A wizened face filled with wrinkles, creases and toughened age spots, her skin is an ashen yellow from too many beers chased with too many cigarettes. You wonder how much longer her liver and her kidneys can support her other two worst habits, smoking and drinking. She looks like a moldy, old raisin left in the hot summer sun and forgotten about. She told me once that she was supposed to look that way because she was fifty.
I think she looks like way from all of the evil she swallows and then belches back at the rest of us.
Short of stature and loud as gravel crunching under your feet,used up and alone, she’s still clueless enough to carry a twinkle in her eye, suggesting she might still be able to turn a tale about anyone around. She’s quite sure that the special runs deep within the ropy veins beneath her hairy arms. Her greatest vice is scandal and she wears it like it’s fashion. Foolishly she thinks what she can tell you about the kids she thinks are losers, makes you like her, trust and adore her. But people are disgusted more than they are in love anymore. They have learned to be careful she doesn’t get them in her sites because the vein of resentment and entitlement runs deep in this woman, not the special. Her only goal is to slaughter someone with her lies or have them killed softly from her careless prattle. She is our local Town Crier and nothing that comes out of her corrugated lips is ever warm and fuzzy.
Everyday she climbs up on that stool and shares the daily gossip with whoever will still listen to her. She’s got her finger on the pulse of every dying story here and she aims to please. In the past folks loved to keep her up to date on the happenings in their lives. All she had to do was sit back and soak it all up. I bet she just adored those wide eyed gasps and the intent leaning in of someone who has great desire to hear the end of the litany she spews. “That one died of an overdose!”, “She was murdered, but the popo never caught the guy! But I know’ed who be cause I carry his name in my pocketbook!”, “Don’t go askin’ that one fer nothin’! He’s a worthless no account with no pot to piss in!”
Time doesn’t love a tattletale anymore and after a while the stories dried up, kind of like her leathery skin. People with troubles turned away when she walked in the door. The deafening quiet was loud around these parts. Too many people got hurt from her mouth and once bit, twice shy. Now she has to sit alone on the periphery and catch a word or two and spin it so she can get back some of that coveted limelight. And god forbid you post your business up on social media! Within seconds she’s on her new-fangled cellular telephone to spread that news like yesterday’s butter left out of the fridge! The Interwebs speed got nothing on this ol’ girl!
The endless gush of senseless banter has earned her quite the reputation. It used to be she had a captivated audience at every performance. Fans of all ages fawned over every sentence she shared. Now she just has a captive gallery when folks are just too drunk to escape her or trapped into serving her beer while she rants. When you disparage everyone you know, your true friends start to dwindle. No one wants to be the topic of slanderous and often untrue meddling.
Now the lady of the libel got her a job working for the local legal eagle and she’s got not only the newest and the latest, she’s got people’s secrets and trust me, she’s sharing them all with anyone willing to sit back and pay homage to her prowess of patter. She climbs up on the soapbox every day and smiles down at bright and shiny faces thinking of how easily she can destroy another person with just a flick of her wrist and a twist on the truth.
She is the Town Crier, but no one cries harder than she does. The mirror she looks in reflects back what everyone else has now shunned and the echoes of loneliness are louder than the silence she hears. The stench of dirty laundry hangs in a thick fog all around her and she might never wash the smell of it away. You see, it doesn’t matter what she can tell you, or who she thinks she might ruin because no one likes a tattler and everyone knows her name.
The moral to this tale is that people eventually tire of a malicious gossip that sets out to hurt others, simply because they think they can. If gossip is all you have to offer, then do yourself and everyone around you a favor and find a better hobby, or join a support group for the eternal blathering afflictions.