Old Sod

The Sun, that coward, hid behind the new sky's milky white. Clouds descended from the firmament to meet in the streets. As thick fog they lingered, like unwanted guests, hiding what was there to be hid. The air hung heavy, the grass was damp with dew on the old sod.

In a trifling town — not sure if even God knows where — a young man stood in front of a decrepit house, keenly observing its number. It read four and ten. He noticed how rusty they had gotten and how the decades left a grimy, brown line under them.

Certainly as uninviting as ever, he thought, exhaling a weighty breath. He looked at the gate, then through it into the old garden, now eaten by rot, debating whether he should enter or not. Maybe He's not even home, he wanted to think. Really wished, more than anything.

“Vincent?” A voice, cutting through the thick fog, called his name from behind. Surprised, he spun around and saw a friend from the past, looking a bit older, more rough. Head shaven clean, wearing tight jeans, big nylon jacket, pushing a bike up the street that was cratered and rugged. “Lost and is found,” his friend said with a grin.

* * *

Dry smoke and whispered gossip drifted through the air of the seedy pub. With a greedy swing, Jake emptied his pint, leaving only bits of foam sliding down the side of the clear glass. He whistled – as he set it down – to the bartender lass, signalling his wish for another round.

“Nothing's better than home brew,” he said as the girl poured him a new, not missing a drop. “They don't make it like this anywhere else,” he laughed and quaffed the foam top.

“It's bitter,” Vincent said, he hardly sampled it.

“It's beer,” Jake shrugged, enjoying his.

Vincent watched as small bubbles rushed to the surface in a soldierly line, before taking a small swing from the piss-colored pint. He heard, then saw, two hags in a corner booth practicing their craft, a spell; whispered gossipry, that wished to be gospel.

“I'm sure they have a lot to talk about.” Jake snorted. “Your whole backstory is being constructed there. Oi, Ladies, not so loud!” Jake turned back to Vincent, “They’ve been sitting there ever since you left. I'm sure they're dying to know why you returned. But you just wanted an old buddy and free 'Guinness',” he laughed.

“Some things never change, I guess,” Vincent said jokingly. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a picture of a girl from his front pocket.

“Your bird?” Jake asked.

“Aye. My new life, you could say,” he looked at the picture intently before putting it away.

“Here to close the old, eh? So, you visited Him?” Jake asked.

“No, not yet. And I'm not sure if I will.”

“Between you and me, I would've kicked his ass a long time ago.”

Vincent chortled, “I'm sure you would've, don't keep it argo.”

“No, I'm serious. I remember how bruised up you got every time he blew up on you for nothing. I would do the same with my old man, were he still alive,” he took a drink from his beer. “That's the fucked up thing about being a kid, adults treat you like shit and when you finally get strong enough to fight back they die off, like they'd planned it. It's like a final fuck you.”

Vincent faintly smiled but stayed silent, his heart picked up the pace.

Jake continued, “I wish I could go back, put the man in his place. Well, you still have the shot to show who's boss. And now you could really lay it on him. Deal some retribution while He is still alive to feel it,” Jake laughed sourly, “What a sad bunch we are.”

Vincent's heart thumped heavily. His smile faded. He seized his beer and raised it. “To retribution,” he said and emptied his drink. “Can I borrow your bike?”

* * *

It was near night when he arrived back to the ruin of four and ten. A man, skin ebbing from bone, a visage worn by the tide of time opened door. No words were voiced, no admittance avowed. But twain knew the reason for the visit.

There they stood in the old kitchen, familiar and foreign, eyes evoking the early past. Remembering every pain and hurt while minutes passed. Vincent, shaken by anamnesis animosity, raised his fist to strike, to pay back, to make right, to retribute – to revenge!

Vincent looked into the eye of the estranged begetter. That one stood deadlocked, docile and distant. Vincent thumped the chest of the old man and rested his fist there. “I will be better,” he said, and left the old sod.