The idea of jambalaya repulses me.
Thirteen and lazy, my rumbling stomach drove me to the same place.
I would rummage the dull, wooden pantry for something easy and appetizing,
And the same thing always stared back at me.
Jambalaya.

The smiling man on the front with bulging bug eyes and giant teeth that gave me nightmares,
Holding an over-compensating bowl of rice and meat.
And his signature badge laying over top of him,
“99¢” pushed its way towards me.
Hunter’s vest orange; obnoxious to say the least.

Pushing him to the sides, I searched for something more.
A few dented cans of corn and a small bag of crunched tortilla chips sat solemnly
in the back of the cupboard.
Pulling back to the front, I grabbed the dreaded 99¢ man and poured him into a skillet.

Adding some meat I found in the freezer,
I would quietly hum and stir the jambalaya,
Trying not to disturb my neighbors or bother them with the stench of the 99¢ man.

Pouring the exuberantly cheesy rice and meat into a bowl,
I crawled into my bed which laid promptly next to my mom’s.
Where was she? I thought.
Too often did I find myself alone in my silent apartment, waiting for my mom to return home from work.

Night after night, I would greet this 99¢ man;
We became fast friends.
Both isolated and alone,
Both feeling worthless and not good enough.
Though both fulfilling each other’s needs.

As our finances grew stronger,
I saw less and less of the 99¢ man.
We didn’t need him anymore;
I didn’t need his company anymore,
I told myself.

We haven’t spoken in a long time;
I’m seventeen now.
Though maybe we spent too much time together,
The 99¢ Jambalaya Man and I.

He was my best friend.
Though with time,
The idea of jambalaya repulses me.