rates. They did all the talking, and all he had to do was smile and nod. But he wanted a second champagne. He motioned to the maid carrying a tray of them. She was the one who had answered the door for him the other day. She gave him a funny look like she recognized him but couldn’t quite place him.
He grabbed a glass and rushed into another room. Unfortunately, the guy who had tried to return his rusting lawn chair was standing in his way. Jimmy ran right into him, and the champagne spilled all over the guy’s suit. He looked shocked and angry and then looked puzzled in the same way as the maid.
There was no place to go except back to the group talking about interest rates. They were still talking, so he hid right in the middle of them.
“What is your opinion about the direction of interest rates?” one of them asked him. “Since you are a building contractor, you must have an opinion.”
He started to sweat. “Well, prices for garden hoses have gone up. And outdoor lawn chairs have declined in quality and are rusting too soon.”
None of them moved. No one blinked. This wasn’t going well.
To Jimmy’s surprise, Famous Jimmy arrived. Jimmy recognized him from stalking him on Facebook and Instagram. Not only was he not wearing a tuxedo, he wasn’t even wearing a tie. He wore a black suit with a black silk shirt. What had happened to standards?
The hostess reappeared. She and Famous Jimmy stood with the maid and the man from the hardware store. They spotted Jimmy and marched to him.
“You’re the clerk from the hardware store,” the one man said.
“And you came to our door,” the maid said.
“Who are you?” the hostess asked.
“My name is Jimmy Waterfield, too.” He pulled the invitation from his pocket. “You sent the invitation to me. You invited me.”
The hostess took the invitation and examined it. “Where is the envelope? It will have the address.”
“I left it at home.”
She shook her head and motioned to Famous Jimmy. “Jimmy didn’t receive an invitation, and he suspected that someone had stolen it. Thankfully, he and I ran into each other. We think, sir, that you stole it. And then you called me up and pretended to be Jimmy. And you came to the house while we were putting up Christmas decorations. There have been some break-ins in the neighborhood. You were planning to rob me, and you came here to—case the joint. And you have tampered with the mail. That is a crime. I am going to call the police. What is your name, sir?”
“I am Jimmy Waterfield. I swear. I’m Jimmy, too.”
“Show us your ID.”
“I left my wallet in my car.”
He felt sick. The room, which had been abuzz with conversation, was absolutely quiet.
Jimmy ran.
“Stop that man,” she yelled.
The guests grabbed for him, but he was too fast. Sadly, when he got outside, he tripped and fell into Santa and his reindeer. He rolled down to the street entangled with the lights and Santa.
“Stop that man,” the hostess yelled from the front door. “He is stealing my Christmas decorations.”
He jumped into his car and sped away. Unfortunately, the string of lights was still wrapped around his foot, and he looked in the rearview mirror to see the lights along with Santa and his sleigh bouncing along behind him. Police cars followed, their red lights on, their sirens blaring. Not paying as much attention to his driving as he should, Jimmy barreled into an oncoming police car. He jumped from the car and ran, the lights and Santa still tied to his leg, the police chasing him. One thing was certain. He would have to change his name.
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