(2) Joseph Sigurdson: Messages
The rent was due and the notes left by the landlord were piling up. He taped them all over so I’d have no way of claiming I hadn’t seen one. I saw them all, in truth. They were scattered throughout the apartment with varying language. The man was stern and determined. He even put one in the freezer, which I had to admit, was quite funny. Although I wasn’t sure he felt the same. He was ex-CIA. Or was it ATF? IRS? I can’t remember. One of the federal organizations who made their men and women weapon-sharp during the Cold War. I had told him many many times that I wasn’t Russian, or of Russian ancestry, though this always seemed to confuse him.
Anyway, the rent. Incomprehensible fate led me to miss my payments. I went into finance, figuring: go where the money goes. I didn’t realize it’d be full of so much criticism. Gina, for one, the bitch in the accounting cubicles, was always telling me to comb my hair. Every day she reminded me that my hair was a mess. It was as if she thought I couldn’t see the devil through her smile. I knew what she was really saying. And it didn’t end there. My boss, for two, never appreciated the work I did for him. The man was stern and determined. I had so much respect for him. But it wasn't mutual. Everything I achieved by myself got praised as a “group effort” or “teamwork”. The entire staff minus my idiot boss knew it was me—I was the one who caused the sales. They just weren’t man enough to tell him. I didn't tell him either. What did they take me for? A narcissist? You can’t expect a person to go through that day in and day out. So I quit. Then the bills started piling up.
I was a hard-working man. A man who earned what he had and was never given anything. Though my neighbor, that lazy fuck, lived solely and luxuriously off a welfare check. I think he was an aspiring musician. One of those worthless artsy types who’d never worked a day in their life. The instrument he always played, which had a weird ring to it, would radiate through my walls. All day and night I dealt with this. I’d have to pound on the walls for five minutes straight to get him to stop. The cops came once and tried to blame the whole thing on me, like I was being the inconsiderate neighbor. Like I said: never given anything.
Why didn’t I deserve a welfare check? I’d been working since I was fifteen and hadn’t seen a dime from the government. It was in fact, my money. That dirty hippy with a weird instrument that sounded like coyotes got to live for free and what did I get? Where was the love for poor old Rodney? So I went into town to get welfare. You can probably guess how it went. The lady at the counter, Gina-like, had her mind made up before she even heard my piece. I said, Look, I’m a hard-working man. I have been all my life. My neighbor, who’s not a hard-working man, a worthless sack of noise actually, has been living off welfare for years now. All I’m asking is for just enough to get by, just enough to make these payments so my ex-CIA landlord will stop leaving me messages. I’ve earned it. Help me out.
She said, You’ll have to come back at a different time.
That bitch. I knew what she thought of me. In America, you’ll have to come back at a different time means go fuck yourself. I stood there locking eyes with her until she couldn’t take it anymore. What did she think? I was going to lie down softly? I knew when I was being cheated. In hindsight though, it was a lost cause. They pegged me as a poor man they could take advantage of and there was nothing I could do about it. I knew the force of the government, what went on behind closed doors, so I left.
It was the dire circumstances that made me do what I did next. I wasn’t proud of it, but the feds had given me no choice. I went to the Internet, the social media sites, and asked my friends for help. I said, Hi everyone, this isn’t something I’d do often (you know this), but I need some financial assistance. I’m a hard-working man (you know this too) and I don’t ask for much, but my boss was taking me for granted and my coworkers were verbally assaulting me for reasons I’d rather not say on here. I’m in a tight spot and I just need to get through these few payments. My landlord (ex-IRS) is coming into my apartment regularly leaving messages.
I sat there in front of the computer screen refreshing the page. I knew some people were slow readers but I started to worry. Fifteen minutes went by and not a single person responded. My stomach hurt when I realized what was actually going on. My brother, that evil fuck, was behind it all. He spent his life on those social media sites, so I knew for sure he read it. He was put into this world to defile me. He went through all my friends, each and every one, and made this whole thing up that I was lazy and a freeloader and it was for my own good to not help me. They must’ve trusted him, and I couldn’t even blame them. His face was extremely trustworthy. We were twins after all. But he was the devil and had been since we were boys.
I was a strong-willed man, as I’m sure you’ve gathered at this point. I wasn’t going to casually let him get away with it. I wasn’t going to just lie down softly. So I started messaging my friends, just like he did, saying, DO NOT LISTEN TO ANYTHING MY BROTHER TELLS YOU. HE IS THE DEVIL AND WAS PUT INTO THIS WORLD BY OUR BITCH MOTHER AND BLACK-HEARTED FATHER TO BEFOUL ME. HE’LL HAVE YOU THINK THAT I AM A FREELOADER (which I am not), SOLELY BECAUSE HE’S ENVIOUS OF WHAT I’VE ACCOMPLISHED, WHAT I KNOW.
I again sat staring at the computer screen waiting for responses. They had no excuse this time. The message was direct, specifically for them. You couldn’t just ignore that. Within short time I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize. I answered without saying a word, then I heard the dumb voice of my brother saying, Hello? Hello? The bastard changed his number, as if in some way that exerted power over me.
I wasn’t an idiot. I knew this little game he was playing. So I acted like absolutely nothing was awry. I said, Hey! How’s it going?
And he said, I heard about the messages.
I almost dropped my phone. The messages left by my landlord? How did he….I hung up. I guess I should have seen it from the beginning. My brother had been whispering into the ear of my ex-FBI landlord, polluting his mind, making him think I was the enemy.
Clearly though, this landlord was easily manipulated. I figured I had to get to him before my brother could do any more damage. So I went down to his room at the other end of the hall and lightly knocked on the door. There was no response. I waited a bit then knocked again. Still, no response. It was only until I pounded that his shadow appeared over the slit of light beneath the door. He stood there for a moment, looking through the peephole I’m sure, then walked away. The cowardice on that man. There was nothing brave or weapon-sharp about him. I screamed, I know you’re in there! I know what game you’re playing!
The circumstances were getting worse. Though this man was a weakling, my brother was not. I hated to admit that I wasn’t sure what he was capable of. Who knew what he’d have this malleable landlord do next.
So I did what any man would do. I armed myself. In that state you could buy a gun with no questions asked. They chose intuitive people to sell them. I went to the counter and looked the man straight in the eyes and said, I need to protect myself. He analyzed me and knew I was a man of integrity.
The messages had grown in my apartment. The coward must’ve came while I was gone getting the gun. They were everywhere, almost entirely blocking the paint on the walls. Some of these new ones were written in extinct languages. Pictographs invented by prehistoric scribes to record crops and taxes. They tattooed my walls and informed me of what was to come. My brother and the landlord did this as a means to belittle me, a means to make me crawl into a ball and surrender. They didn’t know what was coming when they returned. They didn’t know how long I was willing to wait.
Joseph Sigurdson’s work has appeared in Jelly Bucket, Allegheny Review, Gandy Dancer, Great Lake Review, and elsewhere. He won a College Prize from The Academy of American Poets in 2018. His debut chapbook, No Sand, was published by Thirty West Publishing in 2019. He’s from Buffalo, New York and is currently a graduate student in Mississippi.