Misquoting It - And Badly

     “I know the truth of it. I know what is real and what is required,” she said to me in the hall where it smelled of sweat, and stale cigarette smoke, and boiled cabbage. She cornered me, trapped me in the hall and insisted that I listen to her as she told me a series of stories of divorce heard second hand and strange tales of invisible, two-headed children at play. “You’ve heard the stories,” she asserted. “You’ve heard the reports of sinners, and satanists, and sexual deviants.”

    I nodded, not knowing what to say.

    She began again, stepping closer. I could smell her sour breath. “We live in an assassination culture…”

    “Cut it out, Hazel. I’ve warned you about this.” The booming voice of the landlord echoed through the hall. “Leave that man be.”

    Hazel turned away from me toward the unseen voice. “But…”

    “Now I’m not gonna' tell you again. This is your final notice.”

    “But…”

    “Your final notice, Hazel. Your identity – your finances will all be transferred.”

    This whole conversation was making me uncomfortable. I just wanted to deliver the mail and be on my way. I had a route to finish and a supervisor monitoring my time. “I think I may have compromised…” I started to say.

    “Compromised,” The landlord repeated. “Yes. That’s the word. The true word.”

    I nodded, not knowing what to say.

    “She’s alive, right?” the landlord sneered.

    “Well, I don’t know…”

    “Alive, but genetically modified. I mean, look at her.” He grabbed her chin and turned her face toward me so I could see her. Take a better look. “Look at her. That building, that body’s been vacant for months.”

    “And you’re still charging her rent?” I demanded.

    “You know what they say,” he sneered. “The sorrow of the world is death. The sorrow of the world is death.”

    “I know the reference,” I told him. “And I know that you’re misquoting it. And badly.”

    I looked at her again and she smiled at me. “We see your open and palpitating heart. My ears and my heart.” She laughed. “These,” she said pointing to the landlord, “are the manifestations not of doubt, but of deliberate, willful disbelief. This is the sixth hour darkness of hardhearted, soft-headed politicians.”

    “Hey, hey, hey,” objected the landlord. “I don’t wanna’ hear no more of that. I’m warnin' you.” But he turned and left without a word or action more. Hazel returned to her apartment. And I continued along my route.