Unrequited Prespective

Shortly after the birth of my son, my landlord had some much needed work done on my apartment. Feeling sincerely awkward about me being put out for a week or so, he offered to let my new son and I stay with him and his wife at their residence.
Everyone in the building had a soft spot for Jim, the landlord. For what he lacked as a landlord, he more than made up for in heart. All sixty-six year and six foot three inches was pure southern gentleman. He had a barrel chest that was shirtless most of the time. He spoke like Fog-Horn-Leg-Horn; very loud and equipped with and abundance of southern quips always delivered with tremendous charisma.
The three lonely teeth in his mouth did not take anything away from his charm. He imbued a Santa-like cheer. He would ramble on telling one of his infamous fish stories when I would concentrate on his stark white hair. I would be transported back in time to a department store line gazing in awe at Santa himself while trying not to forget my request on my Christmas wish list.
At this point in time, I had yet to be in Jim's home. All that dwelled past what I could see past the screen door was unknown to me. I packed up everything my son and I needed for a week's stay at "Motel-Jim's" as he led me to his humble abode. He led me inside.
At first, I only had a peripheral awareness that he was still speaking to me, for the sight of his living involved more than I could take in and still keep up the rhythm of niceties.
Where a third of the ceiling was missing, was now only the night sky. Carefully bundled newspapers in dozens of piles six feet high bordered the room. Three gaunt cats with coats as dull as dust lie sleeping on various scraps of furnitutre. I spotted a cockroach trying desperately to escape across the cold concrete floor. I empathized.
"Sit yerself down. Take a load off.", Jim said gesturing that I sit on the pile of cotton stuffing that was in the shape of a couch. It had little pieces of vinyl still attached in some places that had out lived my (then) twenty-five years.
I sat my pure, germ-free newborn on my lap, carefully avoiding any contact with anything. An odd unfavorable smell waved over me. It seemed to be somewhat a combination of boiling cabbage and urine that briefly inspired a visual in my mind of what their bathroom. Needless to say, I had no appetite. The odor was definitely coming from the kitchen.
"The lil' woman is wraslin' us up some kielbasa and sauerkraut fer supper.", Jim said, his eyes lit up like Christmas tree. I had never met Jim's other half at this point except to see her as she darted across hallways not unlike a rat in a cage. Every so often, I would catch her observing me. Her unabashed staring could be unnerving.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!.......BANG! BANG! BANG! Metal against metal....My son and I were holding each other almost too tightly for circulation to occur. Jim never flinched. He took a yellow apple from the bowl that was on an upside down paint bucket serving as a coffee table. He leaned over and pulled out his Swiss army knife from his rear pocket, clicked it open and sliced off the rotten portion of the apple. This banging was not the rattling sounds of pans while one prepares a meal but instead that of a symphony of the insane!
"Is that Sophie?", I asked straining to keep a smile across my blood drained face. I searched his face for any sign of embarrassment, fear or even laughter....nothing.
"I says she's fixin' to fix us up some supper.", he said as a rebellious little piece of apple made it's way to his mustache only to be captured again by his tongue. BANG! Pots hitting pans, pans hitting counters. "Sophie's makes the best dern cornbread west of the Mississippi...and her chilie! Hooooooooooweeeeeey! It'll put a hitch in yer git along!"
After ten more minutes of bone crushing metal violence combined with idle chit-chat (NOT easy to do), a maniacal, hideous laughter came from behind the various stacks of boxes, dusty bowls of wax fruit, piles of laundry adorned with still more sleeping cats.
"Sophie girl! Git out here! Wirz yer manners?", Jim bellowed from his rocking chair as he expertly sliced off another rotten piece off his apple and let it fall upon the gray cement floor. Three blood-curdling screams came from the kitchen. The fourth came from my son. I breast-fed him under his baby blanket in effort to calm him.
"Sophie! Git out here and come day howdy!", called Jim. He looked back at me and twinkled. The hysterical laughter rang out and descended into an evil giggle as she came into view. She was a little troll of a woman standing just four foot ten inches tall. Her mousy brown hair was heavily hair sprayed (evidently weeks ago) and formed into the shape of a bell around her head with the exception of two pink little girl clips on either side of her head. Her face consisted of what looked like two small black marbles for eyes, a hooked nose the almost hid her tiny little impish mouth.
I smiled at her. She seemed to be looking behind me....but she wasn't. After a long awkward silence, she opened her mouth and still smiling, commenced to scream at the top of her lungs. Then very delicately, she wiped her chubby little hands on her lace trimmed apron and returned to the kitchen. I had visions of Martha Stuart on acid!
"An't she somethin'?", Jim proudly announced rather than asked. Then he leaned in very close. So close that I could see the chewing tobacco stains on his teeth. His rocking chair narrowly missing the tail of yet